Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance

I don’t hear from Valentin for a few days.

Even though a sick part of me wishes he’d call.

Or even maybe he would show up in my house in the middle of the night⁠—

But no, I shouldn’t fantasize about getting roughly taken in the dark by a man I’m trying very hard to hate.

Mom asks me about the electricity bill. I tell her that I had some really big tippers come through and I used the cash to make sure we’re covered. I’m pretty sure she thinks that’s bullshit, but she’s happy that our lights are staying on, and I think that’s good enough for her.

Merrick shows up when I’m working. He comes alone, orders his martini, and proceeds to sit around pouting and looking like a wounded baby deer.

“You can’t hate me forever, darling,” he says when I come give him a refill.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty good at holding grudges.”

“He bought two paintings for a few million each. All he said was he wanted to talk to you. Come on, what would you have done in my place?” His lips curl into a smile and he leans closer. “Valentin’s attractive. Don’t act like I wasn’t doing you a favor.”

I stoop forward. “I was naked, you fucking prick.”

His face falls. “You had a robe. I thought⁠—”

“I was naked, you asshole.”

“Oh. I see.” He clears his throat. “Listen, Karine, I’m sorry. I know that was lousy of me. I should have warned you at the very least, but he made it part of the deal that I said nothing.”

“You know, Merrick, you’re talented. I even like you most of the time. But you’re also a self-centered prick.”

“I simply will not disagree with that assessment, darling. Can we be friends again?”

“You just want to paint me some more.”

“I’d be honored, but no, I suspect that ship has sailed, as they say.”

“That ship crashed into an iceberg and sank.” I glare at him, but my face softens. “You really are a prick, but fine. I don’t hate you.”

“Fantastic.” He claps his hands together. A woman sitting to his left gives him an odd look but goes back to her phone. “Now, are you going to tell me what you and our dear friend Mr. Valentin spoke about while I was gone? And why you left in such a hurry?”

“Absolutely not. But you’re going to tell me everything you know about him after I pour some drinks. Got it?”

Merrick puts a hand over his heart. “I promise, my darling, every terrible rumor I’ve ever heard shall be yours.”

All night, he tells me stories about Valentin. Most of them are absurd and overblown, and I’m pretty sure he’s making up details just for dramatic effect.

But none of them are good.

What I learn is more or less what I already assumed.

Valentin is a bad man. He’s a very, very bad man with connections to some very dark underworld shit.

He might even be part of a Russian Bratva, but Merrick can neither confirm nor deny that.

“All I know for sure is his money is good.” Merrick is on his third drink and his cheeks are pink with it. “And he’s hot as sin. God, I’d gladly lounge around naked for him.”

“Merrick.”

“Right, yes, violations and boundaries and all that.” He sighs dramatically.

“What’s he do for a living? I mean, that you’re aware of?”

“Runs a company called Matrix International. I think they’re involved in sports gambling and crypto? You know, the trendy stuff.”

That explains why he has hackers on his payroll. “You don’t think that’s his real job?”

“It’s a job, at least. There’s a website and such. But, darling, I’d bet my ability to paint that Valentin is involved in a lot more than Bitcoin and parlays.”

Merrick makes it through a fourth martini before staggering home. I help close Stove and Smoke, and when I get home, I do some Googling.

Sure enough, there’s a website for Matrix International. It’s pretty generic, lots of information about vertical integrations and growing the boundaries of legal gambling and investing in emerging technologies and such, but what interests me most is the page that lists the leadership team.

There he is, right at the top. Valentin Zaitsev. Born in the United States to Russian immigrant parents. CEO of Matrix International.

Otherwise, there’s not much information on the guy, and further searching doesn’t yield much.

For a man involved in a high-risk industry with a public-facing profile, there’s shockingly little about him.

Almost like someone purposefully scrubbed the internet.

I wipe down the bar at Stove and Smoke. It’s a little past ten on a Tuesday and there’s not much of a crowd. Just a few regulars wiling away the evening, a young couple on a first date, and some business bros hammering shots at a booth. I’m mostly checked out, at least until ten men suddenly pile into the place and park themselves right at the bar.

From then on, I’m getting drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. The men are well behaved, but I sense there’s an edge to them. They talk quietly, but they give everyone around them hard looks, and I’m pretty sure I catch a few sentences of a foreign-sounding language.

Maybe even Russian.

But most suspicious of all, they tip well.

Really well. Like I’m getting a fifty-dollar bill each time I pour a new beer, which is absurd. It was pretty awesome at first—I make ten times my usual amount in the first half hour after they arrive—but soon it gets pretty damn suspicious.

Why would a bunch of Russian-looking guys in nondescript jeans and windbreakers have a polite but intense drinking session and tip the bartender an absolutely absurd amount of money?

“Another beer, please,” one of the men asks. He’s older, probably in his forties, with dark eyes and a bald head. He starts slipping me another fifty.

I push it away. “I don’t want Valentin’s money,” I tell him, taking a gamble.

The man grimaces, clears his throat, but quickly shakes his head. “I don’t know who you mean,” he says.

“Bullshit. What’s your name?”

“Ah, well, my name—” He sighs and leans forward on his elbows. “I’m Sergei.”

“All right, Sergei. You really don’t know Valentin? You just happened to show up here with your Russian buddies and start throwing money around?”

He looks nervous. Everyone is staring at us now. All the mean-looking Russian men suddenly seem chagrined and quiet. I glare at them, starting to get really pissed.

They’re not even good at this.

“Please, Miss Karine, we’re only following orders.”

“Oh, I fucking knew it!” I throw up my hands, pissed as hell. “Tell Valentin to leave me alone.”

His face goes panicked. “I cannot do that. I mean, you do not understand. We’re only here to give you money. Look—” He pulls out a stack of fifties from his jacket pocket.

There has to be a few thousand dollars there.

“Jesus fucking—” I back away, staring at the money. I can already see myself gleefully paying off bills, chiseling away at the mountain of debt, buying groceries. “Get that away from me.”

Sergei quickly shoves the money back in his pocket. “He means well. Valentin is a good man. You’ll see.”

I grab the tip money they’ve already given me and shove it back at him. “Take it.”

“Please, I can’t.” He looks pained and glances at the other men. They’re trying very hard to pretend like they’re not listening. “He’ll be angry.”

“Take the money, Sergei.”

“Burn it. Flush it. I don’t care. I just can’t go back with it.” He jumps off his stool like it’s on fire.

That’s when I realize he’s terrified.

This isn’t just some harmless prank to him. It’s not like a normal boss asking an employee to do a job.

Sergei looks like he’s genuinely afraid for his life right now.

As if failing this task will get him murdered.

What the fuck am I involved in right now?

“We’ll go, just please, keep the money. Valentin is a good man.” Sergei turns away and snaps at the other men in Russian. They stand and avoid my gaze as they file out of the bar.

What a fucking nightmare.

I grab my phone and snap off a quick text to Valentin’s number.

Karine: Don’t you ever send your goons to my place of business again, do you hear me? You could get me fired.

Valentin: I only wanted to help you. It seems as though my men failed.

I glance up at the door and think about the real fear in Sergei’s expression.

Karine: They didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I figured it out. If you punish them, I’ll be even more pissed.

Valentin: Don’t tell me how to run my business, malishka. I don’t tolerate failure.

Karine: I don’t tolerate assholes. Leave the guys alone.

Karine: And leave me alone too!

I delete the next text and toss my phone back down onto the bar, fighting back a wave of frustration.

He’s not going to let this go, and I don’t know how to make him stop.