Page 90 of Under Control

“I’m going to meet with your uncle tomorrow morning,” he says very quietly. “The plans are in motion. We’ll work this out.”

“Don’t give up too much for me.”

He sighs and kisses me very softly. “You don’t understand yet, do you? Nothing else matters to me but you.”

Chapter 33

Valentin

The sun rises over a boring Starbucks in a little nondescript town right off I-95, a straight shot south toward Baltimore from Philly.

The parking lot is filled with black SUVs: Bentleys, BMWs, Rolls-Royce. I doubt this many high-end cars ever parked in this place in its existence. I’m sure this much power has never descended on this little Starbucks and its quiet little employees living their normal fucking lives.

But if my last meeting with Aram repeats itself, I suspect I’m going to create a lasting memory for them. Assuming any of them survive.

“Let me surround the place,” Anton says, squinting at the front door. It looks quiet, all things considered. I spot Aram’s soldiers loitering nearby drinking coffees and staring in our direction.

“You know the agreement. Aram and I only.”

“It’s suicide. You walk in there, you’ll never walk out.”

“Then you cut Arsen’s head off and make sure you send it express delivery to his fucking father. Aram’s not stupid.”

Anton didn’t look convinced, but we’d already had this discussion. I push open the door and step out into the brisk morning air, aware that all eyes are locked on me at this moment.

I stride across the parking lot and into the cafe.

The smell of brewing espresso and the hiss of the machines distracts me. There’s a small line of tired-looking normal people waiting for their orders. A man in a suit’s sitting in the corner typing on a laptop.

And sitting among them is a monster.

Aram stands when I approach. He chose a table at the far side of the building and he’s sitting with his back to a wall.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he says.

He doesn’t offer to shake, and I don’t either.

“We have some things to discuss.”

I stare at the older man, taking his measure. He looks back, holding my gaze, and doesn’t flinch. I can admit a grudging respect for him, even if he represents everything I hate in this world. The old guard, a spiteful, selfish bastard, with a small mind and a pathetic crew.

“If you want to get something to drink, go ahead.” He gestures toward the baristas.

I ignore him and take my seat. He smiles like he won some kind of victory and lowers himself down with a grunt before spreading his hands.

“Why did you do it?” I ask him very softly.

His eyebrows raise. “Because it was a good move. My sister’s always been a nuisance.”

“Not Miriam.” I lean closer. “You know what I’m talking about.”

A sly smile comes across his face. “Ah, yes, I was wondering when we’d get to that.”

My father. He was a cold and distant bastard. I must’ve inherited that trait from him. But where my father enjoyed violence, I wield it like a tool. If it gets the job done, I don’t mind it.

But my old man reveled in blood and obedience.

We weren’t close, but he taught me everything I know and helped mold me into the man I am today.

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