Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
Under Control: Chapter 12

“What are you doing?” I yell at him as he piles me into the back of a car.

The driver glances at us in the rearview mirror and rolls his eyes. Valentin snaps at him in Russian before rolling up the divider.

“I’m taking you to my house and marrying you. A priest is already on the way.”

“Wait, hold on. I didn’t mean I’d do it right now.”

“You want your mother to be protected? I want you to be my wife. I’m not waiting around.”

“But I can’t just leave Mama alone.”

“I’ll make sure she’s safe.” He pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Send Kirill and his men to the girl’s house. Make sure nobody bothers the mother. Yes, I’ll send the address.” He hangs up and looks at me as if that solves everything.

“This is insane. I can’t just marry you. I don’t… I don’t have a dress. Or a ring.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small velvet box. “This will fit.”

“You’ve been carrying around an engagement ring?” I stare at him, only just now realizing the depths of this man’s insanity.

“Put it on.”

I open the box and lean back into the seat with a groan.

Of course it’s gorgeous and beyond ostentatious.

A single, enormous diamond is surrounded by three white-gold circles. Smaller diamonds are set into the circle at slight angles, giving the ring a slightly turned look. It’s a beautiful combination of modern and classic.

“Where did you even get this?” I take it out and slide it down my ring finger.

Perfect fit. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“A jeweler friend of mine. He says it’s Art Deco and it’s a popular style these days. Are you pleased with it?”

“I can’t even begin to feel anything right now.”

“You will, malishka.”

I stare at the ring. This can’t actually be happening right now. But the car’s moving through the Philly streets and heading inexorably toward Old City and Valentin’s house.

“Dress,” I say, perking up, grasping at one last excuse to put this off. “I can’t get married without a wedding dress.”

My hopes immediately begin to fall at the look on his face.

“I have a dress for you at home,” he says as a matter of fact.

“God damn it, Valentin, are you out of your mind? You had a ring and a dress just waiting for me?”

His expression darkens. It scares the shit out of me and I recoil from him.

“Watch your language. You are going to be the wife of the Pakhan. Certain things will be expected of you.”

My mouth drops open. Is this motherfucker for real? He’s telling me how to talk now?

Absolutely not.

Anger finally overwhelms my shock. It’s like getting a shot of adrenaline straight to my jugular. I lean toward him, teeth gritting together.

“I don’t care what’s expected, asshole, and if you try to tell me how I can or cannot talk ever again, I’ll stab you right in the dick while you’re sleeping.”

He seems more amused than annoyed. “We will work on that attitude together.”

“Stop the car. I changed my mind.”

“Too late.”

We pull up out front of Valentin’s house. He steps out onto the sidewalk and holds the door for me. I glare at him from the comfort of the back seat while the absurd engagement ring glitters on my finger.

“Take me back home. I’m done with this already.”

“Then you can deal with the Armenians all by yourself. I’m sure that will go well.”

“You really want to blackmail your wife into marrying you?”

“I don’t consider this blackmail. We’re simply coming to terms on our arrangement.”

Motherfucker. This rat bastard. I can’t believe I got myself off on his freaking thigh ten minutes ago. He’s using me to get what he wants, and I have no idea what that even is right now, but it’s clear he’s got motives beyond just needing a wife for political reasons.

But what choice do I have?

I can still see Mama sitting in her bathroom, her face all messed up, blood crusted in her nose, eye black and blue, telling me the story of her monster brother and all the money she owes him.

My options are all terrible.

Go back home and try to handle the leader of the Armenian Brotherhood without any help. That will absolutely not work out.

Marry Valentin and hope he can help me. I’m pretty sure that will also be a total mess.

But at least with Valentin, there’s a chance Mama doesn’t get hurt again.

I should be so mad at her for taking out that loan in the first place, but I’m too tired to start placing blame.

My shoulders slump, and I slowly climb out of the back seat.

He puts a hand on my lower back and leans down to kiss my cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers.

True to his word, there’s a dress waiting for me in a side room. His housekeeper, Nikkita, helps me put it on. She tuts at my makeup and tries to do something with my hair. “So much of it,” she grumbles, tying back my unruly, messy curls. “And such a mess. He will not be pleased.”

But in the end, Nikkita does a passable job. The dress is incredible, like I knew it would be, no doubt expensive and designer. The skirt is poofy and white, and the bust is tight to my chest, both somehow sexy and conservative. The sort of dress I could never in a million years afford. I hate it with a passion. But at least Nikkita grudgingly admits that I look beautiful as she leads me through the house and toward my fate.

I don’t know how this is happening, but I’m drifting now, like I’m hanging in the air above myself and watching from a distance.

The ceremony goes fast. As promised, Valentin has a priest waiting in his backyard. Lights are strung up across a vine-covered pergola. Bushes of wildflowers and gorgeous local plants are like colorful explosions in the perfectly manicured beds. The priest seems uncomfortable the whole time, and the only other witnesses are Anton, Valentin’s friend and close advisor, and Nikkita.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I start to turn away, thinking we aren’t actually going to do this, but Valentin puts a hand on my lower back and drags me into him. When his lips find mine, I’m transported again to the art studio, to the back seat of his town car, to my trashed living room, to all the moments where I hated him and wanted him in equal measure, where I feared him and needed him, just like right now. His mouth takes me, owns me, dominates me, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive being his wife if I can barely survive the wedding.

“Now you are truly mine,” he whispers in my ear. “And I am going to treat you the way a proper queen deserves to be treated.”

Except it doesn’t sound comforting.

No, not even a little bit.