Page 97 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

The realization sits heavy in my chest. I knew what they were, intellectually. But watching Russ direct armed searches for my missing friend makes it viscerally real in a way nothing else has.

Around three in the afternoon, a black sedan I don't recognize pulls through the gate. Every guard on the property immediately goes still, hands moving toward weapons. Then they relax, though the tension doesn't fully leave their postures.

A woman emerges from the back seat. She's small, maybe five-foot-three, with long blonde hair streaked with gray pulled into an elegant bun. Dark eyes scan the property with sharp intelligence. She's dressed simply in jeans and a cream sweater, but she carries herself with the kind of confidence that comes from years of being respected.

Russ appears from the main house, and for the first time since Nick's phone call this morning, he looks genuinely caught off guard. "Mama? What are you doing here?"

"I'm moving in," she announces in accented English, gesturing to the luggage the driver is unloading. "You've been asking me for months. I finally decided you were right."

Russ's expression shifts through several emotions too quickly for me to track. "Now? You decided to move in right now?"

"Is there a problem?" His mother's dark eyes narrow slightly. "You built this beautiful house for me. I'm here to use it."

"It's not a problem, it's just..." Russ trails off, his gaze flicking toward the mother-in-law building where I'm standing in the doorway. "The timing is complicated."

His mother follows his gaze and spots me. Her expression shifts from confusion, to understanding, to something that might be amusement. "I see."

"Mama, this is Marla," Russ says, resignation clear in his voice. "Marla, this is my mother, Ekaterina."

I step forward awkwardly, very aware that I'm wearing jeans and a large t-shirt. "It's nice to meet you."

Ekaterina's sharp eyes take in every detail: the oversized shirt, my bare feet, and the way I'm standing in the doorway of the building meant for her. "You're living here."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Temporarily. There was a security issue at my cottage, and Russ offered..."

"I see," she says again, and something in her tone suggests she sees far more than I'm saying. She turns to Russ. "Well, the house has two bedrooms. We'll make it work."

"Mama, you don't have to..."

"Rustik." Her voice carries the kind of authority that makes even a pakhan shut his mouth. At least, this pakhan. "I'm staying. Help with my luggage."

The next hour is a special kind of chaos. Ekaterina settles into the second bedroom. She doesn't ask questions about the armed guards or the constant phone calls or why her son keeps disappearing to coordinate search teams. She simply unpacks her belongings and makes tea in the kitchen like this is completely normal.

I hover uselessly, trying to stay out of the way while also trying to be helpful. The building that felt spacious this morning now feels cramped with three people and the constant flow of men reporting to Russ.

"Sit," Ekaterina says, gesturing to the kitchen table. "You're making me nervous pacing like that."

I sit, wrapping my hands around the mug of tea she slides across to me. It's exactly how I like it, though I don't remember telling her. She must have been watching when I made my own earlier.

Through the window, I watch Alex cross from the main house. He's wearing dark jeans and a black sweater, his brown hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it. He looks exhausted. When he enters the building, he heads straight for the kitchen and pours himself coffee before noticing Ekaterina.

"Mrs. Stepanov," he says, his tone respectful. "I didn't know you were visiting."

"I'm not visiting. I'm moving in." She studies him with the same sharp assessment she gave me. "It's been a while, Alexsey Lenkov."

Her tone is chastising and to my utter surprise, Alex flushes. Just a little bit across his cheeks, but it's there.

"I apologize," he says simply, bowing his head slightly. "It's been a little busy." Alex's gaze shifts to me, and his expression softens slightly. "Any word from Sharon?"

I shake my head, my throat tight. "Nothing."

He moves to stand behind my chair, his hand settling on my shoulder. The gesture is unconscious, but I see Ekaterina notice it. Her dark eyes drop to his hand, then flick to Alex's face, then back to me. She frowns slightly. Not in anger, but in confusion.

Nick appears in the doorway moments later, his phone pressed to his ear. He's speaking rapid Russian, his tone clipped and frustrated. When he ends the call, he looks at Alex. "The bartender from the Ivory Wolf finally talked. Sharon left work Saturday night with some guy. Blond, mid-twenties, driving an expensive car."

My blood runs cold. "Zach."

"Maybe." Nick's green eyes are hard. "We're checking traffic cameras now."