Page 43 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

T aylor lets out a scream.

The sound rips through the air—raw and primal. My body moves before thought can catch up.

“Chris—oh my God, no—” Her voice breaks.

Blood is spreading fast beneath his body, dark and thick like ink. She desperately presses her hands against the wound in his stomach, her fingers trembling as she tries to slow the bleeding.

He groans, his head rolling sideways. She leans over him, whispering, pleading, sobbing.

I press the button on the walkie-talkie in my pocket, holding it down and praying my detective has heard everything. I’m certain the gunshot has already drawn his attention. Now he just needs to know exactly whom to put in cuffs when he kicks in the door.

I don’t even blink. My eyes remain locked on my brother.

Damas stands a few feet away, his breathing steady, his stance casual. The gun dangles from his fingers. Loose. Reckless. Like it’s an afterthought. Like shooting someone—my wife’s brother—was just a detour on his to-do list.

Then he looks at me.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Taylor’s sobs echo against the peeling wallpaper and exposed beams. Her clothes are soaked with blood. Her hands are shaking. Her voice is a broken whisper against Chris’s cheek.

“Stay with me, please, please stay with me…”

“You need to put that damn gun away,” I say coldly to Damas. “And let me get Chris help.”

Damas laughs. “Help? Now you care?” He gestures to the moaning boy on the ground. “That little punk’s been nothing but a walking liability since the day she dragged him into our lives. He mouthed off. Thought he could act like a big man around Bratva company. You saw it.”

“And you shot him.”

“He deserved it.” Damas moves to the corner of the room, resting a hand on the back of a broken chair. “He reminds me of you, actually. Smug. So sure he could talk his way out of anything.”

I clench my jaw. “You shot him because he reminded you of me?”

“No,” Damas says coolly. “I shot him because I wanted your attention.”

His smile fades. “You act like it’s some sort of tragedy. But this?” He gestures around with his gun, “This is the moment everything finally makes sense. The moment I stop being the spare and start being the one who decides.”

“You’ve been making decisions your whole life. “Every disaster, every mess, every burned bridge—that was your doing, based on the shots you called.”

“Yeah,” he snaps, “and this time I’m calling one that actually gets me something.”

“And your plan is what? Kill me and hope nobody notices?”

He tilts his head. “Not kill. Remove. Shift. Relocate.”

I stare at him, disgust creeping up my spine. “That’s not a plan. That’s desperation.”

He smirks. “Call it whatever you want. The outcome’s the same.”

Taylor gasps, and I look down to see her trying to keep pressure on Chris’s abdomen. Her arms are slick with blood. She meets my eyes, panic breaking through her usual fire.

I need to keep Damas talking. My thumb continues to press down on the walkie-talkie button.

He steps closer, hands casually in his pockets like we’re old friends catching up over coffee.

“Fatherhood,” Damas says. “It’s official now, isn’t it? You’ve got your heir.”

My heartbeat spikes.

“I never realized you hated me this much.”

He scoffs. “This isn’t about hate, big brother. Hate’s for amateurs. This is about legacy. Money. Power. You want to care about love, honor, and all that sentimental crap? Fine. I care about owning this city.”

I see the shift in his eyes, the cold resolve.

He raises the gun again.

“Anatoly, no!” Taylor screams.

I slam into him, hard. The gun fires wild—exploding a lamp behind us—and then we’re on the ground, grappling. The plastic-lined floor slides beneath us, our feet scrambling for traction. My shoulder hits the wall. He’s stronger, heavier. I feel him trying to twist his way on top.

I can’t let that happen.

I drive my elbow into his ribs and hear the breath punch out of him. He snarls and swings, catching my jaw. Pain flashes white across my vision, but I shove back with everything I’ve got.

We roll. The gun slips between us. His fingers graze the trigger again—no time.

I grab his collar and heave with my legs, tossing him backward.

He slams into the wall just as the front door bursts open.

Boots thunder inside. A second later, red and blue lights flash through the broken windows.

“Drop the weapon!” Boone roars.

Boone charges in first, weapon drawn, two uniformed officers behind him.

Damas freezes, gun in hand.

“Don’t do it,” Detective Boone growls, weapons steady on my brother.

For once, Damas listens.

He drops the gun.

The officers swarm him, wrenching his arms behind his back and forcing him to the floor.

Detective Boone rushes to Taylor and Chris. “Paramedics are on their way. How long’s he been bleeding?”

Taylor looks up, tears streaking her cheeks. “Four minutes? Five?”

“He’s still breathing,” I say, moving to kneel beside her. “Pulse is weak, but there. We’re not losing him.”

Chris groans, eyelids fluttering.

Taylor sobs again, her head dropping to his chest.

I wrap my arms around her shoulders, holding her as chaos continues around us.

My brother is hauled to his feet, cuffed and silent.

This isn’t over.

But for the first time, I can finally see where it begins to end.

Outside, the ambulance pulls up. Paramedics rush in with a stretcher, and Detective Boone gives them a quick rundown.

“Gunshot wound, abdomen. Pressure has been maintained on the entry location.”

They go to work fast, taking his vitals and placing an oxygen mask on his face before lifting Chris into the back of the ambulance. One of the medics gently moves Taylor back. She resists at first, but then obliges.

I hold her tight.

“You going with him?” I ask softly.

She nods, barely able to speak. Her fingers cling to mine.

“He’ll make it,” I say, forcing the words into the universe. “He has to.”

A medic guides her toward the ambulance. She climbs in and doesn’t look back.

Once they’re gone, I turn to Detective Boone. He’s holding the walkie-talkie, studying it.

“Did you get enough?”

“Plenty,” he says grimly. “Enough to lock him away for a long time.”

Damas is slumped in the corner, face bloody, hands cuffed tightly behind him.

“You want a second to talk to him?” the detective asks.

I stare at my brother.

He looks up, lip split, one eye already swelling shut.

“Is this what you wanted?” I ask him. “You throw away blood, loyalty, everything for a shot at the Hospitium ?”

“I threw away nothing,” he mutters. “You were always going to win. I just made sure I didn’t leave empty-handed.”

“You’re leaving with nothing.”

He smirks. “We’ll see.”

The drive to the hospital is a blur.

By the time I reach the emergency room, Taylor is pacing the corridor, still in her bloodstained clothes, hands wringing.

I pull her into my arms.

“He’s in surgery,” she whispers. “They said he’s strong, but they don’t know yet.”

I press my lips to her hair, silently vowing that I will never let anyone threaten what’s mine again.

Not my family.

Not my wife.

Not our child.

It’s over.