Page 50 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I sink onto the couch, my legs suddenly unsteady. The anger is still there, burning in my chest, but it's mixed with something else now. Fear. Real, cold fear.

"I didn't ask for this," I say quietly, staring at my hands.

"That doesn't matter," Russ says, and his voice is gentler than I expected. "But it doesn't change what's happening."

I look up at him, then at Nick, then at Alex. They're all watching me with varying degrees of concern and calculation. They're not leaving. They're not going to let me refuse. And the worst part is, I'm starting to understand why.

If what Alex said is true, if there really are people out there who think I'm connected to whatever happened at that warehouse, then I'm not safe alone. The police won't help me because they work for these men. My friends can't protect me because they don't understand the danger. I'm completely isolated and vulnerable, and the only people who can keep me safe are the same people who got me into this mess.

The realization settles over me. "How long?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"As long as it takes," Nick says.

I close my eyes, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. I woke up embarrassed about sleeping with three men who knew each other. Now I'm sitting in my living room learning that those three men are Russian mafia, that I might be in danger from their enemies, and that my entire life has just been turned upside down.

When I open my eyes again, all three of them are still watching me. Waiting. The cottage is silent except for the sound of my own breathing.

I'm not trapped by them, I realize with sudden clarity. I'm protected by them. And I need that protection now, whether I want it or not.

18

NICK

Russ leaves first, his SUV kicking up gravel as he pulls out of the driveway. Alex follows a few minutes later after exchanging a look with me that says everything without words. They have business to handle. I'm staying here.

I expect Marla to panic the moment we're alone. Maybe throw things or demand I leave. Instead, she stands in the middle of her living room with her arms crossed, staring at me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve.

"So you're the babysitter," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I lean against the kitchen counter, watching her pace back and forth across the small space. She's still wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her red hair falling loose around her shoulders now that the messy bun has come undone. Her feet are bare, and she moves with restless energy that fills the cottage like static electricity.

She paces for another minute before dropping onto the couch and opening her laptop with more force than necessary. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, then stop. She deletes whatever she wrote and starts again. Then stops. Deletes. Her jaw tightens with visible frustration.

I watch her struggle for twenty minutes before she slams the laptop shut and stands again, resuming her pacing. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge my presence. Just moves back and forth like a caged animal testing the boundaries of her enclosure.

The consolidation between me, Alex, and Russ was supposed to simplify everything. The three of us already work together and help each other with business across our territories. We've been coordinating for years, sharing intelligence, backing each other's plays when necessary.

And we're friends. True friends who can trust each other. In the mafia world, that's not something that happens very often. Making it official means real power with unified operations. One chain of command instead of three separate organizations that sometimes cooperate and sometimes compete. It means presenting a single front to everyone else in the city, making it clear that challenging one of us means challenging all of us.

But consolidation requires absolute trust. We have to share everything, reveal weaknesses, and expose vulnerabilities. One leak, one betrayal, or one captain with divided loyalties, and the entire structure collapses before it's built.

And now there's Marla. A woman connected to all three of us simultaneously. She appeared during secret negotiations that only our most trusted people know about. A woman whose timing is so perfect it looks deliberate.

Is she loyal? Is she working for someone? Can the other families trust her when she's sleeping with all three pakhans at once?

These are the questions that will poison trust if we don't answer them quickly. The captains are already suspicious. The men who need to believe in the consolidation are already watching for signs of weakness or deception. Marla's existence raises questions we can't afford right now.

I watch her move to the window and stare out at the darkening woods. Her shoulders curve inward slightly, and she wraps her arms around herself like she's cold. The sweater slips off one shoulder, exposing pale skin and the curve of her collarbone. Her hair catches the fading light, turning copper and gold.

She's beautiful when she's frustrated, when she's angry, and when she's scared. That's the problem. I'm just too attracted to her. And so are Russ and Alex. Why does this one small woman hold so much power over us?

Hours pass in tense silence. Marla tries working again, and manages maybe fifteen minutes before giving up. She makes tea she doesn't drink. She stands at the window watching shadows lengthen across the trees. She avoids looking at me directly, but I catch her glancing in my direction when she thinks I'm not paying attention.

The cottage grows darker as evening falls. Marla turns on a lamp in the corner, casting warm yellow light across the space. She's pulled her hair back again, twisting it into a knot at the base of her neck that exposes the line of her throat.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the silence. I pull it out and see Alex's name on the screen. "What is it?" I answer.

"We found the second truck," Alex says without preamble. "Abandoned about thirty miles outside the city. It was stripped completely clean."