Page 82 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately. His jaw tightens, and his fingers drum once against the counter before going still.

"Alex?"

Without looking away from the window, he says quietly, "I went to tThe Ivory Wolf yesterday and found out the mayor's son has been asking questions about you around town."

33

ALEX

One week later, I'm sitting at Marla's kitchen table at six in the morning with a cup of coffee that's gone cold and a stack of files that make my jaw tight with fury. Nick sits across from me, his green eyes scanning the documents I've spread across the worn wood surface. Russ leans against the counter near the coffee maker, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he wants to put his fist through the wall.

Marla is still asleep in the bedroom. We've kept her inside the cottage for the past week, rotating shifts so one of us is always here. She's complained, argued, and threatened us with everything from lawsuits to castration, but she's stayed put. Smart woman.

"So the mayor's been on the payroll for how long?" Russ asks, his voice low enough not to wake her.

"Nearly twenty years," I say, tapping the financial records in front of me. "Started small. A few thousand here and there to look the other way on zoning violations. Then it escalated. Protected shipments at the port, buried investigations into businesses, secured city contracts for our front companies. He's built connections with most of the powerful families in the state."

I pull out another document, this one showing a web of shell corporations and LLCs. "He's got his fingers in construction permits, liquor licenses, and even import-export documentation. Every time someone needed something pushed through city hall, he made it happen. In return, money was funneled through his campaign funds and paid off his personal debts."

Nick picks up one of the documents, his expression unreadable. "And his son?"

"Protected by his father's shield," I say. "The kid's been getting away with shit for years because Daddy cleans up every mess. Assault charges that disappeared. A DUI that never made it to court, and sexual harassment complaints from three different women that got buried so deep they might as well have never existed."

I slide another file across the table. "Two years ago, Zach put a college student in the hospital with a broken jaw, fractured ribs, and a concussion. The mayor paid the family fifty thousand dollars and had the police report altered to show the kid started the fight. The investigating officer got a promotion three months later."

Russ's jaw tightens. "So we eliminate the little shit and move on."

"No," I say immediately.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because the mayor is backed by too many powerful families," I explain, keeping my voice calm even though I want to snap at him. "He's embedded in the system. He knows where the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively. If we touch his son, he'll turn on us. He'll expose everything he knows to save himself, and we'll have federal investigators crawling up our asses within a week."

"Not to mention pissing off the other families and probably starting a war," Nick adds.

"So we're just supposed to let this asshole hunt Marla?" Russ demands.

Nick speaks before I can answer, his voice quiet and cold. "The son is dangerous precisely because he thinks he's untouchable. He's been protected his entire life. He doesn't understand consequences."

"Exactly," I say. "Which makes him unpredictable. We can't control him the way we control his father."

The truth is, Zach represents a specific kind of threat. His father operates within a framework of mutual benefit and calculated risk. But Zach? He's entitled, reckless, and convinced he's invincible. Men like that don't respond to reason or intimidation. They escalate until someone stops them permanently, and stopping him permanently means burning our relationship with the other families who use the mayor."

Russ pushes off the counter and starts pacing. "This is bullshit. We should just⁠—"

"We should think strategically instead of emotionally," I interrupt. "That's what we should do."

He glares at me, but he doesn't argue. He knows I'm right, even if he hates it.

I flip through the files until I come across an old publicity photo from a city council meeting eight years ago. The mayor is shaking hands with a group of businessmen, all of them smiling for the camera like they're not discussing illegal kickbacks and protection money.

I'm in the background of the photo, younger and visibly furious, my hair longer than I wear it now, my expression making it clear I'd rather be anywhere else. I look like I want to murder everyone in the room.

Russ notices the photo and picks it up, his expression shifting from anger to amusement in seconds. "Holy shit. Is this you?"

"Put it down," I say.