Page 40 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

“ T ell me what the fuck is going on!”

My voice is low, dangerous. The kind of tone that makes most men think twice about pushing me. But Damas has never known when to back the fuck down.

He sighs dramatically on the other end of the line, like I’m the one being difficult. “Your wife’s little brother came to me,” he says. “Begging for a line of credit. Wanted to play little rich boy with his new Bratva friends.”

Taylor gasps. “How much?”

I already know the answer won’t matter. Damas doesn’t do favors, he sets traps.

“I’ll only talk terms with Anatoly,” he says. “Privately.”

“He’s my brother!” she snaps.

I press a hand to her arm, steadying her. Her skin is cold. She’s shaking.

I take him off speaker and lift the phone to my ear, jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

A pause, then “The Hospitium . Free and clear.”

His response knocks the air out of me.

“What the fuck, Damas?” My voice rises, my control buckling for a second before I rein it in. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

He chuckles. That smug, slithering sound that used to get him out of trouble when we were kids. I hate how practiced it is.

I inhale deeply, pushing down the surge of fury crawling up my spine. My mind snaps into place like a weapon being loaded. Anger won’t save Chris. Strategy will.

I glance at Taylor. Her face is pale, eyes glassy with tears she won’t allow to fall.

I lift one finger to my lips.

She nods, trembling.

I drop my voice. “You’ll get your wish, Damas. In time, and without the theatrics. Taylor can’t have children. You know that.”

Silence.

“I’m not divorcing her,” I go on, each word steady despite the ache behind it. “But there will be no children. The Hospitium goes to you, after all. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

It’s an imperfect plan. It’s not like I can hide her pregnancy from him for too much longer. But hopefully, we’ll get Chris back before it matters.

There’s another beat of silence. Then Damas lets out a loud, mocking laugh.

“Oh, brother,” he says. “I didn’t call to negotiate. I wanted to tell you my terms, and to invite you to a family meeting.”

I glance at Taylor, who sits frozen beside me, her hand clamped around my forearm like a vise. “Where?”

“The house on Smith,” Damas says casually, as if he’s inviting me to brunch.

My stomach tightens. “What house?”

“I figured you wouldn’t know about it,” he says, sounding delighted. “It’s new. Quiet. Off the books.”

Of course it is.

“I’ll text you the address,” he adds. “Come soon. Chris would really appreciate it.”

“Don’t hurt him!” Taylor screams.

But he’s already hung up.

I toss the phone onto the bed, already yanking a shirt over my head. Taylor’s half-dressed, hands shaking as she fumbles with her jeans. She grabs her phone and punches in 911.

“No.” I reach for her phone and end the call.

She jerks back. “We have to call the police! Before he kills Chris?—”

“He won’t,” I cut her off. “Damas is a greedy son of a bitch, but he’s not a killer.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s dangerous! You heard Chris. He’s hurt. You really think this ends with a polite handshake?”

She’s near tears. I know she’s right. Damas is unhinged, and he’s pushed things too far this time.

“I have a friend,” I tell her. “A detective. Owes me a favor. If things go sideways, we’ll have backup.”

“Then I’m going, too.”

“The fuck you are.”

“I am.” She’s already pulling on her boots. “He said a family meeting. I took that to mean both of us. And if you walk out that door without me, I’ll be right behind you, anyway.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“And you just said Damas isn’t dangerous.”

I grind my teeth, glaring at her. She meets my stare without blinking.

“We’re wasting time,” she says, voice cracking. “My brother’s hurt.”

Goddamn it.

I text my detective friend, grab the keys, and we head out the door.

The car ride is tense and silent, but my mind is a fucking war zone. Every possible scenario plays out in my head—Chris bloodied in a basement, Damas waving a gun, and Taylor caught in the crossfire.

I glance at her in the passenger seat. She’s pale, fists clenched in her lap, knee bobbing up and down. What I felt under my hand earlier is barely a whisper of the secret she’s carrying. But I see it now like a brand on my soul. My child. My wife. My future.

And Damas wants to use them like chips in a poker game.

I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white.

“You’re sure your detective buddy will be there?” she asks softly.

I nod. “He already replied. He’s parked a block away. Eyes on the house.”

She exhales, but it’s not a breath of relief. Just a release of pressure before the next wave hits.

“What if it’s a trap?” she wonders aloud. “What if Damas wants you to lose your temper?”

“Then he’s dumber than I thought.”

“But you are angry,” she notes, glancing over at me. “I can see it. I can feel it. You want to kill him.”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.