17. Marla
MARLA
The word "mafia" hangs in the air between us, and I immediately regret saying it aloud. The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe.
Nick doesn't flinch. He stands near my kitchen counter wearing dark slacks and a charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the tattoos on his left forearm.
His posture is relaxed, almost casual, one hand resting on the counter while the other holds my phone.
His green eyes are calm, assessing, completely unbothered by my accusation.
"We operate outside the law," he says simply, his voice carrying no emotion. "We run businesses that generate revenue through methods the government doesn't approve of. We protect our territory and our people. We enforce our own rules."
"That's a yes," I say, my voice shaking.
"That's an explanation," Nick corrects. "The word you used is dramatic and inaccurate, but if it helps you understand the situation, then yes."
Russ stands near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair is slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it.
His light eyes are fixed on me, and there's irritation written all over his face.
His jaw is tight, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with this entire conversation.
"This is ridiculous," Russ mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
Alex leans against the wall near the hallway, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His dark eyes don't leave my face, studying every micro-expression, every shift in my posture. He's not angry or defensive. He's calculating, measuring my reactions.
The anger hits me suddenly, flooding through my chest and burning away the fear. These men broke into my home, accused me of crimes I didn't commit, threatened me with house arrest, and now they're standing in my living room admitting they're criminals.
"Get out," I say, my voice stronger now. "All of you. Get out of my house right now."
"We've already explained why that's not possible," Nick says.
"I don't care what you explained." I step forward, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
"You don't get to just decide I'm under house arrest because your business deal went wrong.
I didn't do anything. I don't know anything.
And I'm not going to be babysat by three paranoid criminals who think I'm some kind of spy. "
Russ's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smirk, and that makes my anger flare hotter.
"You think this is funny?" I snap at him.
"I think you calling us mafia is a little dramatic," Russ says, his tone light despite the tension in his shoulders. "We're businessmen."
"Businessmen don't have armed guards," I fire back. "Businessmen don't disable security cameras and steal merchandise from warehouses."
"Some do," Russ says.
"This is insane," I continue, my voice rising. "I have work. I have clients with absolute deadlines. I'm a freelance writer, and if I don't submit my articles on time, I don't get paid. I can't just disappear for however long it takes you to decide I'm not a threat."
"Your work can wait," Nick says flatly.
"No, it can't." I turn to face him fully, my anger making me bold. "I have bills. I have a mortgage on this cottage. I have a life that doesn't revolve around your illegal business operations."
"Your life is currently connected to our operations whether you like it or not," Nick says, his voice going colder. "That makes you a potential risk. Until we confirm otherwise, you stay here under supervision."
"A potential risk?" I repeat, my voice sharp. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"Maybe not," Nick says, "but it is what it is."
Alex shifts slightly against the wall, drawing my attention. He hasn't spoken yet, but his eyes haven't left my face. The intensity of his gaze makes me feel exposed, like he can see through every defense I'm trying to build.
The cottage walls feel like they're closing in on me.
Russ blocks the front door, his broad frame filling the doorway.
Nick stands between me and the kitchen, cutting off that exit.
Alex guards the hallway leading to my bedroom and the back door.
They've positioned themselves strategically, probably without even thinking about it.
The realization makes my stomach tighten.
The living room is small and cluttered with my work.
My laptop sits open on the coffee table, surrounded by notebooks and printed articles.
The couch is covered with throw pillows I bought at a thrift store, and the walls are decorated with framed prints of places I've written about but never visited.
I'm wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, my red hair pulled into a messy bun. I feel underdressed and vulnerable compared to their expensive clothes and controlled composure. They look like they belong in boardrooms and expensive restaurants, not my tiny cottage in the woods.
"This is my home," I say, my voice shaking with anger and desperation. "You can't just take it over because you're paranoid."
"We're not paranoid," Nick says.
"You're holding me prisoner."
"We're keeping you safe."
"From what?" I demand. "The theft has nothing to do with me. I feel bad about your employee who was hurt, but it has nothing to do with me or my life."
"From very real threats you don't understand yet," Nick says, his green eyes hardening. "You're connected to us now. That makes you valuable to people who want to hurt us."
"Then disconnect me," I snap. "Pretend last night never happened. Pretend you never met me. Go back to your illegal businesses and leave me alone."
"It's too late for that," Alex says quietly.
His voice cuts through the argument like a knife, calm and controlled. I turn to look at him, and he pushes off the wall, taking a single step forward. The movement is deliberate and measured, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"You're thinking about this wrong," Alex says, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "You're angry because you think we're threatening you. You think we're the danger."
"You are the danger," I say.
"We're not the only danger," Alex qualifies. "If you were intentionally sent to distract us, then whoever orchestrated the warehouse attack knows about you."
The words settle over me like ice water, and my anger falters.
"So?" I say, but my voice comes out weaker than I intended.
"So they're going to wonder if you're still useful," Alex continues, his tone almost gentle despite the horrifying implications. "They're going to wonder if you know something. They're going to wonder if we told you things we shouldn't have."
"I don't know anything," I say.
"That doesn't matter," Alex says. "In our world, perception is more important than truth. If they think you're valuable, they'll come for you. If they think you're a liability, they'll eliminate you. Either way, you're in danger."
The cottage feels colder suddenly. Nick watches me from the kitchen, his expression unreadable. Russ has stopped looking irritated and now looks concerned, watching my face carefully.
"You're saying I'm in danger because of you," I say slowly, trying to process what Alex is telling me.
"You're in danger because you're connected to us. Whether that connection was intentional or accidental doesn't change the reality."
"So what?" I ask, my voice rising again. "You're going to keep me locked up here forever? I'm just supposed to accept that my life is over because I made bad decisions?"
"We're going to keep you safe until we figure out what happened," Nick says. "Once we know who orchestrated the attack and why, we can assess the actual threat level."
"And if the threat level is high?" I ask.
"Then we deal with it," Nick says simply.
The casual way he says it makes my stomach turn. Deal with it. Like eliminating threats is just another item on his to-do list. Like violence is a normal part of his day.
Well, since he's mafia, it probably is just another normal day for him.
I sink onto the couch, my legs suddenly unsteady. The anger is still there, burning in my chest, but it's mixed with something else now. Fear. Real, cold fear.
"I didn't ask for this," I say quietly, staring at my hands.
"That doesn't matter," Russ says, and his voice is gentler than I expected. "But it doesn't change what's happening."
I look up at him, then at Nick, then at Alex. They're all watching me with varying degrees of concern and calculation. They're not leaving. They're not going to let me refuse. And the worst part is, I'm starting to understand why.
If what Alex said is true, if there really are people out there who think I'm connected to whatever happened at that warehouse, then I'm not safe alone.
The police won't help me because they work for these men.
My friends can't protect me because they don't understand the danger.
I'm completely isolated and vulnerable, and the only people who can keep me safe are the same people who got me into this mess.
The realization settles over me. "How long?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"As long as it takes," Nick says.
I close my eyes, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours.
I woke up embarrassed about sleeping with three men who knew each other.
Now I'm sitting in my living room learning that those three men are Russian mafia, that I might be in danger from their enemies, and that my entire life has just been turned upside down.
When I open my eyes again, all three of them are still watching me. Waiting. The cottage is silent except for the sound of my own breathing.
I'm not trapped by them, I realize with sudden clarity. I'm protected by them. And I need that protection now, whether I want it or not.