Page 78 of Under Control

“You’re right. If I get to fuck you like that after, and if you keep bringing that sharp brain of yours, then you will be a very good asset.”

“That’s all you want me for? My assets?”

He laughs and pats my ass. “What can I say? They’re fantastic.”

I snort and kiss his chin. We’re silent for a little while, both of us lounging in a comfortable, post-sex quiet. But something from the meeting occurs to me.

“Oleg called me something earlier that I meant to ask you about.”

Valentin rumbles. “You noticed, huh?”

“He called me Tsarina.”

“It’s like calling you his queen. It was a very big compliment.”

“Really? That’s a Russian thing?”

“Absolutely. A man like Oleg is very traditional. He would not call you Tsarina if he didn’t mean it.” Valentin kisses me gently. “You’re winning them over, like I knew you would.”

A strange sense of pride fills me. Valentin thinks I did well, and his men are starting to respect me. I still have a long way to go before I’m a real part of this Bratva?—

But I realize for the first time that it’s something I want.

When I married Valentin, I never imagined I’d get lost in his world, but now here I am, worrying whether a bunch of vicious Russian killers and criminals respect me.

Tonight showed me there’s more to Valentin’s life than breaking bones and spilling blood. There’s planning, politics, and deep thought behind every decision he makes, and maybe I can help with that. I won’t be deep in the middle of it, but it doesn’t scare me, letting myself drift further and further into the darkness that is Valentin’s organization.

My mother left Baltimore to escape men like my husband.

And now I find myself yearning to be a part of their world.

It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. I should want to run away.

Instead, I want to get closer to him.

A part of me feels sick about that, like somehow I’m betraying Mama and Papa by falling for Valentin.

And a bigger part of me can’t help it—because I really am falling for him.

Chapter 28

Valentin

The van smells like fucking produce. Which makes sense, since only a day ago it was a legitimate produce delivery vehicle.

Now it’s a front.

“They’ll be fine,” Anton says from the front seat. He’s watching the back of Pomegranate House with a bored look on his face.

Four of his best, most trusted soldiers are taking care of this fake delivery. It took a few days to set it up, but I dumped all my resources into pulling this off. We managed to track down the company that takes care of the Pomegranate House’s vegetable deliveries, and since they come every single day with fresh food, it wasn’t hard to intercept their normal van and swap it with our own.

The Armenians that work here didn’t even notice the change, and why would they? We’re just a different crew than usual, that’s all.

“I should be in there,” I say, grinding my jaw. I hate sitting in the back, doing fucking nothing.

“You should be happy I let you come along at all.”

“I’m yourPakhan. Sometimes I think you forget that.”

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