Page 54 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I stretch, feeling my muscles warm and loosen. Forty-five years old, and my body still moves like it did at twenty-five, which I give credit to discipline, training, and refusing to let age slow me down.

But my mind won't settle. It keeps circling back to Marla's cottage and how Nick stayed behind. The situation is complicated in ways I didn't anticipate, and complications are dangerous in our world.

The door opens, and my manager appears. "Got you an opponent. Petrov. He's younger, but he's got a good record. Thirty-two wins, eight losses."

"Fine."

"Boss, you don't have to do this."

I meet his eyes. "Yes, I do."

The crowd's energy shifts when the announcement comes over the speakers. Alex Lenkov is fighting tonight. I can hear the surprise, the excitement, and the sudden surge of betting activity. They haven't seen me in the cage in a while, and they're hungry for it.

I walk out to the cage through a corridor of shouting faces. The lights are blinding after the dim locker room. The cage door clangs shut behind me, and the referee checks my wraps. Across from me, Petrov bounces on his toes, his eyes sharp and focused. He's younger, bigger, and probably thinks he has an advantage.

He doesn't.

The bell rings. Petrov comes at me fast, trying to use his size and youth to overwhelm me early. I slip his first punch, counter with a jab that snaps his head back. He recovers quickly, then throws a combination that I block and deflect. We circle each other, and I can see him recalculating, realizing I'm faster than he expected.

I don't enjoy this the way I used to. The violence doesn't thrill me anymore. It's just a tool and a language I speak fluently. But tonight, I need it. Need the focus it demands, and the way it forces everything else out of my head.

Except it doesn't work as I'd hoped. Even as I slip Petrov's hook and drive my knee into his ribs, I'm thinking about Marla and how she'd looked tangled in sheets, her red hair spread across the pillow. Is Nick touching her right now? The thought makes my jaw clench, and I have to force myself to refocus on Petrov's movements.

Petrov catches me with an uppercut that splits my lip. The pain is sharp and clarifying. I taste blood and smile. He sees it and hesitates, just for a second, and that's all I need.

I take him down with a leg sweep, my shin connecting perfectly behind his knee. He hits the mat hard, and I follow him to the ground, transitioning immediately into side control. The fight becomes brutal and technical. I work from the top position, using my weight to pin him while I deliver short, precise elbows to his temple. Petrov tries to buck me off, but I've already anticipated the movement. I shift my hips, trap his arm, and transition to mount.

From here, I have complete control. I rain down calculated strikes. Each punch lands exactly where I want it. His guard comes up to protect his face, and I switch targets, driving my fist into his ribs. He grunts, tries to roll, and I let him think he's escaping before I take his back and sink in a body triangle.

Petrov's good, but he could use some discipline. I read his body language, feel the tension in his muscles before he moves, and counter before he can execute.

My mind drifts again as I work, even as my body operates on pure instinct and training. What are they doing right now? Is Nick making her laugh? Is he making her moan? The image of Nick's hands on Marla's skin flashes through my mind, and my next strike lands harder than necessary. Petrov grunts, tries to escape my mount, but I control him easily, my forearm pressing against his throat.

I finish it with a rear choke, my arm sliding under his chin and locking in tight. Petrov taps frantically against my forearm, and I release him immediately. The crowd is screaming, but I barely hear it. I stand, breathing hard, blood dripping from my split lip and a cut above my eyebrow I didn't notice getting. My knuckles throb, and my ribs ache where Petrov landed a solid body shot.

The referee raises my arm. I pull away and head straight for the locker room, ignoring the crowd's demands for acknowledgment.

In the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I wash the blood off my face at the sink. The water runs pink, then clear. I check my phone. Three missed calls from my second-in-command. I call him back immediately.

"Talk to me."

"We found something in the warehouse security footage from before the cameras were disabled." His voice is tight with tension. "Someone accessed the computer system in the office. They pulled up shipment schedules."

"Nick's schedules?"

"That's the thing, boss. They didn't just look at Nick's routes. They accessed the shared database, the one we set up for coordinating the merger. They looked at schedules for all three organizations."

My blood goes cold. The shared database was supposed to be secure, accessible only to the three of us and our most trusted captains. If someone got into it, they have information about Russ's operations and mine, not just Nick's.

21

RUSS

Monday morning, and I'm sitting at my mother's kitchen table watching her move around the stove like she's conducting an orchestra. Ekaterina Stepanov has always been small, barely five-three, but she commands every space she enters. Her blonde hair, streaked with gray now, is pulled back in the same old-fashioned bun she's worn for as long as I can remember. Her dark eyes miss nothing.

"You're not eating," she says without turning around.

I look down at the plate of blini she set in front of me ten minutes ago. I've barely touched them. "I'm eating."