Page 8 of Under Control

He gives me a long, hard look. It’s more curious than upset. Slowly, he gets to his feet, leaning his palms on the table. “If you reconsider, here is how to contact me.” He puts a business card on top of the stack of bills.

“Yeah, no thanks.” I walk to the door and open it. “It was great talking to you. Let’s never, ever do this again.”

He pauses as he moves past me. His body is so close to mine and a shiver runs down my spine despite myself. I smell grass and something deep and musky, his cologne or deodorant, or just the smell of his laundry soap. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

I’d wrap myself in wet sheets and breathe until I passed out if they smelled like him.

“I can make your problems go away,malishka.”

“I have a feeling that comes with more strings than I’d like. And stop calling me that. I don’t even know you.”

“I think you will know me soon.” He turns away, about to leave.

When my mother appears on the sidewalk.

She stops short, her dark eyebrows raised high. She’s wearing forest green walking pants and a navy-blue fleece. Her black hair is streaked with white and it’s pulled back into a loose ponytail. She looks from me to Valentin and back again.

“Mrs. Vardanyan,” Valentin says with a polite nod as he walks past her, hands shoved into his pocket.

“Uh, hello,” she says and watches him go with a puzzled frown. She turns to me. “Who was that?”

“Nobody, Momma. Come inside.”

“He looked like trouble.” She shakes her head as she comes up the stoop. “I think that man was trouble. Was he from the banks?”

“No banks, Mama. He was a friend of Merrick’s, that’s all.”

“The painter man from your job? I don’t like that, not one bit.”

“Mama-jan, please, it’s nothing, let it go.”

She grabs my arm once the door’s closed. The panic in her eyes makes me pause in surprise as her grip tightens. “Promise me you won’t get involved with a man like that, Karine-jan. I know men like him. We left Baltimore to get far away from them. Promise me.”

I’ve never heard her talk like this before. I knew she and Dad left Baltimore suddenly and always had regrets about it, but I never understood why. They didn’t like to talk about their past.

“All right, Mama, it’s fine. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. Don’t worry so much, okay? Now, I’m making some food if you’re hungry.”

She seems mollified by that, but I can tell it still worries her. I snatch up the business card he left—nothing more than his name, Valentin Zaitsev, and a single phone number—and hide it before she can say anything about it.

But her reaction keeps bugging me, almost as much that bizarre meeting.

Chapter 3

Valentin

Ipour another vodka and place it down on the table in front of Oleg Fedorov. He accepts the drink with a grunted thanks and throws it back with no preamble as I return to my place across from him. The lights in the formal dining room are too bright, but a man like Oleg enjoys a little bit of flash and show, and I thought he’d appreciate the expensive artwork and the vintage chandelier.

Sometimes, flexing a little muscle and showing a little power can go a long way with a certain kind of person.

“When I find her, I promise you,Pakhan, I am going to kill her.” Oleg’s hands tremble with anger. His ruddy face is lined and creased from years of hard work, and his balding head gleams. A little gray stubble lines the rim of his skull. He’s well dressed in an expensive suit, but I know Oleg Fedorov would rather be in combat fatigues with a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder.

He’s a fighter and an old one. But after his commando days, he came over to America and began working as a mercenary and hired muscle for the various Bratva families. A man like that doesn’t usually live very long, but Oleg has a talent formaking himself useful. He has two smart, hardworking sons, and his youngest daughter, Natalya, is allegedly a pretty girl. Over time, he slowly increased his family’s standing and prestige in Philadelphia, right up until I decided to make them into full associates of the Zaitsev Bratva.

My marriage to Natalya was meant to cement our relationship and start a new business arrangement moving forward.

“Nobody has to die, Oleg,” I tell him, trying to temper some of his rage. “Can you really blame the girl?”

“Yes,” he snarls. “Her father gave her an order. HerPakhanexpected her obedience. Instead, she runs off toFrance.” He spits the word like it’s a disease.

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