Arranged Control

Chapter 1

Alina

I’m not normally a spontaneous nudity kind of girl.

I like my nudity to be meticulously planned, scheduled, and practiced in the mirror for at least a few hours ahead of time.

But things have been strange with my boyfriend, Alexander. I haven’t heard from him in a few days, which is unusual. It’s making me nervous because our romantic life hasn’t exactly been the most vigorous and spicy lately.

I’d say we’ve been about as hot as a frozen potato.

Which is why, when I get a FaceTime call from him late one Saturday night after getting at least a dozen calls and texts completely ignored, I decide to do something out of character.

Because I want this to work. I’ve never been with anyone else before Alex, and he’s always so sweet.

At least when he’s around. We met a year ago when he came into my thrift boutique looking for a new pair of jeans.

He didn’t buy anything, but he was so handsome and charming that he left with my phone number instead.

We don’t have a traditional relationship, which is fine by me. I pay for dinners, movies, that sort of stuff, and he makes it up to me by cleaning my apartment and cooking for me at home (when he’s around).

Would it be nice if he got a job? Sure, yes, absolutely. He could probably play fewer video games and go on more interviews. But it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, I can’t have a traditional relationship right now because I can’t have a relationship at all.

My family would kill me.

Or actually, they’d kill him, and I mean that very literally.

Maybe that’s why I’m willing to step outside of my comfort zone for a guy I’m dimly aware is not really worth my time or effort. It’s the threat of mortal danger—and the fact that he’s pretty much my only option at the moment.

It isn’t easy being the baby daughter of a criminal.

“Okay, Alina, you can do this.” I strip off my clothes and look at myself in the mirror.

On the short side, thick blonde hair, a face that’s usually described as “cute but not sexy,” and a trim body that I keep obsessively fit.

I basically don’t love any of what I’m seeing, but I made up my mind, and if I inherited anything from my psychopath of a father, it’s a stubbornness streak ten miles wide.

I spend ten minutes in the bathroom fixing myself up, put on my favorite pearl necklace, slip into some black panties, leave my tits very much out, and position myself on the bed.

“You better fucking like this, you worthless prick,” I mutter to myself.

Nervous energy flutters through my chest as I check myself in the camera.

The lighting is soft and decent, and my boobs look okay at this angle.

I push them together and try pouting, but that only makes me look weird and porny while I’m going for…

classy and hot? I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing.

All I want is for Alex to come back.

I’m hoping this does the trick.

I pull up his missed FaceTime call. My thumb hovers over the missed call. I chew my lip, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t just do this the normal way and skip the pearls and tits, but this is what men like, right?

I have pretty much zero experience to go on.

“Screw it.” I tap the screen and it starts ringing.

I’m treated to the image of my own face and tits, my pink nipples slightly hard because it’s cold in my apartment and I’m nervous.

It keeps ringing, and it looks like Alex is going to bail on me again.

We’re going to play phone tag, and next time, I won’t have the guts to do anything like this.

I’m about to end the call when it suddenly chimes and connects.

At first, the screen’s dark. I can’t make anything out.

I try my best sultry smile and refuse to look at my face in the corner for fear of dying of embarrassment.

“Hey, Alex,” I say, batting my eyelids a little bit.

I’m laying it on a little thick. It’s honestly demeaning and pathetic, but I’ve come this far. “You there?”

The screen resolves. I make out the back seat of a car. I can see lights through the back window, and I’m pretty sure they’re moving.

The man staring at me isn’t my boyfriend.

Panic hits me. I can’t move. Did I dial the wrong number?

But no, this is absolutely Alex’s phone.

I’m completely positive. But that’s not Alex staring at me right now with a dark and burning hunger, almost like he’s not surprised that a topless girl just appeared on his phone. Like that happens all the time.

The man is handsome. Devilishly handsome.

Light blue eyes, bordering on gray, with a slightly scrubby beard, graying at the edges.

Older than Alex and much better looking.

He’s dressed in a sharp black suit with the top button of his dress shirt left open to show off a tanned and muscular chest. Tattoos are visible up to his neck.

His hair’s cut short and shoved back, thick and slightly wavy.

And my god. The way he’s looking at me. His wolfish eyes burning with a passion I never once saw from Alex. I can tell he’s looking at my tits and I feel my cheeks beginning to burn. Embarrassment fights off the panic, and I finally force myself to grab a pillow and use it to cover my naked chest.

“Who the hell are you?!” I finally manage to sputter.

The man’s smirk is toe-curling. It’s filled with pure confidence and a promise for more. Except I don’t even know what he’s offering. Nothing good, I’m sure of that.

“I guess you’re looking for Alex,” he says casually. He’s got a very good voice. It’s deep and low, rumbling down into the soles of my feet. “He’s not here anymore.”

Fear hits me then. I’ve known men like this all my life. Violent, dangerous men, predators who stay hidden behind good looks, expensive clothes, and confident smirks. Only brutality is one wrong move away. Playing games with men like him feels like tap dancing on the edge of a cliff.

“Who are you?” I repeat, eyes narrowed. “And what the hell did you do with Alexander?”

His smirk gets bigger. “I like that. What about you move that pillow and we’ll keep talking?”

“How about you tell me what I want to know right now and you don’t get murdered? Do you have any idea who you’re playing with?”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are, Alina Morozov.”

My lips go numb. I stare at him, dumbfounded. He knows exactly who I am, but he doesn’t look worried at all. Most men in his position would be way too terrified to mess with the baby daughter of the most powerful Russian Pakhan in all of New York City.

But this guy? It’s like he doesn’t even care.

It sets off all my alarms.

“Last warning before I hang up and hunt you down.” I’m bluffing now.

There’s no way in hell I’d ever get my family involved in my relationship.

They’re aware of it, but they pretend like they’re not.

That’s how it works. So long as I’m being discreet, I’m allowed to have a little indiscretion.

But if it ever becomes a problem? Then I’m in trouble.

“Don’t worry, love. That won’t be necessary. Your boyfriend is alive, although I can’t really describe him as well at the moment.”

My jaw tenses. I really, really wish I had a shirt on. “What did you do to him?”

“We had a conversation. I explained to him that he is no longer in a relationship with you and that he’s going to leave the city for good before the sun rises tomorrow morning. He was very understanding.”

Anger slams into me. Another gift from my family. My short fuse burns twice as hot. “You had no right. I don’t even know who you are, you bastard. Where’s Alex? I want to talk to him.”

“Alex isn’t available. And I doubt he’d want to talk much, given the state of his jaw.”

I could scream. Worry and rage mix and create a combustible emotional state. I’m not sure if I’m going to start crying or try to murder this guy. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Seamus Whelan, and we’re getting married in a couple weeks. It’s good to meet you.”

I don’t know what to say. I stare at the handsome stranger and try to make sense of this. The Whelans are a strong Irish crime syndicate, and I know my father’s been working closely with them lately—but what the hell is this about getting married? Nobody said a word about that to me.

This isn’t how these things are done.

My cheeks burn bright pink. I’m mortified, confused, afraid, and angry.

None of this makes any sense. I’m worried about Alex.

He doesn’t do well with pain. What if this Seamus guy actually killed him?

What if the beating went too far and Alex is lying in a ditch somewhere?

It’s not like I can trust the word of this monster.

“You’re probably in shock,” Seamus says before I can answer. “Imagine how I feel. I call my future wife to say hello for the first time, and there she is, beautiful breasts and a string of lovely pearls on display for me. I’ll admit, an unconventional first impression, but a very, very good one.”

“You’re lying,” I whisper, practically forcing the words out like vomit.

His eyebrows raise. “About finding you attractive? Not in the slightest.”

“No, about the marriage. You’re lying. My father would never—”

“But he did.” Seamus’s tone hardens. His lips still smile, but his eyes burn with a bright, serious intensity. “It’s not my fault nobody told you. Here I was doing you a favor—”

“You think nearly killing my boyfriend is a favor?! What kind of crazy person are you?”

“You’d be thanking me if you knew where he’s been the last three days.”

That gets me. My jaw shuts with a click.

My fingers tighten on the pillow. Where has Alex been?

And what’s he been doing? This isn’t the first time he disappeared, but usually he has some kind of excuse.

Visiting family out of state, taking a temporary construction job for some side cash, meeting potential clients for a web development business he started (and abandoned).

He’d answer texts at least, if they were usually short and to the point.

This time, it was nothing. No excuse, no contact. Just silence.

“If you really hurt him, you’re going to regret it.” I cover my discomfort and confusion with aggression. Another trick I learned from my lovely family. Don’t know what else to do? Go straight to violence. Pain is the universal language.

“Oh, come on, Alina. You seriously liked that guy? Are you really pretending like he was more than just a fun distraction?”

“You don’t know me. And you’re never going to.”

“Ah, now, you’re wrong about that. We’re going to get very, very acquainted. I’d say we already have.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was worried about this marriage, but after the show you put on for me—”

I hang up on him.

Seething with rage, I throw my phone across the room. It slams against the wall and hits the floor with a clatter. I scream and throw the pillow after it.

I feel so stupid. What a mortifying, pathetic thing to do. I put myself out there, took a risk on some stupid asshole guy, and this happens. The absolute worst-case scenario.

But what makes it all so twisted is I don’t even know if Seamus was lying.

Because it could be true. I know my father’s been getting close with the Whelans lately, and I’m fully aware of how families like ours cement their relationships.

That’s been an option since the day I was born.

Dad never let me forget it.

My duty to the family is more important than anything else.

He gave me whatever I wanted: money, a top-notch education, business loans to start my boutique, my own apartment, designer dresses, everything.

With the tacit agreement that, one day, I’d pay him back. Either financially or in other ways.

“You bastard,” I say, fighting tears, but I can’t hold them back. My shoulders shake as I cry. “You asshole. You piece of shit.”

He should’ve told me.

That’s the least he could’ve done.

Except I can’t even be surprised. I’ve always been an afterthought. The little bratva baby, the princess, the pretty pawn.

Never a person, always a prize.

After a couple of minutes, I calm myself down and get dressed. I opt for baggy sweats and a big hoodie before I grab the keys to my BMW and storm out of my high-end apartment building.

I don’t care if it’s nine at night—my father is going to explain what the hell is going on.

And he’s going to do it straight to my face.

Whether he likes it or not.