Page 22 of Under Control

“Please, darling, youenjoyedthat.”

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’snotfunny.” 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 findinganyonewilling 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 thePakhan.”

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

“It’s what the Russians call a crime family, and thePakhanis 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. Thebossof 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 freakingPakhanor whatever he is, but the whole time I’m worried I’m one wrongstep 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 herI don’t knowbut 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. Tipshavebeen 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 somelamadjo, huh? Would you like that?”

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