Page 19 of Arranged Control

At least until the videocall. The night in her apartment.

The stupid shit I said to push her away.

“Who do you think is stupid enough to kill one of ours?” I ask, changing the subject because I genuinely don’t know how to explain myself.

Finn seems to accept the sudden shift. “Been thinking about that myself. Could be the Polish? They’ve been getting stronger and don’t like our alliance with the Marinos and the Whelans. Could be one of the smaller Bratvas from further up north muscling in. There are half a dozen little Italian families and syndicates all over New York. Could be any of them.”

“You put out feelers?”

“Got guys searching, but nothing so far. Everyone’s denying they had anything to do with it.”

“Maybe Fergus really did get himself killed all on his own.” But the thought doesn’t sit right. His throat was cut expertly. If Fergus got into some stupid brawl, there would’ve been bruising, broken bones, some sign of a struggle.

His corpse was clean. Except for the big red gash in his neck.

“Maybe,” Finn agrees. “I don’t know who’s stupid enough to move on us right now.”

“Keep looking. Whoever it is, I want them found and punished. We need to send a message before we look weak.”

“I’m on it.” I hear Finn move something on the other end of the line. “You want to meet me at Baby Brigid’s? Heading over there in a few.”

“I’ve got an errand to run, but maybe after.”

“See you then.”

He hangs up as I pull into the parking lot outside Alina’s fancy tower. It’s one of those brand-new places with gleaming silver exteriors and lots of shiny windows overlooking the water. Each apartment must cost a couple million at least, and based on what I saw of her place that first night, I’m guessing she’s got one of the more luxurious units. Multiple levels, hardwood floors, gourmet kitchen, gorgeous views, the works.

All paid for by her father. No doubt in my mind.

She’s got that cute little boutique, but that’s not paying her multi-million mortgage.

Alina’s not the kind of girl I ever pictured for myself. My type’s always been different, tough street chicks that don’t take shit but melt the second you get them under the sheets. Nothing better than breaking some mouthy girl over my knee.

That’s not my future wife. She’s tough in her own way, that’s for sure. But she’s not about to curse me out or get a chest tattoo. No, Alina’s too prim and clean for that. The perfect little Bratva princess.

Not my fucking type at all.

But my type doesn’t matter anymore.

I get her doorman to buzz her place. She reluctantly lets me come up. I ride the familiar elevator, thinking about that night we had together. About the way she looked at me as I got her off. Her legs wrapped around my hips. Her filthy little mouth begging for more.

Pretty. But god, so far from my type.

“What are you doing here?” She stands in her doorway with her arms crossed. She’s wearing designer sweats, the sort of stuff rich people put on to pretend like they’re not loaded.

Her body language screamsfuck off, asshole.

“Wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Really? Why?”

“Figured we’d want to discuss it since we’ll both be there.”

“Really? Huh, didn’t know you actually cared.”

“I’m full of surprises.” I try not to smile, but I can’t help myself. This girl pisses me off so much. “You going to leave me in the hall?”

Reluctantly, she leads me into the kitchen. “Let’s make this fast. I have a call with a new designer I might carry in my store.”