Page 12 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

O ro Nero, the Hospitium ’s exclusive, signature restaurant, isn’t public knowledge. A private mirrored hallway leads to the unlabeled door.

In short, you have to be in Anatoly’s inner circle to get in, and tonight, apparently I am.

I arrive a few minutes early, nerves humming. The ma?tre d’ guides me to a table near the window dressed in linen so fine it looks like poured cream. Beyond the glass, Vegas glitters against the purple hues of dusk, alive and pulsing. Inside, the lighting is soft gold and decadent.

I smooth the front of my vintage tea-length dress—ivory poplin, cinched waist, a bargain-bin miracle—and remind myself this is just a conversation. A negotiation. Not a date. Not a prelude. I’m here to discuss a contract. Not to melt when the man walks into the room.

The air shifts the moment he enters.

Anatoly is dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit, the kind that doesn’t just compliment a man but sculpts him.

The fabric is so dark it drinks in the light, the peak lapels framing his broad chest. The vest is fitted like it was sewn directly onto his body.

The matte black Windsor-knotted tie draws the eye to his collarbone, to the throat I shouldn't want to kiss but desperately do.

I look at him, hating the way my body instantly responds. How the low thrum of heat starts between my thighs. My fingers actually twitch at the thought of tracing that tailored line from his shoulders down to his hips.

Our eyes lock—his icy blue to my startled brown—and everything inside me goes soft.

“Ms. Jenson.” His voice is beautiful. Deep. Dangerous. Impossible to ignore.

“Mr. Ovechkin.” I manage to stand and smile, even though my knees aren’t entirely on board with the plan. “Thank you for meeting me.”

He studies me. “Dinner felt appropriate.”

A waiter appears, seemingly conjured from thin air, and pulls back my chair as Anatoly takes his seat across from me. He orders a Super Tuscan without glancing at a menu.

Once the waiter retreats, Anatoly rests his forearms lightly on the table, gaze fixed. “Let’s begin with the contract, shall we?”

I hesitate, caught off guard. “Actually, before we dive in, I was hoping we could talk a little.”

He arches a brow. He appears surprised, though I mentioned it in the text I sent last night.

“You want to talk. About?”

“Yes.” I keep my voice calm, yet firm. “I feel that if I’m going to marry someone—even if it is for unconventional reasons—it wouldn’t hurt to know a little bit about the man behind the prenup.”

He tilts his head, his expression apathetic. “You’re aware this is primarily a business arrangement.”

“I am.” I smile politely. “But unless we plan on spending the next year in silence, a little conversation might help us fake it better in public.”

A long pause follows. For a second, I think he’s going to shut me down.

Then he exhales slowly, leans back in his chair, and murmurs, “Very well. What would you like to know?”

The question is repeated from yesterday’s office meeting, and just like that, the power dynamic shifts. Not enough to tip the scales, but enough to make me feel like I’m not just being handed a pen and a decision. I'm being listened to.

We sip the wine—earthy, dark berries—liquid confidence. I decide to push. “Tell me something personal. Favorite childhood memory?”

“That’s your question?”

“Consider it due diligence.”

He leans back in his chair. “Playing chess with my father in the hotel lobby after midnight. He’d let me stay up if I could last twenty moves.” A flicker of fondness, and perhaps grief, shadows his face before the mask resets. “Your turn.”

“Hmm.” I tap the base of my glass. “Sneaking into my mom’s kitchen at dawn to eat frosting straight from the can before school. She never caught me.”

His eyes warm perceptibly. “Sugar thief.”

“I prefer frosting ninja.” I tilt my head. “Ever been in love?”

A beat of silence. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “That’s enough questions.”

I grin because the response is so like him. Efficient. Terse. Direct. “That’s it? You’ve reached your conversational quota?”

His mouth twitches. “You said you wanted to talk. We talked.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You know, you were a lot flirtier in your office. All smirks and low-voiced temptation. But here? You’re practically an IRS agent.”

He lifts a brow. “Would you prefer I flirt over legally binding contracts?”

Before I can answer, the waiter returns with two plates—one with a delicate burrata with heirloom tomatoes and basil oil, the other with a trio of seared scallops on a smear of saffron risotto.

I blink. “I don’t remember ordering these.”

“You didn’t,” Anatoly says. “I took care of it.”

I arch a brow. “Thank you, but I do like having a little say in what I put in my mouth.”

“Noted,” he replies without missing a beat. “Next time, you’ll choose.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, assured, final—that makes me think there will definitely be a next time.

And I might actually want there to be.

He takes a sip of wine, then sets his glass down and draws a slim folder from his inner jacket pocket. The shift is smooth and seamless, like he’s flipping from one version of himself to another.

“The essentials haven’t changed,” he says, placing the folder in front of me. “One-year union. Public cohesion. Full access to the penthouse and all its amenities. A personal account will be opened for you tomorrow, funded in full.”

Business, once again. No pretense now.

And yet, even as I open the folder and scan the pages, I can feel the weight of his attention. Watching. Waiting. Like this means more to him than he’s willing to admit.

“What about conjugal rights?” I tease.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “Optional. Desire must be mutual, or it’s worthless to me.”

My cheeks flush. Optional isn’t the same as unlikely—especially not with the way he’s looking at me, like he’s already imagined a hundred ways this marriage could veer out of the business lane and into something physical.

The next hour flies by in a blur of structured conversation and perfectly timed wine refills. The appetizer plates are taken away, soon replaced with the main course—a delicious pan-seared duck that practically melts in my mouth.

He walks me through the terms with precision.

There will be scheduled public appearances—charity galas, a foundation dinner next month, holiday events.

He emphasizes discretion, loyalty, and the expectation of a partnership.

Not romance. Not affection. Just mutual benefit and support for twelve months.

I ask questions and he answers without hesitation, never talking down to me, never rushing. It’s all so professional. Yet I can’t help but notice what he doesn’t mention.

There’s nothing in the contract about the Bratva, nor has he brought it up.

No clause about what happens if his business partners come calling. No line item about what to do if I get caught up in that other world of his.

Before I can bring it up, he leans back in his chair, folds his hands neatly on his lap, and as if reading my mind says, “You won’t be involved in any of the darker aspects of my work.”

I blink, surprised.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he adds. “But this marriage is not a front for anything criminal. I won’t involve you in anything that could put you at risk. Ever.”

His voice is so calm, so certain, that the tight knot in my chest finally loosens. I nod, absorbing the unexpected relief. “Okay. Thank you for saying that.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replies.

Before I can formulate a response, the waiter reappears with practiced grace, gathering our empty plates. “Will you be having dessert this evening?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

Anatoly glances at the waiter. “Actually, we’ll have two slices of the chocolate hazelnut torte.”

I stiffen. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He meets my gaze head-on. “I know. But I won’t let you feel ashamed of something you enjoy—not with me.”

The slices soon arrive covered in a glossy ganache with a scattering of gold leaf. I slide the fork through the first bite, teeth sinking into silky richness. A small involuntary moan escapes.

“You approve?”

“Sinful,” I manage.

“Good.” He takes a bite of his own, licking a smear of chocolate from his thumb in a way that short-circuits half of my brain cells.

Halfway through, he signals the waiter. Two flutes of champagne appear, bubbles spiraling like tiny fireworks.

He plucks a pen from the inner pocket of his jacket then offers it balanced between his fingers. “Only if you want to.”

I study him. The lethal polish, the unexpected kindness, the threat coiled beneath refinement. Then I think of Chris, of the pain I feel whenever I imagine a funeral instead of a wedding.

I take the pen. My hand trembles, but my voice is steady. “For family.”

He lifts his glass. “For partnership.”

Champagne kisses my tongue, bright and thrilling.

I sign. He signs. Ink dries as futures are sealed.

I feel lighter, almost giddy, like I just chose something for me, not just for Chris.

Once we’re done, Anatoly insists on a stroll to “settle the decadence.” Outside, the desert evening is balmy, the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip wash the sidewalk in pinks and blues. We walk shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing.

“Do you regret signing?” he asks quietly.

“Not at the moment. You?”

“I regret not ordering a second bottle of that wine.” His sidelong smile is devastating.

I laugh, feeling the champagne in my blood. “Tell me another secret.”

He considers. “I can play Rachmaninoff by heart.”

I stop, stunned. “You’re joking.”

“Pianist from age five. It’s a Russian thing.” His shrug may be modest, but pride flickers in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll prove it one day.”

We reach a quieter section, streetlamps buzzing. Two guys in their early twenties linger by a tattoo parlor—leather jackets, cigarettes, brittle bravado. One nudges the other, nodding in our direction.

“Funny how some rich men like big girls,” the taller one jeers, gaze raking over my body. His friend snickers.

The words hit like ice water. My steps falter; shame flashing hot and quick.

Beside me, Anatoly stops dead in his tracks. The menace that pours from him is physical, and the air around him turns cold.

He turns, slow and deliberate. “Repeat that.”

The punks exchange a glance, sensing danger but too young to respect it. The tall one smirks wider, blowing smoke. “Didn’t stutter, bro.”

Anatoly calmly removes his jacket with such politeness it’s almost terrifying. “Taylor,” he says without looking at me, handing me his coat, “step back.”

I touch his arm. “Anatoly, don’t?—”

He gently disengages my hand, eyes never leaving the kids. “They insulted my wife-to-be.” Each syllable dropping like a gavel.

The shorter one swallows hard, shifting uncomfortably. “Hey, man, it was just a joke?—”

“No,” Anatoly says, rolling his cuffs with surgical precision. “Not a joke.” He slowly steps forward, a predator closing the distance between itself and its prey.

“Anatoly,” I whisper, heart pounding with fear but also with a wild, fierce thrill at the way he’s defending me.

One more step and he’s within striking range. The tall punk’s bravado cracks and he retreats a half pace, suddenly realizing Anatoly isn’t bluffing.

Anatoly’s voice is pure ice. “Apologize. Now.”

The streetlight flickers overhead. I can sense the moment teetering—it’s violence or capitulation, no middle ground.

And that’s where the night holds its breath.