Page 74 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"Alex," she purrs. "You've been disappearing lately. I've missed seeing you around."

Alex doesn't move away, but he doesn't encourage her either. His expression remains calm and detached, like he's watching something mildly interesting but ultimately unimportant.

"I've been busy," he says simply.

"Too busy for old friends?" Arina's smile widens, but there's something calculating behind it.

I step between them, cutting off whatever game she's playing. "Why are you here, Arina?"

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by something cooler. "I heard about the warehouse attack. I wanted to check in."

"Check in," I repeat flatly. "You don't check in. You gather information."

"Is there a difference?" She tilts her head, studying me. "You're my brother, Nick. I'm allowed to be concerned."

"Concerned about what, exactly? The attack itself, or whether it affects your plans?"

The temperature in the room drops. Arina's expression hardens, and for a moment I see the ambition she usually hides beneath charm and smiles.

"Careful," she says quietly. "You're starting to sound paranoid."

"And you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Alex shifts slightly, positioning himself where he can watch both of us. The tension is thick enough to choke on, and I know everyone in the hallway outside can feel it too.

"I'm not your enemy," Arina says, her voice softer now. "I never have been."

"Then stop acting like you're waiting for me to fail."

She doesn't respond to that. Instead, she turns and walks out of the office without another word, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

"She knows something," Alex says once we're alone again.

"She always knows something." I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "The question is what she's planning to do with it."

"We need to move faster," Alex says. "If she's involved in the warehouse attack, or if she's feeding information to rivals, we can't afford to wait."

"I know."

We leave the office and head deeper into the club, toward the service entrance that leads to the basement levels. The Ivory Wolf has rooms beneath the main floor that most patrons don't know exist. Soundproofed and private. Perfect for conversations that can't happen anywhere else.

One of my men is waiting near the stairs, his expression grim. "He's downstairs. Restrained like you asked." When he'd called earlier, he told me they'd found the bartender who'd been spreading information and I'd told him to put the man in the questioning room.

"Good."

The bartender is sitting in a metal chair when we enter, his wrists zip-tied to the armrests. He's young, maybe mid-twenties, with a nervous energy that tells me he's going to break quickly. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool temperature in the room.

I pull up a chair and sit directly in front of him, close enough that he can't avoid looking at me.

"You know who I am?" I ask.

He nods quickly. "Yes."

"Then you know I don't have patience for bullshit." I lean forward slightly. "Someone's been paying you to report on people who use the private entrances. You're going to tell me who."

"I don't know," he says immediately, his voice shaking. "I swear, I don't know who it was."

"Wrong answer."