33. Alex
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.
"You look like a fucking Russian rock star instead of a pakhan," he says, grinning now. "What the hell is going on with your hair?"
"I said put it down."
Nick leans over to look at the photo, and I catch the faint curve of his mouth. He's actually smiling. The bastard.
"This is going in my personal collection," Russ announces, pulling out his phone.
"Like hell it is."
He raises the phone to photograph the picture, and I lunge across the table before he can click the button. My hand closes around his wrist, and he jerks back, laughing like this is the funniest thing that's happened all week.
"Give me the fucking phone, Russ."
"Make me."
I tighten my grip on his wrist and reach for the phone with my other hand.
He twists away, still laughing, and suddenly we're half-wrestling across the kitchen table.
Coffee mugs rattle dangerously close to the edge.
Papers scatter across the floor. My elbow knocks into the stack of files, sending several sliding off the table.
Nick doesn't move, just watches us with that faint smile still on his face like he's enjoying the show.
"You're acting like children," Nick says calmly.
"He started it," Russ gasps, trying to keep the phone out of my reach.
"I'm going to finish it by breaking your fucking arm."
"You can try."
Russ is stronger than he looks, and he's using his weight advantage to keep me from getting the phone. I shift my grip, getting leverage, and manage to pin his arm against the table. He's still laughing, the asshole, even as I increase the pressure.
I get my hand around his throat and squeeze just enough to make my point. He chokes out a laugh and drops the phone, which I catch before it hits the floor. Victory.
"Asshole," Russ mutters, rubbing his throat.
"Idiot," I reply, shoving the phone into my pocket.
The soft sound of footsteps behind me gain my attention. I turn to find Marla standing in the doorway wearing one of my shirts and nothing else, her red hair messy from sleep, her blue eyes wide with confusion and amusement.
My breath catches for a second. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh on her, the sleeves rolled up several times to fit her smaller frame. Even as large as the shirt is, her curvy figure is still visible. Sexy as fuck. She looks rumpled and soft and entirely too tempting for six in the morning.
"What the hell is going on?" she asks.
Russ grins at her. "Alex is sensitive about old photos."
"I'm not sensitive."
"You were strangling him."
"He deserved it."
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine, and something in my chest loosens at the sound.
She crosses to the coffee maker and pours herself a cup, completely unbothered by the chaos she just walked into.
The movement makes the shirt ride up slightly, and I force myself to look away before I get too distracted.
"You should see the photo," Russ says. "Alex looked like he was about to murder everyone at a city council meeting."
"I was," I admit.
"Why were you at a city council meeting?" Marla asks, settling into the chair beside Nick.
"Business," I say shortly.
Marla's expression shifts slightly, a reminder that she's still processing what we really are and what we do. But she doesn't look scared. Just thoughtful. She takes a sip of coffee, her fingers wrapped around the mug. What's really going on in that curious brain of hers?
"Speaking of embarrassing stories," Russ says, clearly not ready to let this go, "did Marla ever hear about the time Alex got so drunk at a business dinner that he told a rival pakhan his wife looked like a horse?"
"That's not what happened," I say immediately.
"It's exactly what happened. I was there."
"She did look like a horse," Nick adds quietly.
Marla covers her mouth, trying not to laugh. I glare at all of them.
"The woman had an unfortunate profile," I say defensively. "And I wasn't that drunk."
"You were absolutely that drunk," Russ says. "You told her husband she had a face like a thoroughbred and then tried to clarify by saying you meant it as a compliment because thoroughbreds are expensive."
Nick's shoulders shake slightly with silent laughter.
"Fine," I say. "We're sharing embarrassing stories? Let's talk about the time Russ drunkenly drove a snowmobile into a decorative fountain at a hotel when he was eighteen."
Russ's grin vanishes. "How the fuck do you know about that?"
"I know everything."
"That was supposed to be buried."
"Nothing stays buried forever."
"It was a private party," Russ protests. "And the fountain was in the middle of the fucking driveway. Who puts a fountain in a driveway?"
"Someone who doesn't expect drunk teenagers to drive snowmobiles through it," Nick says.
Marla is laughing now, her head thrown back and her eyes bright with amusement. The sound fills the kitchen and none of us, it seems, can resist the charm. All of us have varying degrees of smiles on our faces.
"What about you, Nick?" Marla asks, wiping her eyes. "Any embarrassing stories?"
"No," Nick says flatly.
"Bullshit," Russ says immediately. "What about the time you got so pissed off at a rival organization that you challenged their enforcer to a fistfight in the middle of a restaurant?"
"That's not embarrassing. I won."
"You broke three tables and got banned from the restaurant."
"It was a shitty restaurant anyway."
Marla laughs again, and even I can't help smiling. The tension from earlier dissolves, and an easy, comfortable atmosphere replaces it. For a moment, we're just four people sitting in a kitchen drinking coffee and trading insults.
Then my phone buzzes on the table. The sound cuts through the laughter like a knife through skin. I pick it up and read the message from one of my captains, and my body immediately tenses.
Nick notices immediately. His smile fades, replaced by the hard, calculating expression that means business. "What is it?"
I read the message again, making sure I understood it correctly. Then I set the phone down carefully and look at each of them in turn.
"Someone broke into Marla's old foster care records overnight."