Page 27 of Under Control

“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 wholePakhanthing. The Bratva thing.”

I nod slowly. “That’s right. Some of the people here call mePakhan. 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 youareinterested 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.

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