Page 61 of Under His Control

“Not here,” I whisper urgently. “Not now.”

He turns toward me, slow and lethal. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to ignore me, if he’s too far gone into that cold, ruthless place I’ve only glimpsed.

But then, his pulse kicks once under my fingers, and he exhales, slow and controlled.

He nods.

Anatoly lets me tug him half a step back, just enough to keep us in the shadows, while Ivan and his men blend into the casino crowd. We watch as Ivan reaches into his jacket pocket and flicks something small and red into one of the trash cans near the front doors before exiting the casino.

Anatoly mutters a curse in Russian under his breath. “Move.”

We cross the lobby fast. Anatoly reaches the trash can and plunges his hand in without hesitation, fishing out the discarded item.

He holds it up and my stomach drops.

Sure enough, it’s aHospitiumexecutive keycard.

Anatoly turns it over in his hand, jaw flexing like he’s holding back the urge to snap it in half—or snapsomeonein half.

Anatoly slides the card into his pocket. “Someone upstairs gave it to him and entrusted him with it.”

He gives me a sidelong look, dark flames in his eyes.

“We’re going to find out who,” he promises, his voice low and deadly. “And when we do…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

I already know.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re back in Anatoly’s office.

He’s pacing, one hand in his pocket.

“Let’s go through the list of executive card holders again. Me, Damas, Mrs. Belova, Charles, head of security…”

“Any contractors who might have one? Any lost cards?”

His eyes flash. “Possibly. But that wasn’t a plumber’s key. That was red-tier access—direct override to any floor, no questions asked.”

I rub my arms, chilled. This office might be dozens of stories above the Strip, but right now it feels about as safe as a cheap motel room with a busted lock.

He stops pacing long enough to face me. “Someone gave Ivan that card on purpose.”

“Any suspects?” I ask. I definitely have one of my own.

Something else occurs to me, a question I’m almost afraid to ask.

I take a breath and ask anyway. “The penthouse... it’s got a lock from the inside, right? One they can’t override?”

He nods. “Steel bolt. Biometric scan. Once I add your print, no one gets in without you or me.”

Relief washes over me, but the worry remains.

“Still. The idea that anyone with the right plastic card can ride straight up to our front door?”

He watches me closely. “You’d rather stay at your apartment.”

Part of me wonders if I should, as if going back to my apartment would let me get out of all of this and I could go back to my old life.