Page 41 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

A natoly parks a block away from the house, but it’s still too close for comfort.

The street is dead quiet, like the whole neighborhood’s holding its breath. Sagging porches. Boarded-up windows. Grass that gave up on living long before we got here.

This is the kind of place hope comes to rot.

He kills the engine and scans the street, jaw clenched so hard I can practically hear his teeth grinding.

“You sure this is it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

He nods.

The house up ahead looks like it should be condemned. I’m bouncing my knee again before I even realize it. This feels wrong. Like something awful is waiting for us inside.

“Why would he own property out here?” I mutter, staring at the peeling siding and busted porch light. “Guess the Hospitium was too high-end for hostage situations.”

“He probably bought it through one of the shell companies. I’ve never seen this place before, but he’s told me about it.”

I look at him. His face is stone. His hand drifts to mine on instinct, and I squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “About the things I said about your brother.”

He glances at me. “You were protecting yours.”

“That doesn’t mean I had to go for the jugular.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You weren’t wrong.”

A beat passes before he straightens in his seat. “He’s here.”

A gray sedan slows near the curb, rolling to a stop beside us.

The man who steps out is tall and lean, wearing a charcoal suit, a gun holstered just beneath the jacket.

His eyes are sharp, military-sharp. Cop-sharp.

Like he cataloged every potential threat on this street before his door even opened.

“Who’s that?” I whisper.

“Detective Alexei Boone,” Anatoly replies. “Vegas PD. Old friend. He owes me one.”

Boone walks up to Anatoly’s side of the car and taps the window. Anatoly rolls it down.

“You sure this is where he’s got the kid?” Boone asks, cutting right to it. His voice is calm and precise.

“Yes,” Anatoly confirms. “You have backup?”

“Close,” Boone replies, pulling something from his pocket. A slim, black walkie. He passes it through the window. “Press and hold. Mic’s live. Anything goes sideways, I’m going in.”

His eyes shift to me. He looks me over, not in a creepy way, but more like he’s measuring whether I’ll panic or fight. I lift my chin.

“You sure she’s coming in?”

“She’s sure,” Anatoly answers, giving me a side-long glance.

Boone nods once. “Then be quick. Don’t play chess with him. You’re walking into a trap.”

That makes my heart thump faster.

“Thanks for being here,” I tell him.

Boone raises a brow. “Let’s hope you don’t actually need me.”

The walk to the house feels like a slow-motion march toward danger.

The houses around us appear empty—no cars, no lights, no noise. Just crickets, and the sound of our footstep crunching over the sidewalk. Anatoly keeps close to my side, his fingers brushing mine every so often, like he’s reassuring himself I’m still there.

My body hums with nerves. My mouth is dry. Every part of me screams that this is wrong.

Damas opens the front door before we even have the chance to knock.

He leans against the frame like he’s hosting a dinner party, wearing a fitted navy suit and an easy smile.

“Welcome,” he says, stepping aside. “Glad you found the place.”

The stench hits first—mildew, dust, cheap cleaning supplies, and something metallic underneath. The house looks even worse inside. The floors are warped, the drywall cracked. But it’s the floor that gives me pause.

Plastic.

Lots of it. Covering the perimeter of the entire living room. Crinkling under my feet like a horror movie warning.

My stomach flips. Anatoly’s hand slides to the small of my back, grounding me.

“What is this?” I ask, voice low.

“Painting prep,” Damas says casually, gesturing around the room like a proud renovator. “You know how it is—Vegas real estate waits for no man.”

I’m about to answer when footsteps echo from the hallway.

Chris walks in and my heart drops.

He looks... fine.

No bruises. No cuts. Not even a torn shirt. He’s dressed like he always is—hoodie, jeans, sneakers.

“Chris?” I step forward, blinking like I’m hallucinating. “You’re okay?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes, only shrugs. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Anatoly stiffens beside me.

“What the hell is this?” Anatoly asks, voice sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.

Damas smiles wider, pleased with himself in a way that makes my stomach twist. “Turns out your brother-in-law had some interesting things to share. About your heir .”

I freeze. The blood drains from my face.

Anatoly goes cold. “What did you just say?”

Damas strolls into the center of the room, hands relaxed, expression smug. “Don’t worry. It’s all good news—for me. See, Chris was very helpful. Remember when you dropped a little something on the casino floor, Taylor?”

My breath catches.

The sonogram. He saw it. He’d been lying this whole damn time.

“Once I realized it was real,” Damas continues, “everything changed. I know the clause, Anatoly. I know exactly what it means for your little empire. And now I know you’ve got your heir.”

“You’ve already received your share,” Anatoly says darkly. “The properties. The payout. You said you didn’t want the hotel.”

“I didn’t—at first,” Damas says with a shrug. “I didn’t think I had a shot. But people change. Circumstances change.”

He glances at me again—something cold and malevolent behind his smile—a razor edge underneath velvet. “And now that I know the Hospitium won’t be coming to me, unless, of course, something unfortunate happens before the baby is born...”

Anatoly steps forward, placing himself squarely between us. His voice is steady, lethal. “You’re not taking it.”

Damas lets out a low chuckle. “You think this is just about the hotel? You still don’t get it, do you?

I’m sick of being the invisible brother, the one with the jokes and the charm and none of the damn power.

You got the Bratva. The name. The empire.

I got table scraps and a lifetime of playing nice while everyone called me your shadow. ”

His smile twists into something even more wicked. “You think you earned it, Anatoly? You didn’t. You were handed everything because you were born first. I’ve always been treated like I never had any say in the matter.”

Anatoly's expression doesn't budge. “You had your chance. Our father offered you a role. You pissed it away on vodka, private jets, and women whose name you didn’t remember the next morning. You gambled your birthright and then got bitter when the house took your chips.”

“Shut up,” Damas snaps, the smile gone, something uglier rising to the surface. “You don’t get to lecture me. You think you’re better? You think just because you’re calm and quiet and look good in a suit, you deserve the world?”

“I earned it,” Anatoly says simply. “Every inch. Every dollar. While you were busy making headlines at clubs, I was negotiating contracts that kept the Hospitium standing.”

Damas’s jaw clenches. “Shut. Up.”

He pulls a gun from behind his back, and the room tilts sideways.

Anatoly reacts instantly, shielding me without hesitation, like his body was made for it. I grab the back of his jacket, fingers digging in, heart jackhammering against my ribs.

Damas raises the gun, slow and deliberate.

“You’re willing to kill your brother so you can take control of the hotel?” I ask, my voice shaking.

He looks at me—dead calm, his eyes like black glass.

“If that’s what it takes.”