Page 48 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"Even if you managed to call someone," Nick continues, "they'd call us before they sent anyone. We'd know you tried. And that would make things complicated."

Silence fills the cottage. I watch Marla process what we're saying, watch her realize that the normal rules don't apply here. That the systems she thought would protect her are compromised. Her face goes from angry to pale.

She looks directly at me, and her voice comes out small and shaking.

"So you really are Russian mafia." It's not a question.

17

MARLA

The word "mafia" hangs in the air between us, and I immediately regret saying it aloud. The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe.

Nick doesn't flinch. He stands near my kitchen counter wearing dark slacks and a charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the tattoos on his left forearm. His posture is relaxed, almost casual, one hand resting on the counter while the other holds my phone. His green eyes are calm, assessing, completely unbothered by my accusation.

"We operate outside the law," he says simply, his voice carrying no emotion. "We run businesses that generate revenue through methods the government doesn't approve of. We protect our territory and our people. We enforce our own rules."

"That's a yes," I say, my voice shaking.

"That's an explanation," Nick corrects. "The word you used is dramatic and inaccurate, but if it helps you understand the situation, then yes."

Russ stands near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair is slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. His light eyes are fixed on me, and there's irritation written all over his face. His jaw is tight, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with this entire conversation.

"This is ridiculous," Russ mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.

Alex leans against the wall near the hallway, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His dark eyes don't leave my face, studying every micro-expression, every shift in my posture. He's not angry or defensive. He's calculating, measuring my reactions.

The anger hits me suddenly, flooding through my chest and burning away the fear. These men broke into my home, accused me of crimes I didn't commit, threatened me with house arrest, and now they're standing in my living room admitting they're criminals.

"Get out," I say, my voice stronger now. "All of you. Get out of my house right now."

"We've already explained why that's not possible," Nick says.

"I don't care what you explained." I step forward, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "You don't get to just decide I'm under house arrest because your business deal went wrong. I didn't do anything. I don't know anything. And I'm not going to be babysat by three paranoid criminals who think I'm some kind of spy."

Russ's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smirk, and that makes my anger flare hotter.

"You think this is funny?" I snap at him.

"I think you calling us mafia is a little dramatic," Russ says, his tone light despite the tension in his shoulders. "We're businessmen."

"Businessmen don't have armed guards," I fire back. "Businessmen don't disable security cameras and steal merchandise from warehouses."

"Some do," Russ says.

"This is insane," I continue, my voice rising. "I have work. I have clients with absolute deadlines. I'm a freelance writer, and if I don't submit my articles on time, I don't get paid. I can't just disappear for however long it takes you to decide I'm not a threat."

"Your work can wait," Nick says flatly.

"No, it can't." I turn to face him fully, my anger making me bold. "I have bills. I have a mortgage on this cottage. I have a life that doesn't revolve around your illegal business operations."

"Your life is currently connected to our operations whether you like it or not," Nick says, his voice going colder. "That makes you a potential risk. Until we confirm otherwise, you stay here under supervision."

"A potential risk?" I repeat, my voice sharp. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"Maybe not," Nick says, "but it is what it is."

Alex shifts slightly against the wall, drawing my attention. He hasn't spoken yet, but his eyes haven't left my face. The intensity of his gaze makes me feel exposed, like he can see through every defense I'm trying to build.