Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
Under Control: Chapter 25

I feel heavy and sluggish, and that’s the only damn reason I let Anton drive.

“You should still be in the hospital,” he complains as the car rolls through Baltimore’s Federal Hill neighborhood. It’s right on the inner harbor and a bustling series of skyscrapers, hotels, bars, and high-end restaurants.

“I spent a night there, and that was enough.” I resist the urge to scratch at the burn on my arm. It’s still healing and it drives me fucking crazy. “At least Karine’s still there watching over her mother and not running off after me again.”

“I’m shocked you let that happen.”

“I didn’t want to argue with her, not when her mother’s house was burning to the ground.” I lean my head back against the seat. “In retrospect, I should’ve done more to protect her from that mess.”

Anton says nothing as he guides the car down an alley. There’s enough space to park at the very end, and he kills the engine. Night floods in around us with only lights from the tall buildings filtering down and lighting the puddle-drenched old stone street.

I climb out and he follows. The sound of laughter and loud talking echoes out from a nearby door. It’s closed now, but I can feel the pounding pulse of a club beat in the ground.

Even though this is one of the best spots in the whole city, Baltimore is still an old town and filled with back alleys, blind turns, and dangerous little corners.

Just like this one.

We lean up against the hood of the car. I check my gun’s magazine, mostly just to give myself something to do. Anton scrolls on his phone, ignoring me as he checks his messages and fires off a few texts.

“You’re sure this is the place?” he asks after a while. I can tell he’s impatient.

“Our contacts with the McNally family say he comes here almost every night and leaves out the back way.” I check the time and gaze over at the door. “It won’t be long.”

Every part of me aches. My skull, my chest, even my arms feel like I tried to lift a thousand-pound boulder over my head. It’s the smoke inhalation, and the doctor said I was lucky that I got out of that fire without too much damage, but that I’d be feeling the effects for a while.

And it was worth it.

The look on Karine’s face when she found out that her mother was going to wake up soon was worth all the pain and the risk.

Because I’m the reason that her mother nearly died, and I would do anything to take that pain away from her.

Now though, I’m driven by revenge, not only for my wife’s mother, but also for poor dead Alexei and the honor of my Bratva.

Aram is under the mistaken belief that he got away with murdering my father.

He thinks I’ll let him roll over me and push my people around.

But it’s time I make him understand that I am not the kind of man he can easily fuck with.

An hour passes. I wait patiently. Anton paces and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he doesn’t have the fire inside of him like I do.

Nothing else matters but hurting the Brotherhood.

When it starts to feel like the McNallys fed me bad info, the door suddenly cracks open. Light spills out followed by the steady, deep pulse of a dance beat. “Come here, what are you acting all shy for?” A man’s voice, low and rumbling. He’s slurring and sounds drunk. “There you go, baby.” He staggers into view, dragging a woman with him.

I don’t know the girl. She’s attractive in a boring way. But the man, I recognize him.

“That’s right, baby, I don’t feel like waiting.” He pins the girl up against the wall and starts mauling her breasts with both hands. She yelps and gives him the most absurdly fake moan I’ve ever heard.

I swear, she rolls her eyes as he starts to dry hump her leg.

“Hello, Edgar.” I walk over to the happy couple and the girl’s eyes go wide as I step into the thin strip of street light that makes it down this dark alley.

“Fuck off,” Edgar mutters, burying his face in the girl’s fake tits.

“Hey, asshole,” she hisses at him, trying to shove him away. “Are you an idiot? This guy looks serious.”

“Edgar,” I say and grab him by the hair. “You should listen to your date.”

“What the⁠—”

Edgar tries to twist around, but I yank him back hard. He screams in sudden pain, and I kick him hard in the knee, snapping it sideways. He cries out, gasping as the agony hits him, and he drops down to the wet pavement in a heap and clutches at his mangled joint.

The girl’s eyes are wide with terror.

“Go,” I tell her.

She turns and runs for it.

“You motherfucker,” Edgar growls. He reaches for something in his waistband, and I kick him easily in the ribs before kneeling down on his chest. He struggles, but I overpower him, and pull the gun out before he has a chance to draw it himself.

“Pathetic,” I say, tossing the weapon aside. “Fucking pathetic.”

“You’re Valentin Zaitsev,” Edgar says, his throat rasping. He’s in his late forties, portly, with dark hair and a black beard. He’s wearing a piece of shit black suit and white fucking sneakers like he’s a teenager going to prom. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk.” I punch him once in the mouth, just because I feel like it, and stand back up. He moans and rolls onto his hands and knees, blood dripping onto the pavement. “You know Aram Sarkissian.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Edgar snarls.

I kick him hard in the rib again. He sprawls onto his back, gasping for breath.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I walk around his prone body. He squeezes his eyes shut and spits blood to the side, narrowly missing my shoes. I kick him again for that. “I know who you are. You think I haven’t been studying your piece of shit Brotherhood for years now?”

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

“You already said my name.” I draw a military-style knife from a sheath at my hip and kneel down on Edgar’s right wrist. He tries to curl his hand into a fist, but I pry his pointer finger loose and hold it steady. “Who is responsible for the fire at Miriam Sarkissian’s house?”

“Aram’s sister? The traitor fucking bitch? I don’t⁠—”

I slice off the finger. It’s a clean cut, lucky him. Blood spouts out as I grab his chin and force his mouth open.

“Tell me or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

“I don’t—I don’t⁠—”

I jam the severed finger into his mouth. He tries to fight it off, but Anton kicks him until his jaw finally relaxes, and he gags once he tastes his own blood dripping down his throat. I force him to chew once, twice, before stepping back.

He gags and spits the finger out then vomits on the pavement.

“Next one, I’ll make you swallow. Tell me who did it.”

“Please,” he says, coughing and spitting. “Please, I don’t know.”

I grab his wrist. He screams and fights, but I don’t even bother giving him another chance. I cut off his middle finger and grab him by the hair.

“You have eight more fingers, and I have all night,” I say to him calmly. “Tell me who.”

“It was Arsen,” he gasps, squealing when I drag the finger’s bloody end down his cheek like swiping him with a marker. “Aram’s oldest son, it was fucking Arsen.”

I glance up at Anton. He only shrugs like that’s entirely plausible. From what I know, Aram’s two sons, Arsen and Tigran, are both very much involved with the Brotherhood, and are typically used as enforcers.

It wouldn’t shock me if Miriam’s own nephew is the one that nearly killed her.

“Where can I replace him?” I press.

“He manages a restaurant,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “It’s called the Pomegranate House. He’s got an office in the back.”

“How often is he there?”

“I don’t know! Most nights. Please, I don’t know anything else.”

“Edgar,” I say, patting his cheek. “You’ve been very useful. I understand why Aram made you one of his trusted men.”

“You’re not going to win,” he says, thinking this is over. “The Brotherhood is stronger than you realize.”

“Maybe,” I say and jab the edge of my knife against his throat. “But you’re not.”

I saw his neck open. It’s ugly and grisly, and he bleeds like a fucking pig, but once he’s dead, I feel a little bit better.

Anton’s leaning against the wall, looking at his nails. “Hell of a mess,” he says.

“Get the plastic. We have to wrap him up.”

His eyebrows raise. “Oh, now you need my help?”

“Don’t be a prick. Someone might show up.”

“I told you this was a bad place to interrogate someone.”

“Are you going to fucking help?” I open the trunk and grab the long sheets of heavy gauge plastic.

Anton and I roll dead fucking Edgar and dump his corpse back into the car. We’ll drive him somewhere safe and make sure he disappears.

It’ll put Aram on edge, but he won’t know what I got out of his lieutenant before it’s too late.