Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
Under Control: Chapter 15

I’m aware that I’m a mess.

I mean, I’m pretty sure anyone that breaks their husband’s nose, and still has sex with him while it’s actively bleeding all over the place, must be pretty screwed up.

And yet I kind of don’t care.

Because it’s beyond the best sex of my life.

The way he wants me to fight him while also making sure I have some of the most soul-crushing orgasms of my existence is deeply satisfying on a primal level.

It’s a kink I didn’t know I had hidden away in me.

But apparently, I have a dark streak.

Which is worrying. I think about that a lot on the way over to Mama’s house. Anton’s driving and there are another two cars each filled with soldiers escorting us. Valentin’s sitting beside me, looking dour. He’s got a black eye and his nose is still crooked from where he tried to reset it himself and did a shitty job.

I think about who I come from. About the revelations around my mother’s brother. And about how I apparently like to fight, to be degraded, to be fucked and dominated and controlled. And now, apparently, to be bled on.

“You have one hour,” Valentin says as we approach the front door. “No more and no less.”

“I might need more time. This isn’t exactly an easy conversation I’m about to have.”

He holds up a hand. “One hour. If you’re not out, I’ll come in to get you.”

“Can you just be reasonable for once, please?”

“This is not a debate.” The car stops at the curb and he leans across me, pushing open the door. “Clock starts now.”

I’m tempted to break his nose a second time, but I suspect that won’t go as well.

Instead, I unclick my belt and refuse to look at him as I hurry up the stoop and into my house.

No, my old house. I have to remind myself that I don’t live here anymore.

“Mama?” I call out. The living room was cleaned and put back together. It’s missing a few things—some of the art that was destroyed, small decorative statues that couldn’t be repaired—but looks more or less the same.

I notice that the TV is new, and I’m not sure how she could’ve afforded that.

“I’m back here.” Her voice comes from the kitchen. I replace her at the stove making khashlama, a traditional Armenian stew, usually prepared on special occasions. Papa cooked it for birthdays and holidays, but now that Papa’s gone and Luka’s not home, the preparation has apparently fallen to Mama.

“It looks good in here,” I say, honestly surprised. It’d been a total wreck the last time I saw it only a few days earlier.

“I’ve been busy.” She’s in an apron over jeans and a sweater. Her hair’s down, like usual, and I don’t notice anything off about her. I linger for a moment, feeling uncomfortable, but she turns and smiles. “I’m glad you’re back, Karine-jan.”

She wraps me in a big hug and I squeeze her back, thinking about the last time I saw her, collapsed beside the bathroom tub and racked with fear and guilt.

I sit at the table and she busies herself bringing over food and drink, chattering about the changes she had to make to the house and how Valentin has been very generous with buying her whatever she needs. Which explains the new TV and the dishes in the cabinets.

“You know already, don’t you?”

She wipes her hands together and tries to smile, but it’s strained. “I should be congratulating you.”

“Mama—”

“It’s okay, little one. It’s completely okay. I understand.”

Those words trigger me. I lean forward, tears boiling into my eyes and I fight not to start sobbing. I expected her to fight and rage, to beg me to leave Valentin, but instead she seems worn down and broken. This isn’t the Mama I grew up with, not even when Papa was at his worst, not even in those dark days after he passed. She might’ve pulled into her grief, but she was still strong. She was still the head of the house.

Now it feels like she’s all skin and bones and not much else.

Mama sits at the table with me. She takes my hands and waits patiently until I get myself together.

“At least tell me he’s treating you well,” she says earnestly.

I almost laugh. How am I supposed to respond to that? I broke his nose during a game of weird, brutal sex last night, while his Bratva generals were sitting downstairs drinking his vodka.

“He’s treating me well,” I say and almost mean it.

“Good.” She pats my hand. “That’s good.” But she doesn’t look like she believes me. She gets up and returns to the stove, busying herself, mostly so she doesn’t get emotional. She’d rather avoid having the hard conversations where possible, but unfortunately, for once she’s going to have to face this head-on.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I ask her, and when she doesn’t respond, I push. “Why didn’t you tell me about Uncle Aram?”

“Don’t call him uncle,” she says, pausing with her spoon in the pot. Her shoulders tense. “He’s not a part of our lives. Not like that.”

“But you still should have warned me.”

“I wanted to shield you from them.” She shakes her head and begins stirring again. “Your papa and I left Baltimore to get away from that part of our lives. I never planned on contacting them ever again, but you remember the way things were.”

The desperate fight to save Papa’s life. Pouring all our money into one false hope after another. The devastating failure at the end.

“But now they’re back,” I tell her.

“Your husband will handle them, won’t he?” She sounds too hopeful as she looks back at me. “That’s why you married him, isn’t it?”

“That’s one reason,” I admit. “But maybe if I had known, we could’ve done something. We could’ve⁠—”

“Done what?” she asks, her tone sharp. “We could’ve done what, Karine-jan? You were already working to make as much money as you could. Should I have sold my blood as well? It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“That’s not fair. They’re dangerous.”

“Yes, they’re dangerous,” she agrees and comes back to the table. For the first time since coming inside, Mama seems alive. “You have to remember that, okay? My brother is not a well man. He’s not sane, Karine. I don’t know what will happen from here, but no matter what, you can’t trust him, and you can’t get anywhere near him. Do you hear me?”

The fear in her voice is deeply unsettling.

“He’s really that bad?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding slowly. “He’s really that bad. I remember those early days before Papa and I ran away. Aram took control of the Brotherhood by killing a series of generals, one after the other, each more vicious and brutal than the next. The whole city lived in terror of him. People were dying all over. We ran because we were convinced we would be next, and if we weren’t, I couldn’t live with the thought of being a part of that monster’s family any longer. Some things happened… he pushed me into a bad situation, despite your father… Well, I don’t like thinking about it anymore. It was terrible, Karine, and I hate myself for bringing it back into our lives. I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry you had to resort to marrying Valentin. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

I sit with her in silence for a little while. She slumps and looks defeated as the stew simmers on the stovetop. I remember smelling khashlama as a little girl and feeling so excited for dinner, but now there’s nothing. No joy at the memory, no anticipation of a good meal.

Just a cold bleak acceptance that my life will never be the same, and might never have been what I thought it was.