Page 96 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

We're unloading the last bags from the vehicles when Nick's phone rings. He answers immediately, his expression neutral. Then it darkens.

"When?" he asks sharply.

Russ and I both turn to look at him. Something's wrong.

Nick ends the call and looks at us, his green eyes cold. "Sharon didn't show up for work this morning. She's not answering calls or texts."

39

MARLA

My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy. "What?"

Nick's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens. "Sharon was scheduled to work the lunch shift at the Ivory Wolf. She never showed. The manager tried calling her multiple times. Nothing."

I'm already pulling out my phone, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it. Sharon's contact information blurs as I tap it. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail.

"Sharon, it's me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Call me back as soon as you get this. Please."

I hang up and immediately try again. Same result. My chest tightens with panic.

"She wouldn't just not show up," I say, looking between the three men. "Sharon's never missed work. She needs the money too badly. Plus, it's not her way. She's responsible."

Russ's expression has gone completely flat, which is somehow worse than his usual anger. "When was the last time you talked to her?"

"Yesterday afternoon." I pull up our message thread with trembling fingers. "Look, she was fine. She didn't say anything about going anywhere."

Alex takes my phone gently and studies the messages. His brown eyes scan the screen methodically before he hands it back. "Nothing unusual in her patterns. No indication she was planning to leave town."

"Because she wasn't planning anything," I snap, fear making my voice sharp. "Something happened to her."

Nick pulls out his phone and steps away, already making calls. I hear him speaking in rapid Russian, his tone clipped and commanding. Russ moves to the window, staring out at the property with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The tension radiating from him makes the air feel thick.

"This is my fault," I whisper. "She got involved because of me."

"Don't," Alex says quietly. "This isn't your or Sharon's fault.”

"She made those choices because I dragged her into this mess!" My voice cracks. "She was just trying to help me, and now she's missing because some psychopath is looking for me."

Russ turns from the window, his light eyes cold in a way I've never seen before. "It may not be Zach. We'll find her."

The certainty in his voice should be comforting, but instead it sends a chill down my spine. This is the voice of a man who's done terrible things and will do them again without hesitation. Right now, though, I'm thankful for it. Anyone who would dare take or hurt Sharon needs to be hurt themselves.

When did my thoughts turn so violent? I never thought this way about Zach, even with all the bullshit he put me through, but now, suddenly violence seems like the perfect answer. These men are wearing off on me!

By early afternoon, the entire property transforms into something that looks like a military operation. Armed guards move constantly between the main house and the mother-in-law building. Black SUVs come and go through the gated entrance.

I'm not sure what I expected mafia security to look like, but not this, well… military-meets-secret-service look.

I stand at the window watching it all, feeling completely useless. Nick and Alex have taken over the main house, their voices carrying through the open door as they coordinate search efforts. I catch fragments of conversation, but not enough to understand what they are saying.

Oh my God, if anything happens to Sharon... I break off the thought before it can fully form. I won't be of any help to her if I let worst thought scenarios take over my mind.

Russ moves through the chaos like a ghost. Gone is the playful, charming man who made me laugh over cards and terrible dancing. This version of Russ is cold, directing armed men with authority that makes them snap to attention. He wears all black today, dark jeans and a fitted shirt that emphasizes his powerful build. When he speaks, people move immediately.

I watch him coordinate a team heading into the city, his voice low and dangerous as he gives instructions I can't quite hear. One of the men nods and hurries to a waiting SUV. Russ's hand rests casually on the gun holstered at his hip.

This is who he really is. Not the man who spun me around the cottage to Russian music. This is Rustik Stepanov, the pakhan, a man who controls territory and commands loyalty through fear and respect.