Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
Under Control: Chapter 9

Anton drives the town car to pick up Karine. I sit in the back and gaze out the window at my city. Several of my soldiers follow in a nondescript sedan, keeping their eyes out for any trouble.

Not that I anticipate any, but there have been some murmurs lately. The Japanese are unhappy with the current status quo, and the Italians are always getting greedy and trying to take more territory. It’s a little dance we do, me and the other heads of the major crime families in this city. We pretend like all we care about is business and stability while secretly trying to murder each other.

“For the record, Valentin, I just want to say that I think this is a bad idea.” Anton glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“Hold on, let me put up the divider. It’s soundproof. You can talk all you want.”

“Your sense of humor always astounds me.” Anton’s jaw works. “I’m serious though. I looked into the girl.”

“And what did you find?”

“I know who she is.” He lets that linger for a moment. I stretch my legs and wait for him to speak. This isn’t exactly a surprise—Anton’s clever and good at his job. It would’ve been a disappointment if he hadn’t figured it out eventually. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says finally.

“Yes, well, that’s very true,” I admit, smiling to myself. “But it’s a fun game.”

“I’m serious. Baltimore isn’t Philadelphia. They have their own system down there.”

“And that’s exactly what fascinates me. We’re so regionally divided, but for what? We live in a global world these days, Anton, and yet the Philly families and the New York families and the Baltimore families all act like we’re separated by unfathomable distances.”

“We stay in our own territories. It keeps the peace.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on starting a war. Marriage brings people together, don’t you know that?”

Anton shakes his head, visibly annoyed now. “Let the girl go, Valentin. Forget about her family. Does she even know about them?”

“She doesn’t,” I murmur.

“Getting involved with her isn’t going to bring your father back.”

I stare at Anton, anger simmering in my chest, but we pull up to Stove and Smoke before I can tell him to watch his mouth. The place is a hipster-style gastropub with lots of wood and metal. The exterior door was renovated to look like it’s from the 1700s, even though the place was opened only a year back.

My anger slowly fades, because there’s Karine, standing on the sidewalk all alone, looking so fucking radiant my heart staggers in my chest.

My god. The girl is beautiful.

Anton says something else, but I don’t hear him anymore.

All I can do is stare.

She’s in a black dress. It clings to her athletic, toned body. Her hair is down and in ringlet curls. It’s thick and dark. I remember how silky it felt in my fist. She’s wearing makeup, just a hint of it making her pouty lips look fuller and her eyes dark and smoky. She’s got on heels, and her legs look fucking fantastic, like they might never end.

I push open the door and step out.

Our eyes meet. For a moment, she doesn’t move. I don’t go toward her. The draw between us is hard to deny—I know she feels it too. This girl, her petite little body, her fiery fucking attitude, she drives me fucking crazy, but I made up my mind the moment I first saw her standing naked in my study that she will be mine.

No, no, that’s wrong.

She’s already mine, she just doesn’t know it yet.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true.

A little blush colors her cheeks. “Thanks. You look nice too.”

I help her into the car. She buckles herself and stays on her side. Anton’s glaring at me in the mirror and I stare back at him as I slide the divider up.

Let the bastard stew in his disapproval. This isn’t about what he wants.

This is about what I need.

“I just want to make some things clear,” she says as the car starts moving. “I’m not staying out late. I’m not drinking too much. And when it’s over, I want you to drop me off back in front of the Stove and Smoke.”

“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind about how this evening will go.”

She narrows her eyes. “You know I don’t want to be here. You’re practically forcing me.”

“I don’t think I am, malishka.”

“Stop calling me that. What’s it even mean, anyway?”

“Baby girl.”

She snorts and looks out the window again. “Yeah, I figured. I know your type, okay? I’m just telling you straight up, we’re having dinner, and I’m going home. That’s the end of it.”

“I appreciate you being up front about how you feel.”

She gives me a strange look but shakes her head and goes back to ignoring me.

The ice doesn’t thaw on the car ride over. She’s completely frozen, and it’s going to take a little time and a bit of finesse to warm her up.

Which I don’t mind. Some men are aggressive and short-sighted. All they think about is what they can have right now.

But I’ve been successfully running a criminal organization for a decade now. I took over when I was twenty-eight from my father, God rest his soul, and I’ve been growing and refining our operations ever since.

I learned the value of waiting a long time ago.

Anton drops us off at The Golden Palace, one of only two Russian restaurants in the city. We’re right on the edge of Rittenhouse Square, and more than a few passing men stare at Karine as she steps onto the sidewalk.

Jealousy flares, but I push it back. Can I blame them for looking at a beautiful woman?

Isn’t that the point of tonight as well?

To bring her out and be seen with her?

But still, the animal inside of me wants to make sure my claim is staked.

I take her arm and lead her into the restaurant. She gives me an annoyed look but says nothing as the hostess instantly takes us back to the best table in the house. We sit across from each other and we’re given water and wine. I thought about making this a traditional meal and showering her in quality vodka, but I can be a good American when I choose.

She looks around. The place is decorated in creams and golds like a tsarist palace. Even the chairs ooze wealth and power. An enormous chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the floor is covered in patterned red carpet. The waitress returns with fine caviar, which Karine doesn’t touch.

“Tell me about yourself,” I instruct her.

She swirls her wine. “There’s not much to say.”

“Try anyway. Where did you go to school? Where did you grow up? What was your family like when you were young?”

“Do you actually care?”

“Very much.”

Reluctantly, she talks about living in her current house her entire life. She went to local public school, got good grades, but never went to college. “That was for Luka, not for me,” she says, shrugging slightly, but she can’t quite mask the bitterness in her tone.

“Did you want to go to college?”

“I applied and got into Temple, actually.” She seems surprised and looks down at her glass. She laughs slightly. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

“What happened?”

“Money, mostly. There was no way my parents would’ve helped cover tuition. I got a decent scholarship, but it wasn’t nearly enough.”

“You could’ve taken out loans.”

She tilts her head side to side. “You’re right, but from my perspective, it wasn’t really an option. All my life I was told that my place was at home with my parents until I met a man and got married. College, work, living alone, that was never an option.”

“Your parents are traditional.”

“Yeah, I guess so, which is funny. They’re not actually from Armenia. Their parents were though, and I guess they still hang on to the old ways of thinking.”

“I understand that. My father was born in the Soviet Union, but he came here when he was a young man. He always instilled Russian ways of thinking and seeing the world in me, and even though I’m American—” I serve myself some caviar and raise it as though in a toast. “I can’t quite rid myself of the old habits.”

She looks like she wants to ask me something, but a man comes to the table and interrupts her. He’s Vladislav Bogdanov, owner of several tailoring shops out in the suburbs. Vladislav asks how I am, greets Karine, thanks me for my patronage, and walks away.

That opens the floodgates. Pavel Smirnov is next, followed by Oleg and Boris, and a dozen other old Russian men and women from the neighborhoods. I greet them one at a time and watch as Karine gets more and more astonished.

Eventually, the line fades, and the waitress returns to refill our wine.

“What was that?” Karine asks, looking curious now. “You’re pretty popular.”

“They’re my people. I help their businesses when I can.”

She taps a fingernail against her glass. “It’s true then, isn’t it?”

“What’s true?” I ask, enunciating carefully.

“The whole Pakhan thing. The Bratva thing.”

I nod slowly. “That’s right. Some of the people here call me Pakhan. Not all of them, though.”

“Really? How’s that work?”

“Some of them are a part of my organization. Some of them are simply Russians that I watch out for. Not everything is a business transaction, malishka.”

She snorts like she doesn’t believe it, and I don’t really blame her.

The first course arrives not long later. It’s a mixture of Russian and French dining, a wholly unique and very delicious experience. There’s a stroganoff and ratatouille hybrid dish that is exceptional, and I can tell she’s enjoying herself.

I ask more questions as we eat, carefully steering the conversation to her. I’m fascinated by her family dynamic. It seems that she loves her parents deeply, but also harbors a lot of anger over the way they treated her and her brother so differently. Her brother was doted on, given every opportunity, and sent off to become a doctor, while she was kept home to help care for her sick father. And even before that, there was never any talk of her getting a degree.

But mostly, she had a typical American upbringing. Baggy jeans and sneakers. Skateboards and friends in the park. I resist the urge to ask about boyfriends—that will only activate my jealousy again—and she doesn’t mention any. She was sheltered for the most part.

Dessert arrives. Napoleon cake with custard and honey. I don’t touch mine and prefer to watch her eat. Every bite she takes sends a jolt of pleasure into my guts—the way her lips open, the way her tongue briefly darts out. It’s so fucking sensual I can barely stand myself.

“Not hungry?” she asks, eyeing my piece.

I push it to her. “I’m not interested in sweets.”

“I bet I can guess what you are interested in,” she murmurs, taking a bite of mine, but her tone is very playful.

“What’s that?”

“You’re interested in getting what you want.” Her eyebrows raise in challenge. But still, it’s good-natured.

“Isn’t everyone?”

“To an extent, but you strike me as the kind of man that will do anything and go to any lengths. That’s not really normal, you know.”

“I’m far from normal. And you’re right. I do anything to get what I want. Which is why you’re here tonight. I very much want you.”

Her cheeks turn red. God, I love it when I make her blush. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than Karine’s pink cheeks.

Because I know what she’s thinking.

Right now, her memory is drifting back to the art studio.

Back to my hands on her body.

Taking her, controlling her, dominating her.

Making her come.

And I know she likes it, even if she’s resisting me.

“Can I admit something? And can you promise not to take it too far?”

“I make no promises.”

She snorts and drinks her wine. “This night wasn’t so bad.”

“I’m happy I exceeded your expectations.”

“It was strange,” she says, glancing around at the other diners. “But not bad.”

“High praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t read too into it. I still plan on ditching you the second you drop me off.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

She leans back, cradling her drink in one hand, her elbow in the other. It presses her breasts together slightly and my eyes are drawn to her lips and her chest.

I can’t help myself with her.

Normally, I have better control.

“Because my life is complicated enough already.”

“That’s not it. You know I can solve your problems if you let me.”

She licks her lips. Yes, she knows exactly what I can do for her. It’s something more, something she’s not saying.

“You treat me like I can be bought,” she says, speaking very slowly. The smile in her eyes fades. “My parents treated me like all I was good for was marriage. You look at me like that.”

I consider her words. They make a kind of twisted sense. From her perspective, I must seem like just another traditional, overbearing man ready to lock her in the kitchen and slap an apron over her head.

But she’s so wrong about that.

I don’t want a wife. I need a queen.

“When you’re my wife, you’ll be free,” I tell her simply.

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“There will be rules. There will be limits. But you will have even more autonomy than you do now. You won’t have to think about money. You won’t have to think about work.”

“But I’ll be yours,” she says flatly.

“Yes, you will be mine,” I agree.

She looks away toward the bar and doesn’t reply. The conversation fades and I don’t bring it back up again. She finishes her wine and we leave together. As we go, I put my hand on the small of her back, only inches above her firm ass. I notice men and women staring, and I want them to look, even if it drives me fucking crazy with possessive rage.

How dare they look at my queen?

But Karine doesn’t pull away, and I keep my hand on her until she reaches the car. Anton’s already waiting with the divider up and in place, as instructed.

I sit directly next to her on the bench seat in the back. She looks at me, our legs touching. I lay my hand on her thigh, and I’m not trying to be subtle about what I want.

“I had a nice night,” she says quietly. “But I think this night should end here. There have to be a dozen girls dying to marry you. I think I saw more than a few of them watching you in there.”

“I didn’t see a single one.”

“That can’t be true. The pretty blonde at the bar?”

I shake my head, staring into her dark eyes. “I didn’t know there was a blonde.”

“Come on. You’re a liar.”

“Did you notice me look away from you once? Do you think I can, with you in a dress like that?”

“You’re so full of shit.” She licks her lips, mouth parted slightly. “I don’t get it. You saw me naked already. We had sex. Why are you still doing this?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” I tell her, and it’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever allowed myself to be around a woman before. It also happens to be the truth: I’ve obsessed about her since that moment in the sitting room.

Every detail of our first meeting has played through my mind a dozen times.

The lean, gorgeous lines of her body. Her firm ass, her gorgeous thighs. The shock in her expression when she turned and saw me there. The way she tried to cover herself, but that somehow only made her look that much more incredible.

Then later, at Merrick’s. Taking her, making her suck my fingers, filling her to the brim.

The way she whimpered no.

I have plans for her. I can’t deny that. I want a wife because it helps me politically.

But I’d be lying if I pretended like those were my only reasons.

“I’m nobody,” she whispers as I touch her cheek and turn her face toward me. “I don’t want to be with you. Why not find someone who does?”

“Because she won’t be you.” I lean down and brush my lips across hers. She doesn’t pull away. “Because any other woman would be a pale imitation.”

“Valentin—”

“Go ahead. Tell me no again. You remember what that does to me.”

A whimper escapes her lips. “We can’t.”

“The dinner isn’t over yet. I’m not finished with you.”

“Valentin—”

I crush her mouth with mine and push her legs open. She gasps against my tongue as I kneel down on the floor in front of her, pulling her close. The heat of her body washes over me in waves and I’m drowning in her, drowning with how much I want this.

I shove her dress up roughly. I bite her lower lip and grab her hair, pulling as I wrench her legs open. She gasps in shock and moans when I pin her down against the seat with my hands and bury her pussy with my tongue.

“Oh, fuck,” she moans, back arching into me. “Shit, shit, shit, this shouldn’t be happening.”

I lap her up. I destroy her pussy with my tongue. “You messy fucking girl,” I scold as my fingers slide inside and fuck her in and out. “You pretend like you don’t want me, but what do I find? A wet pair of panties between your slick thighs.”

“You asshole,” she gasps when I lick her swollen nub and fuck her with my fingers. “God damn it, Valentin.”

“Go ahead, tell me to stop, you filthy fucking girl. Open your mouth and tell me no, and I’ll bury my fingers between your lips and suck your pussy until you scream and come.”

“Shit,” she says, head tilting back. One of her hands presses against the window. The other wraps into my hair and pulls. “You’re such a bastard.”

I take that as a compliment. I lick her and fuck her with my fingers until her body shivers and shakes, and she comes against my mouth, her eyes rolling back and her fingers digging into my scalp. She comes hard and fast, and I growl with delight as she finishes on my tongue, and I leave her in a messy puddle of her own bliss as I sit back on the seat beside her.

She sits there, mouth hanging open for a few seconds, before pulling her panties back up and dragging her dress back down. Her face is flushed and her hair’s slightly messy, and blood hammers through my veins as I watch her try to put herself back together.

I’ve never been surer of something in my life.

This woman is mine. Every inch of her body is mine. Every moment she breathes is mine. I will have her; I will possess her.

I will never stop so long as I’m breathing.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says, not looking at me. “God damn it, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t regret a thing.”

“Yeah, well, good for you.” She closes her eyes and blows out a breath. The car pulls up in front of Stove and Smoke and she looks at me. “Dinner wasn’t as bad as I thought, okay? It’s just, we can’t do this. I can’t do this. I know you only said you wouldn’t send me gifts anymore, but this is goodbye, okay? I’m sorry, Valentin, but thanks for everything.”

She pushes open the door and steps out into the night.

I watch her go, saying nothing. A smile passes over my face as I watch her hurry down the sidewalk in the direction of home. Anton will shadow her until she gets there, just to make sure she’s safe.

She thinks this is finished.

But I never said I’d stop watching and waiting.