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

ANATOLY

T he glass wall behind my desk catches the first, soft pink blush of dawn over the Strip. I’m thinking about the meeting I had with Ivan earlier this morning for the cash drop when the door flings open hard enough to hit the wall.

Damas strides in, six-feet-two-inches of barely leashed temper, cobalt suit coat unbuttoned, tie askew. He slams the door closed and plants both hands on my desk. A vein pulses at his temple.

I set my pen down and interlace my fingers. “Since someone handed Ivan a master pass. Sit, brother.”

“I’ll stand.” He paces a tight circle instead. “You’re launching an internal inquiry, and I find out from her, not you?”

“You were at the foundation dinner,” I remind him.

His eyes flash. “Off-property but not unreachable.” He clutches his phone. “If you’d called?—”

“I didn’t need backup. I needed containment.”

He stops pacing, shoving a hand through his blond hair. “Then let me help contain.”

“Help how?” I rise slowly, matching his volume. “By yelling at staff? By leaning on pit bosses you haven’t met? I’m handling it.”

Damas’s nostrils flare. “You always handle it. When do I get a say? Father left both of us assets, Anatoly.”

“And the Hospitium wasn’t one of them. You turned down operational control, remember? Said you preferred passive income.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

The statement hangs between us. I stride over to the wet bar, pour sparkling water into a tumbler, and hand it over. “You’re angry, I get it. Sit down, drink.”

He ignores the glass. “Do you think I’m incapable? Is that why you freeze me out?”

I meet his gaze. “I think a single chain of command saves lives in a crisis. That’s not a judgment on competence.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, but the resentment doesn’t leave his eyes. Without another word, he turns and stalks toward the door, pulling it open and stepping out. The slam reverberates like a rifle shot.

I exhale through clenched teeth. Damas being furious is nothing new. Damas coveting the hotel is.

Our parents’ will gave him the Tahoe estate and half the downtown skyline. Why eye my crown jewel now?

A dark thought worms its way into my brain.

Is he plotting against me ?

If his finances nosedived due to bad investments, gambling, God knows what else, selling me out to Ivan would be a quick payday.

But he’s cash-rich; I’ve been reviewing quarterly statements ever since auditors flagged minor inconsistencies three years ago.

Nothing too catastrophic. Unless the books I’ve seen were sanitized.

I rub my jaw. One more mystery on two hours’ sleep.

Mrs. B buzzes: “Mr. Charles Weatherford to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Charles enters with the unhurried gait of a man who’s seen too much to rush. He wears a dove-gray suit, his gentle, wise eyes warmly gazing at me behind wire rims.

I clasp his hand. “Thank you for coming up.”

He nods, sinking into one of the leather chairs. “I wanted to share something I saw, Anatoly. Might be nothing. Might be your missing puzzle piece.”

I pour two coffees, handing one to him. “Let’s hear it.”

He folds his hands politely in his lap. “Tuesday night, I was comp spotting high rollers. Damas came through, heading toward the roulette alcove. Nothing strange until I noticed Ivan Smirnov drifting in from the baccarat balcony.”

My pulse ticks. “They spoke?”

Charles nods. “Briefly. Damas passed him a plain white envelope. No crest. Ivan slipped it inside his coat then tapped Damas’s shoulder like they’d just closed a deal. Then they parted ways. Thirty-second interaction, I couldn’t hear what was said.”

Heat crawls up my neck, anger mixed with the grim satisfaction of a puzzle piece clicking into place. A mysterious envelope, a discarded master pass. I keep my voice neutral as I say, “People exchange envelopes all the time. Tournament tickets, sports picks?—”

Charles lifts a palm, stopping me. “True. That’s why I held my tongue. But after last night—the keycards, the threats—I’d feel responsible if something happened and I didn’t say anything.”

He’s not prone to gossip. If Charles flags it, I listen. “How long did you observe them?”

“Just the handoff. Like I said, maybe thirty seconds, then Ivan left with his entourage. Damas veered toward the high-limit baccarat cashier, then disappeared among the slots.” Charles removes his glasses and polishes them on a handkerchief. “Could all be coincidence, but…” He shrugs.

I don’t believe in coincidence. I owe Charles honesty—and a request. “Keep this conversation between us.”

“Of course.”

We shake hands once more. When he’s gone, I add a splash of twelve-year Nikka to my untouched coffee. Midmorning whiskey might be inappropriate, but the burn steadies my thoughts.

The evidence trail is flimsy: a video timestamp, a witness, a trashcan keycard.

Not enough for a direct accusation but plenty for suspicion.

I could subpoena Damas’s bank feeds. I could have security interrogate housekeeping.

Once I give the cash to Smirnov, I can keep an eye on Damas’s records to see if anything suspicious pops up.

But each option risks exposing fracture lines to outsiders; the Hospitium is only invincible when the brothers Ovechkin appear united. If Ivan sniffs a civil war brewing, he’ll exploit it.

I down the coffee, then walk over to the window. Sunrise burns off the haze, making the desert look clean and empty. A lie. Down there, loyalties shift on dice rolls. Up here, family should be an anchor. So why does mine feel like quicksand?

My phone vibrates with a text from Taylor.

Meeting schedule set. All department heads at 14:00. Also, pastries ordered—per your recommendation.

She includes a smiley and pastry emoji.

Despite the storm in my head, I smile. Efficiency, humor, even a pastry emoji. She’s handling this better than most would.

Another text follows.

Hope you’re okay.

Warmth unfurls in my chest. No one’s cared about my well-being for a long time. The feeling is unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

I pocket the phone and return to the desk, opening a secure financial console. One quick command flags Damas’s personal accounts for silent audit—discreet and untraceable to me.

Results by sunset.

Next, I pull up the latest org chart, marking every executive cardholder. Twenty-six names. That number will be cut in half after the meeting. No more “express privilege” for anyone but Mrs. B., Taylor, me, and a carefully handpicked few.

One hour later, I head upstairs. The penthouse foyer smells faintly of her coconut shampoo. Inside, the bedroom door is ajar. Sunlight spills across rumpled sheets. She’s not here—probably commandeering a conference room downstairs.

In the closet, her clothes mingle with mine—color nested among a gray landscape. It’s a domestic sight that steadies me more than the whiskey.

I run a palm over a delicate floral dress. “I’ll keep you safe,” I say out loud.