Page 37 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

“Make sure it’s clean,” I reply, voice flat and cold. “If I find any red tape buried in the fine print, I’ll sink the entire deal.”

Nervous laughter. A muffled “Yes, sir.”

Then the line goes dead.

Silence fills the car.

I grip the wheel tighter.

The meeting with the Scottsdale developers wasn’t on the schedule. I called it last minute, just to have something, anything, to focus on besides the hollow stretch of silence waiting back at the penthouse.

It needed to happen eventually. But tonight, it was a distraction. A reason not to sit in that quiet and wonder if I’d already pushed her too far.

The city bleeds light around me—Vegas in full sunset, wild and brilliant. Colors slash the skyline like spilled neon: lavender and scarlet, orange and green across black glass towers. The Bellagio fountains toss dancing ribbons of water, coinciding with music playing for people I’ll never know.

This town—my town—performs every hour like it’s fighting extinction. I used to love that. The hunger. The stakes.

Now I’d be willing to torch every casino to the ground if it meant finding her.

I check my phone again. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts.

I could have her tracked. I’ve done it before. I know the shortcuts, the digital fingerprints. But something stops me, something I dare to name.

Trust.

I’ve already broken it once.

But every second she’s out there, silent, feels like a wire tightening around my throat.

My tires screech as I make a sharp turn onto the private drive for the Hospitium . The valet jumps when I throw the keys, but I don’t look back. My steps pound through the marble lobby, toward the express elevator only two people in this hotel have access to.

The doors part at the sixty-first floor.

The penthouse isn’t just empty.

It’s downright hollow.

A trace of her perfume lingers, but it’s faint, like it’s been chased out by something darker.

Taylor’s laughter should be echoing off these walls. Her bare feet should be padding across the Persian rug, arms wide, eager to greet me. She should be here, in her ridiculously sexy pajama shorts, nagging me for skipping dinner.

There’s nothing but a strange coldness.

I step into the living room and see Damas.

He’s standing on the balcony, one hand braced on the railing, the other cradling my whiskey. The sunset washes over him, casting blood-orange shadows across the skyline and his face.

I walk toward him slowly. “You’re trespassing.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares out at the city like it’s an old lover he never quite got over.

“You sound like your wife.”

I say nothing, a beat of silence passing.

“You ever wonder,” he says softly, “what Papa saw when he first stood up here?”

I don’t respond.

“I was eight,” Damas goes on. “You were eleven. He brought us here before it was finished—when it was just concrete and rebar. He stood right where I’m standing now, looking out over the city, promising it’d all belong to us one day.”

He brings the glass to his lips and sips slowly.

“You believed him. I watched it happen. Watched you shape yourself into the perfect son, the golden boy with ice in his veins. While I…” he finally glances at me, the sunset painting a jagged line across his cheekbone, “I realized there were only two options: Follow you and play second fiddle or take what should’ve been mine. ”

His eyes glance toward the door. “Shame she didn’t stay. I was going to offer her a drink. Thought we could toast to old secrets.”

My pulse spikes and I step closer.

“Did she say where she was going?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous.

Damas smiles. “Why would she tell me? That’s the trouble with smart women, Anatoly. You can’t keep them in cages, no matter how gilded the bars.”

I close the distance between us until we’re eye to eye. I don’t blink. Neither does he.

“Why are you still here?”

He props an elbow on the railing. “The family is in crisis. I thought you might need some brotherly advice.”

“What I need is for you to leave and to drink your own damn whiskey in your own damn penthouse.”

“You sound tense.” A cocky smirk forms on his face.

“I wonder why that is brother. You spoke out of turn.”

“I told a truth she wasn’t willing to,” he counters.

A muscle jumps in my jaw. “That’s between Taylor and me. It has nothing to do with you.”

He tsks. “It’s between the two of you, father’s will, the Hospitium , our legacy…tick-tock.”

“Get out, Damas.”

He chuckles at the command. “Tell me something first. How deep are you in with her, Anatoly? Deep enough to trade the hotel for her barren womb?”

I vault toward him. The tumbler smashes to the ground, whiskey spraying across the balcony. My fists bunch in his lapel, yanking him up to eye level. “One more word about my wife, and I’ll feed you that broken crystal.”

He laughs. “There he is. The wolf everyone fears.”

“I said get out.” I shove him hard. He staggers at first, but quickly rights himself, smoothing his pristine suit.

“I can’t believe you’re willing to lose everything for a woman, one that cannot give you an heir.

” He straightens his cuff links. “Good news though, the Hospitium will still stay in the family. I’ll keep her warm.

” He gives me a wink, then heads for the door, footsteps unhurried. “Enjoy your empty castle,? bratets. ”

He closes the door with a smirk. Silence rushes back in—sharp and accusatory. I stare at the shattered glass, the spreading whisky, and realize I’m breathing like I’ve just run ten miles.

I grab my phone, hoping she’s responded. Nothing.

I check her phone location, it’s disabled. Smart woman.

Only one other person might know where she’d flee.

Charles Weatherford’s office light glows brightly from the mezzanine—old habits from decades of running the Hospitium . I ride the elevator down and rap twice.

“Anatoly?” He peers over his reading glasses, gray hair tousled, mug of tea steaming beside payroll reports. “Everything all right?”

“Have you seen Taylor tonight?”

He frowns. “She punched out late—long shift. Said she was exhausted. But that was hours ago. Is she alright?”

I decide a half-truth might get me the answers I want. “Honestly, we had a bit of an argument, and she took off. I’d just like to find her and apologize for being an idiot.” I smile sheepishly.

Charles chuckles. “Your first married fight? I remember those days well. You might just want to give her some time to cool off. I’m sure she’ll come back.”

“I’m sure she will, too,” I lie. “But just in case she’s as stubborn as I’ve come to believe she is, do you have any idea where she’d go when she’s upset?”

Charles considers, eyes narrowing like he’s replaying her exact phrasing in his head. “Her old apartment, perhaps. She loved that place, felt very much at home there.”

“I thought she’d surrendered the lease.”

“Not yet,” he replies with a warm smile. “Some spaces hold onto us longer than we hold onto them.”

I nod, then reach out, clasping his shoulder. “Thank you, Charles.”

I gun the Audi along Sahara Avenue toward her apartment complex. Headlights carve through the sleeping desert, my relentless thoughts louder than the engine.

Taylor fought for her brother, braved the Bratva, endured my worst moods, and still looked at me like I hung the constellations.

I walked away the first time she needed me to stay.

Never again.