Page 123 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I don't give him the chance to call it.

Zach tries one last desperate attack, throwing everything he has left into a wild haymaker aimed at my head. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. The scream that tears from his throat is drowned out by the crowd's roar.

He collapses against the cage, held upright only by my grip on his dislocated arm. His good eye stares at me with a mixture of pain and terror and the dawning understanding that he's not walking out of this cage alive.

"You should have stayed away from her," I say.

Then I wrap both hands around his neck.

The crowd thinks it's part of the fight. They scream louder as I lift him slightly, his feet barely touching the mat. His good hand claws weakly at my wrists, but there's no strength left in him. His face turns purple. His body convulses.

I feel absolutely nothing.

The snap is audible to me even over the crowd noise. Zach's body goes limp instantly, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. I hold him for another three seconds, making sure, before I let go.

He crumples to the mat like a puppet with cut strings.

The crowd erupts into chaos. Some people are screaming. Others are cheering. The referee rushes forward, checking for a pulse he won't find. Medical staff swarm the cage, but it's too late. It was always going to be too late.

I step over the corpse and exit the cage without looking back.

52

MARLA

The estate looks like something out of a dream.

White flowers cascade from every surface, woven through the railings of the grand staircase and draped across the massive archway leading into the central gathering house.

Candles flicker in tall glass holders lining the walkways, their flames dancing in the late afternoon breeze. The scent of roses and jasmine fills the air, mixing with the rich aroma of food being prepared in the kitchens.

Bratva captains stand in small groups throughout the grounds, their dark suits contrasting sharply against the white and gold decorations.

Security is everywhere but discreet, blending into the background while maintaining constant vigilance. Despite the wealth and power on display, the atmosphere feels strangely intimate. Everyone here sees us as family already.

I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in our shared suite, staring at my reflection like I'm looking at a stranger. The wedding gown is custom-made, altered specifically to accommodate my pregnancy. Ivory silk flows over my body in soft waves, the fabric gathering beneath my breasts before cascading down to the floor. The neckline is modest but elegant, and delicate lace sleeves cover my arms. My red hair has been styled in loose curls that fall over my shoulders, and Sharon painstakenly tucked small white flowers into the waves.

I look beautiful. I look like a bride. And I also look a bit shellshocked.

"Stop fidgeting," Sharon says from behind me, adjusting the veil one more time. Her voice is thick with emotion, and when I glance at her reflection in the mirror, I see tears streaming down her face.

"You're crying," I say.

"I'm not crying." She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara slightly. "I'm just... fuck, Marla. Look at you."

I turn to face her, my own throat tightening. Sharon looks stunning in her bridesmaid dress, a deep burgundy that complements her blonde hair perfectly. But it's the expression on her face that makes my chest ache.

"This isn't how either of us expected life to turn out," she says, laughing through her tears. "You were supposed to write romance novels. I was supposed to serve drinks at a fancy club. And now you're marrying three Russian mafia bosses at the same time."

"I know." My voice comes out shaky. "It's insane."

"It's perfect," Sharon corrects, stepping forward to take my hands. "You're happy. I can see it. You're actually happy, Marla."

The words hit me harder than I expect. She's right. Beneath the nerves and the overwhelming reality of what I'm about to do, there's genuine happiness. The kind I never thought I'd feel.

"I love them," I whisper. "All three of them. Is that crazy?"

"Probably." Sharon grins. "But who gives a shit? They love you too. Anyone with eyes can see that."