Under Control: Chapter 14

The house is busy as car after car arrives. Anton and Nikkita are busy letting the visitors inside and ushering them into the large conference room in the rear of the building.

It’s the first time in a while that the full upper level of the Zaitsev Bratva has met in one place. These kinds of gatherings are dangerous—they’re a tempting target for our enemies—but I have two dozen men watching the perimeter.

And besides, my mansion is the safest in the city. A few years back, I had the entire place renovated. The front facade is bomb-proof and the glass is bullet-proof, and each room gets swept for bugs twice per week. There’s an underground tunnel that leads three blocks away with several access points hidden throughout the premises, and only I know where all of those entrances are.

If someone manages to pull off an attack here tonight, they’ll fucking deserve it.

“Do you think we have enough vodka?” Anton asks me, sounding genuinely worried.

“I believe ten cases will suffice.”

He seems skeptical. “The way they’re drinking, we might need ten more.”

“Send someone to the liquor store then.” I pat him on the shoulder. “This is going to go well.”

“Are you sure about that? There are already rumors.”

“That’s why we’re meeting like this.”

He grunts and looks over his shoulder. There’s a low murmur coming from the conference room and laughter spills out.

“It’s good you’re married,” Anton says, sounding like he’s picking his words very carefully. “But everyone expected a Russian girl.”

“They’ll come around.”

“Speaking of which, where are you keeping her tonight?”

“Locked in my room. She wasn’t happy about that.” I give him a wry smile. Karine was fucking livid when I told her that she couldn’t come downstairs this evening and accused me of kidnapping her. At least until I made it clear that if this went wrong, her life could be in danger.

I posted four guards on my bedroom door, just in case.

I’m not taking any chances with my new bride.

Anton heads into the conference room first. The talking dies down when I follow. A dozen men stare back at me, their looks ranging from amused to downright hostile. Oleg Fedorov sits toward the back and gives me a sharp nod—at least he understands how this is going to play out. There’s Roman Egorov, owner of a chain of massage parlors that are flimsy fronts for prostitution rings; Konstantin Pavlov with his crew of vicious, hardened killers, my best wartime brigadier; there’s Andrei and Pavel and Yegor and Artemy, some of my most loyal and trusted men, each running their own small piece of the Zaitsev empire.

All of them hardened, ruthless killers and thieves.

“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me.” Anton pours a glass of vodka for me and I raise it to the assembled brigadiers. “Za druzbu,” I say, and watch as they echo it.

The room drinks. Not a man refuses my toast, which is a good sign.

“What did you drag all of our old asses here for, Valentin?” Roman leers with me with crooked teeth. “Not that I’d ever deny your hospitality and good vodka.”

“I can drink to that,” Pavel echoes. He’s a heavyset man with a clever mind and a short temper. He runs half my restaurants and is in charge of laundering the Bratva’s cash.

“As you’re all aware, I was going to be engaged to Oleg Fedorov’s daughter.” Their smiles fade away as I speak. “But that hasn’t worked out.”

“What happened to the girl?” Pavel asks.

“She’s no longer an option,” I tell him, holding his gaze until he finally breaks and looks down at the table. “Instead, I’ve found another suitable wife. We were married yesterday.”

There’s a shocked murmur at the table. My men exchange looks, though I note that a few of them aren’t as surprised as the others. Yegor and Artemy in particular have their arms crossed over their chests and seem like they’re distant from the others.

“Who’s the girl?” Konstantin asks, sounding genuinely curious. “We should meet her and drink to her health. This is a happy day, isn’t it?”

“I noticed we weren’t invited to the wedding,” Pavel says, but he sounds genial about it. “All right, Pakhan, I agree with Konstantin. Where’s the girl?”

“My wife’s name is Karine Vardanyan.”

“That doesn’t sound Russian,” Konstantin says.

“Karine is the niece of the leader of the Armenian Brotherhood. She’s a Sarkissian by blood.”

The room is stunned to total silence. At least until Yegor speaks up. “This is treason,” he says.

Then there’s an uproar. Half the men are shouting at Yegor, and the other half are shouting about how this is outrageous, I should be marrying a Russian, I can’t just go take an Armenian bride like this, especially not one related to the Brotherhood. I let the chaos shake out for a minute, but eventually Konstantin and Artemy end up shouting in each other’s faces and have to be pulled apart by Pavel and Yegor.

I hold up my hands for quiet. It takes a moment, but these men aren’t stupid. They understand the stakes here.

I watch them very carefully as I speak.

“The Zaitsev Bratva and the Brotherhood have a long and bloody history, but my marriage to Karine is going to end all of that. She is going to help bring our powerful organizations together, and there won’t be a single crime family left standing that can match our strength. This will be good for us, gentlemen, whether you personally agree with it or not.” My gaze lingers on Yegor and Artemy.

“You know what the Armenians did,” Yegor says. He’s one of the oldest men in the room. His beard is gray and his blue eyes are sunken behind wrinkles, but he’s been around since the beginning. He was my father’s top brigadier, back then the Zaitsev was first forming in Philadelphia. Now he’s well past his prime, but he still commands a lot of respect.

“I know what they did,” I confirm, not backing down from his challenge. “And it isn’t your place to question my motives.”

“They butchered him.” Yegor’s voice shakes with emotion. He throws back some vodka and slams the glass down, a sharp crack in the silence room. “He was my friend, Valentin. I loved your father like nobody else did, and they butchered him. Now you’re married to one of their whores?”

Rage hits me, hard and fast. How dare he speak of her like that? Of my wife, and to my face? “Anton, hold him.”

Anton moves fast. Yegor doesn’t even try to struggle as I come around the table and draw a knife from my belt. The men all stare, their expression hard but unsurprised. To insult the wife of the Pakhan is to commit treason, and Yegor deserves to die.

“Hand on the table,” I command the old brigadier.

He looks up at me and does as instructed. He knows what’s coming, and he’ll accept it.

“You will never speak of my wife that way again,” I tell him, but I’m speaking to the table at large. “I’m sparing your life out of respect for my father and for your long service, but it will not happen again. Do you understand?”

“The Armenians,” he rasps, staring at me with a hard look. “They will kill you before they will work with you.”

I slam the tip of the knife down into the tip of his pointer finger and wrench back. The top knuckle slices off in a spray of blood and lands on the floor. Yegor groans in pain as he clutches his wound to his chest.

I wipe the knife on my pants and shove it back into my belt.

“Does anyone else wish to say anything about my wife?” I ask, staring around at the men. My jaw works, and I hate that I had to resort to violence. But it’s also not entirely unexpected.

I prefer to run my Bratva with respect. I find my men are more productive if they’re happy and well compensated.

But they will respect me, and if they don’t like a decision, they will also fear me.

Yegor’s face is white with pain. Blood stains his shirt.

Nobody moves to help him.

“I understand this is a surprise to all of you,” I say to the assembled group. “But my wife will not be insulted and she will not be criticized. The direction of this Brava is my decision and mine alone. I will not be second-guessed. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Pakhan,” Konstantin says immediately, and the others follow suit.

Even Pavel and Yegor. They might not be happy, but they understand how these things work. Yegor deserved much worse than what he got, and I will not be merciful a second time around. They’ll stay in line, at least for now.

“Very good. That is all I gathered you here to say. Please, enjoy my hospitality, and my vodka. Don’t insult me by leaving here sober.”

I turn and walk out of the room. The mood is no longer light and festive, but the men will linger for a while longer, eat Nikkita’s cooking, drink the alcohol and speak quietly about what they just learned.

“That went well,” Anton says, appearing by my side as I head up the stairs toward my room.

“I don’t need your sarcasm right now.”

“No, seriously, I think it was about as good as you could’ve expected. You only had to remove one finger. And not even the whole finger at that.”

I pause on the second-floor landing and look at Anton. “Yegor should be dead for what he said. He called my wife a whore to my face.”

“You made the right decision. Spilling Russian blood right now won’t go over well. The men will remember you spared him, but also that you made yourself clear. It was smart.”

Smart or not, it didn’t satisfy me.

I turn away from him and wave my guards aside. I close the door behind me and find my wife sitting in bed with a book open in her lap. Her hair is piled up in a messy bun and she’s not wearing any makeup. A big ZZ Top t-shirt covers her body, big enough to be a dress. I don’t know where she got that ugly thing.

“I heard shouting,” she says mildly. “I assume that went well?”

“I cut off a man’s finger.” I approach the bed. “Anton thinks that was successful.”

“And what do you think?” Her eyebrows raise and I can’t tell if she’s afraid.

“I think I’m frustrated.” I remove my jacket and throw it aside. “I think I’m going to take it out on you.”

She closes her book. “I could scream.”

“Go ahead. I’d like that.” I unbutton my slacks and slide them off. She watches me, her mouth hanging open.

Her hungry little mouth.

“You think you can just walk in here and do what you want with me? Even with a house full of guests?”

“I think that’s exactly right.” I unbutton my shirt. I love the way she looks at me. It’s a mix of loathing and desire, like she hates me, but she can’t help but want to fuck me.

That’s what’s so intoxicating about this relationship.

We’re spiraling together.

Yegor was right. Not about calling her a whore—he paid for that mistake already—but about this game I’m playing.

The Armenians are dangerous. They’re vicious, brutal, backstabbing cunts, and they deserve to die.

I should hate Karine. She represents the people that took my father from me in the most inhumane fashion imaginable.

And yet I don’t.

Not in the slightest.

I want to ruin her—dominate her—use her—but I don’t hate her.

She tries to dart away when I approach the side of the bed, but I catch her ankle. She yelps, kicks me in the face, and I feel my nose crunch under her heel. Blood pours down my mouth, down my chest, and I don’t stop. Her eyes go wide with shock.

“Oh, shit, Valentin—Valentin—I’m so sorry, I didn’t⁠—”

I grab her hair and bruise her lips with a kiss. I bury her mouth with my tongue and make her taste my blood. She moans into my embrace, and when she tries to struggle, I turn her around and hold her down, leaving that perky ass of hers up in the air.

She’s fucking soaked when I reach between her legs.

“You filthy girl. You broke my nose, and now I’m going to break you.” I slide my fingers inside of her and fuck her deep. “Tell me how much you love it when I make you shatter, baby.”

“You can’t,” she says, panting, mouth hanging open. Playing the game still.

But to me, this is everything.

“Say it, baby.” I fuck her deep then pull my fingers out and spank her ass hard. She gasps, jolting forward, but I grab her and hold her hips.

“No,” she whimpers as I press my cock against her soaking pussy.

“Tell me how much you love it when I make you come.” Blood drips from my nose onto her gorgeous ass. I spread her wide and grab her wrists, holding her down. “Say it, you dirty fucking girl.”

“I won’t say it,” she says.

And gasps as I slide my cock into her from behind.

She’s mine, my wife, my dirty girl, my perfect fucking malishka. I fuck her rough, like the goddamn animal I am. I fuck her deep and I pull her hair until she’s panting and saying my name, and as I reach around her hips to stroke her swollen little clit, she finally gives in.

“I love it,” she says, back arching, “oh, fuck, oh my god, I love it.”

I rip into her as she comes. It’s the most sexual thing I’ve seen in my life: her muscles shaking, her mouth open, saying what I want, covered in my blood. I keep going as her pussy clenches down, and I can’t take anymore.

I fill her to the brim. I fill her to the core. I finish inside of my wife, and when I’m done, I make her lick my cock clean.

“Say thank you,” I whisper. She’s glassy-eyed, and her pussy’s beautifully swollen. “Go ahead, baby. Say it for me.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“That’s a good girl.” I kiss her gently, leaving another smear of blood on her cheek.

Then I head into the bathroom to see what I can do about this broken fucking nose.