Page 2 of Under His Control

He’s whispered about in break rooms and VIP lounges alike—part myth, part warning.

Security says he never raises his voice. Dealers swear he can tell if you’re skimming chips by the way you breathe. And every so often, a guest who thought the rules didn’t apply to them is quietly escorted out… and somehow never comes back.

The Bratva uses his hotel for meetings. No one’s sure how deep that connection runs. People call him powerful; others say dangerous. Me? I think both are true.

We’ve barely exchanged more than formal pleasantries, and only in group settings.

Not because I’m scared of him?—

Okay.

Maybe because I’m scared of him.

And because men like Anatoly aren’t just bosses. They’re storms. You don’t get close unless you’re ready for lightning.

Still… there’s a part of me—a small, insubordinate part—that wants to figure him out. He’s a puzzle no one solves. I haven’t dared to try.

Not yet.

We’re almost to roulette when a floor supervisor taps his radio twice—our quiet code for “guest is hot.” I slide in.

“Ma’am,” Mr. Wheel-Is-Rigged insists, red-faced, “I’m not saying you’re cheating. I’m saying the house is cheating.”

I paste on my best soothing smile, the one that can de-escalate a bar fight or a toddler. “I hear you. Let me pull the spin recording and we’ll review it together. If the ball is telepathic, I’ll write it up for HR.”

He gives a laugh he doesn’t want to give. Good enough. I flag the supervisor, promise a follow-up, and step away.

The side corridor that parallels the tables is lined with mirrored panels; I catch myself in one and pause for half a second.

Dark brown hair—sleek ponytail, bangs that soften what stress tries to sharpen. Brown eyes that go warm for guests and razor for problems.

Black blouse, fitted; pencil skirt hugging hips like it was born there; nude heels that lengthen my legs and announce my presence in precise clicks.

My badge says Assistant Manager.

My posture says Try me.

Movement interrupts the reflection.

Not a face.

A disturbance.

Black suit shoulder. A watch cuts light. The floor tightens.

Anatoly Ovechkin doesn’t enter a room; he sets its temperature.

Tall, broad, precise. A suit that fits like a command.

No tie. Top button open. Control, not casual.

Dark-blond hair pushed back, not careful.

A proud mouth with hard lines.

Eyes—pale, cold, taking inventory.

Conversations stop.