Under Control: Chapter 8

Merrick gives me a skeptical look over the rim of his glass. “And this is a problem how, exactly?”

“He’s sending random criminals to my bar.” I pour his second martini and slide it across the bar. I’m still livid from the night before and haven’t been able to calm down. “It’s almost worse than, you know, storming into your studio while I’m naked.”

“Please, darling, you enjoyed that.”

I glare at him. For a second, I wonder if he’s got a camera in that studio. But no, Merrick’s too lazy for security. “If my manager realized what was happening, he would’ve fired my ass.”

“Fired you? For driving business?”

“Don’t joke around. It’s not funny.” I wipe my hands on a damp towel and struggle to keep myself from freaking out. “How serious is this guy? I mean, how much trouble am I in?”

Merrick shakes his glass from side to side, nearly dribbling alcohol on the bar top. “Hard to say, exactly.” His lips press together. “But from what I heard, he’s pretty big time.”

“Big time, how? Stop bullshitting and tell me, please.”

“Okay, darling, fine. I asked around this afternoon and had one hell of a time finding anyone willing to talk about Valentin Zaitsev. But there’s this lovely boy that works at the Roger’s Gallery, you know the kind, artsy with wonderful pouty⁠—”

“Skip the character sketch and tell me what you heard.”

Merrick yawns and waves me off. He leans in, voice lowering. “According to my boy, Valentin is Russian Bratva. And not just any Russian Bratva, but allegedly, he’s the Pakhan.”

I stare at him blankly. “What the hell’s a bratva?”

“It’s what the Russians call a crime family, and the Pakhan is the tippy top of the hierarchy. He’s like the Don, darling.”

I let that sink in. Blood drains from my face. I knew Valentin was dangerous—I knew he was connected to some very shady and very bad things—but this is way bigger than I could’ve guessed.

Russian crime family. The boss of a Russian crime family.

He wants me to marry into that?

And I had unprotected sex with him?

I feel like I’m losing my mind. Merrick sticks around for another drink but he must realize how much this is panicking me and he doesn’t bring Valentin up again. No Russian goons come storming in through the door to throw money at me, and my phone doesn’t vibrate with a message from the freaking Pakhan or whatever he is, but the whole time I’m worried I’m one wrong step from Valentin drawing that gun again and pulling the trigger this time.

The next morning, still thinking about my Russian problem, I come downstairs to find Mom unpacking grocery bags.

“What’s all this?” I ask, staring in surprise. The branding is from a nearby high-end health food place, the exact sort of store we can’t afford.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” She frowns at me and holds up a package of organic blueberries. “Where is all of this from? How can we afford it?”

I start to tell her I don’t know but that’s not true.

“Tips have been good at work, Mama,” I say instead, not sure why I’m lying. Probably because of what she said after Valentin left here the other night.

How she begged me not to get involved with him.

She’s dealing with grief and poverty right now, and I don’t want to add more stress.

And it’s not like I’m completely lying. Tips have been good.

Just not health-food-store good.

“This is too much,” she scolds. “There are bills we can cover. Other expenses to take care of.” She shakes her head and tuts as she puts away a bundle of organic carrots.

“Make me something nice tonight, how about that?” I say sweetly. I walk over and give her a hug. “You deserve something nice for once, yeah?”

Mama softens. “It’s still too much.”

“I won’t do it again, okay?”

“Promise me you won’t.” She turns and kisses my cheek. “But how about I cook some lamadjo, huh? Would you like that?”

“Don’t tease me, Mama, you know I would.”

“Perfect.” She pushes me away. “Now get out of my kitchen.”

“Make me some coffee too?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling and humming to herself as she puts away the rest of the groceries, and I can’t help but smile too.

I haven’t seen Mama happy in a while.

But my good mood fades as I head back to my room.

Thanks to Valentin, I had to lie to my mother for a second time. I don’t like lying to her, especially not to cover for some Russian criminal asshole that can’t take a hint. Anger starts to swell in me, and by the time I’m done taking a shower, I’m basically fuming.

That bastard. He had no right to do that, no right to treat us like we’re a charity case. I don’t even care how desperately we need what he can provide—I still despise him for treating me like I can be bought.

Like my only value is in what I bring to a marriage.

I close my bedroom door, grab my phone and call him. It rings twice before Valentin picks up. It sounds like he’s out somewhere—I can hear voices in the background speaking quietly.

“Hello, malishka. Did you get my present?”

“I knew you sent those groceries.”

“Should I pretend like I didn’t? We can play that game, if you wish.”

I glare at myself in the mirror. Have a freaking spine, Karine. “I’m calling to tell you to stop it, okay? Stop sending me things. No more bills, no more groceries, and definitely no more thugs with fifty-dollar bills.”

“Don’t tell me my men were too rowdy,” he says, his voice going dark. “I will handle them if they embarrassed you.”

“No, it’s not like that,” I say quickly, remembering the fear in Sergei’s eyes when I told him off. “They were completely fine. You are the problem, not them.”

He grunts and his tone relaxes. “You can’t fault me for wanting to take care of what’s mine.”

I could scream. I really, really could scream. “I told you already. I’m not yours, and I never will be yours.”

“And I told you, malishka⁠—”

“Enough,” I say, cutting him off, so mad I can’t sit still. I’m stomping around my room, and I don’t care if my mother can hear my footsteps. “I don’t want to see you ever again, Valentin. I had to lie to my mother twice to explain your little gifts. Don’t come here, don’t send anything, and don’t try to give me money. I want you out of my life. I want you gone. Do you understand me? I know what you are. Pakhan of the Bratva, whatever the hell that is. You’re a criminal. You’re dangerous. I don’t want to get involved with a man like you, so just leave me alone.”

There’s silence on the other end. I’m fuming and breathing hard, and I wonder if I just went too far.

I’m practically showing my throat to a cobra and begging him to bite.

What do I expect?

A little fear begins to replace some of my rage. If Valentin really is as dangerous as I think he is—then I’m really, really stupid. I should be trying to find a way to get rid of him without pissing him off.

Yelling at him like this isn’t exactly the subtlest solution to my problem.

But when he talks, he doesn’t sound upset.

“I was wondering when you would find out who I really am, malishka.”

“Would you stop calling me that Russian nickname?” I snap at him, losing my mind.

“I know you think your life would be better without me. But I’m telling you, I can change your world. I can give you things. I can take care of you and your mother. And whether you like it or not, you will be mine. I’m a very patient man.”

I sit down on my bed, so exhausted I can barely stand. I feel dizzy and confused, and I just want to get off the phone now.

I don’t know how he’s not getting the message.

“Just leave me alone, okay, Valentin?”

“Come to dinner with me.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“If you hate having a meal with me, I will stop sending gifts.”

I let out a long breath. I’m too tired to fight. “Do you actually mean that?”

“I will never lie to you. I will always keep my promises.”

“One dinner. Then we’re over.”

“I said I’d stop sending gifts. I never said we were over.”

I rub my temples. “Fine. Okay? Fine. One dinner, then no more gifts.” Maybe this way he’ll finally understand.

I’m not interested, and I never will be.

“Good. I will send you a dress.”

“No,” I say quickly, sitting up straight. “No, no, no. I can’t explain that to my mom.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Wear something nice then,” he says, and I can tell he doesn’t like that.

“How nice are we talking?”

“Upscale.”

“I’m not sure I have anything upscale. I have overdue bills.”

“Then let me send you something.”

“No,” I say and groan. This man is infuriating. “I’ll figure it out, okay? Just, I have to go before I throw myself out a window.”

“I’ll pick you up tonight at seven.”

“Outside of Stove and Smoke. I don’t want to explain you to my mother.”

“If that’s what you want. See you there.”

He hangs up. I stare at the phone.

I called him to make sure I never saw him again, and now we have a dinner date.

How the hell did that just happen?