Page 46 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

Two and a half years later…

T he Strip is alive just a few blocks away—buzzing neon signs, drunken laughter, the metallic rhythm of slot machines chewing quarters like candy. Vegas doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t even nap, not even during the middle of a beautiful spring day.

But here, tucked behind a line of cottonwood trees near the edge of the city, the chaos fades into something that almost feels like peace.

I lean on the wooden fence surrounding the park, watching my wife push our daughter on the swing.

And God help me, I still can’t believe either of them are mine.

Taylor laughs—head back, cheeks flushed, the wind lifting her curls into a halo of sunlight. She’s wearing one of my old shirts knotted over jean shorts, and even now, after everything, she still makes me breathless.

Beside her, our daughter, Charlotte, squeals with pure, unfiltered joy. She’s two now, and already too damn smart for her own good.

She’s wearing light-up sneakers that flash blue and pink every time she kicks, shouting, “Higher, Mama, higher!” with a voice that carries like a megaphone.

Taylor grins, pushing gently. “I can do higher, sweetie. But I can’t launch you into space.”

Charlotte giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

For a moment, I just let myself be here.

No meetings. No headlines. No legacy wars. Just the warm desert sun, the creak of the swing set, and the two hearts who made mine beat again.

Then I reach into my pocket.

The keys are warm from my palm, dangling from a simple leather keychain. I had a photo of Taylor and Charlotte printed onto a charm—something small, something I can touch when the world starts to tilt. I run my thumb over it, then walk toward them.

“Need a break?” I ask, slipping behind the swing.

Taylor eyes me, smirking. “That obvious?”

“Only a little.” I step in and take over, gently pushing our daughter.

Charlotte screams with glee. “Faster, Papa!”

“Great,” Taylor mutters. “You’re making her competitive.”

“She was born competitive.”

“Also your fault.”

I nudge the swing again, letting it arc a little higher. Charlotte kicks out her legs like she’s flying. My heart swells with something sharp and sweet. I lean closer to Taylor.

“I have something for you.”

She straightens, one brow raised. “You’re not about to pull out jewelry in a park, are you? Because I swear, if you propose again?—”

“No proposals.” I grin. “Just a surprise.”

Taylor tilts her head. “I love surprises.”

I hand her my phone. “Go ahead. Scroll.”

She gives me a look—suspicious, intrigued—but taps open the gallery.

I watch her expression shift as she swipes through the photos—exposed wooden beams, a wide wraparound porch, with sea-glass lanterns, white shutters glowing in soft sunlight.

Lavender blooms spilling over a picket fence.

There’s a massive oak in the backyard, a weathered swing already hanging from the branch.

“A house?” she breathes. “You bought a house ?”

“It’s not final yet,” I say quickly. “I wanted you to see it first.”

She keeps scrolling, blinking like she’s not sure it’s real. “Where is this?”

“Playa del Rey,” I say. “It’s right outside L.A. It’s quiet, near the beach.”

She cocks her hear. “L.A.? That’s far.”

I shake my head. “A forty-five minute flight in the jet.”

She looks up at me, eyes searching mine. “Why there?”

“Because we need a place where we can get away from it all, where we can retreat when the neon of Vegas is a little much. Not to mention, a place where my family can go to the beach whenever they want.”

Her eyes go glossy. “You really thought this through.”

“I thought about you,” I say softly. “And Charlotte. And the kind of peace I want us to have.”

Her fingers tighten around the phone. “I want to see it.”

I grin. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

She stares at the screen, then up at me. “This is why you disappeared last Wednesday?”

I nod.

“And the secret phone calls?”

“Yes, I was talking with the realtor.”

She bursts out laughing, then throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking me off balance. “You idiot. You perfect, sneaky idiot.”

Charlotte, still swinging, yells, “Hug me, too!”

I scoop her up midair and hold both of them close.

Taylor kisses my cheek. “I will love you forever, you know.”

I smile. “I’m counting on it.”

The next day, after a smooth flight and an even smoother landing, we’re driving down a quiet, sun-dappled street in Playa del Rey. The ocean’s just a few blocks away—close enough to taste the salt in the breeze but far enough to muffle the city behind it.

It’s that perfect slice of L.A. that still feels like a beach town. No billboards. No flashing lights. Just palm trees, surf shops, and houses that look like storybooks forgot to take them back.

Charlotte hums along to a Disney playlist in the back seat, swinging her legs and pressing her nose to the window.

“Almost there,” I say, glancing at Taylor, who smiles softly but hasn’t said much since we left the tarmac.

Her hand rests over mine on the console. She’s watching the neighborhood go by: kids on bikes, flower boxes in windows, a wind chime dancing in the breeze.

When we round the final corner and pull up the drive, she sits up straighter.

The house is charming in the kind of way that makes people stop and admire. Creamy white stucco with navy trim, a wide porch wrapped in blooming jasmine and striped awnings, and an arched wooden front door that looks like it’s been kissed by the sun for decades.

Spanish tile roofs, copper lanterns, and a driveway lined with citrus trees. It’s beautiful. But it’s also big—spacious and solid beneath the quaintness. Five bedrooms. A large garden. A backyard big enough for a swing set and a pool, if we ever felt inclined.

I park at the curb, heart pounding for reasons I don’t say out loud.

Taylor opens the car door slowly. She steps out like she’s afraid the ground might shift under her feet.

Charlotte doesn’t wait. She unbuckles, leaps out, and takes off toward the porch like she’s already claimed it. “I love it!”

Taylor just stares, one hand clutching her chest.

“Too much?” I ask softly, coming around the car.

Her eyes are shining. “No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s perfect.”

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her close. “Then let’s make it our home.”

She walks up the stairs, then spins slowly in place, taking in every inch. Her hands glide along the railing, her fingers brushing over the porch swing. She opens the front door and steps inside. I follow, watching her move through the house like she’s trying to memorize it.

The living room is big but cozy. Wood floors, exposed beams, natural light pouring in through high windows. The kitchen has marble counters and a huge farmhouse sink. There’s a window above it that looks out over the backyard, toward a tire swing hanging from the old oak tree.

Upstairs, there are five bedrooms. One is perfect for Charlotte, already painted in soft peach.

Another is a blank canvas. Taylor lingers in the doorway, then looks over her shoulder. “Think we’ll fill this one, too?”

I move behind her, arms circling her waist. “We’ll see.”

She leans back into me.

“This house,” she whispers. “It feels like our future.”

“It is.”

Six months later…

I wake to sunlight and the sound of tiny feet racing down the hall.

Taylor groans beside me, tugging the sheet over her head. “Not it.”

“I’ve got it,” I mutter, already reaching for my robe.

I find Charlotte in the kitchen, standing on a chair she definitely wasn’t supposed to move. She’s proudly pouring dry cereal onto the floor next to her empty bowl.

“G’morning, Papa!”

I sigh. We’ve talked about the difference between a bowl and the hardwood.

She beams up at me, her curls wild and her nightgown inside out. “I made cereal!”

I chuckle despite myself and scoop her up. “You’re going to be trouble today, aren’t you, birthday girl?”

“I’m three!” she says with supreme confidence, holding up five fingers.

Close enough.

A little while later, Taylor shuffles out onto the porch in a worn T-shirt that used to be mine, hair braided down one shoulder. She hands me a mug of coffee and curls into my side on the swing with a happy sigh.

Charlotte is already in the dirt, digging with a plastic spoon.

This is it.

This is everything.

I was born into a legacy I never asked for. I inherited power that came with knives behind every smile. I spent years building an empire to protect it.

But in the end, it wasn’t the empire that saved me.

It was them. My wife. My daughter. My peace.

The back gate creaks open, and I look up to see Chris walking in, a grocery bag under one arm and a bubble wand sticking out of his hoodie pocket. Behind him is Charles, carrying a container of ribs and wearing his usual expression of calm amusement.

A few steps behind them, Mrs. B sweeps in like she owns the patio, her heels clicking decisively on the stone path, a neatly wrapped gift balanced in one perfectly manicured hand. Igor, well-dressed as ever, follows with a cooler slung under one arm and a birthday cake in the other.

They all flew in together on my private jet, part of the small but loyal crew showing up for Charlotte’s birthday weekend like it was a state affair.

Mrs. B glances around, instantly clocking every detail, and then zeroes in on me. “Where do you want the cake? And don’t say ‘wherever,’ Taylor. We’re not savages.”

I grin. “By the lemonade, General.”

“Uncle Chris!” Charlotte screams, bolting toward him with bare feet and wild hair.

Chris bends down to catch her, spinning her once before setting her on his shoulders. “Good thing I came prepared,” he says, pulling out the bubble wand.

“Bubbles!” she shouts.

Charles chuckles and ruffles her hair. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“It’s my birthday,” she says, grinning.

Then she spots Mrs. B and gasps like she’s seen a celebrity.

“Mrs. B!” she squeals, bolting across the yard with all the grace of a rocket-propelled bunny.

Mrs. B—impeccable as always in her cream linen blazer and impossibly perfect updo—actually bends down to catch her.

“Charlotte,” she says, voice clipped but warm beneath the surface, “if you’re going to run like that, tuck your chin. Better wind resistance.”

Charlotte nods solemnly like this is top-level advice, then throws her arms around her waist.

Igor steps up behind them, offering a rare, but gentle, smile.

“Little bear,” he rumbles, patting Charlotte’s head with care. “Happy birthday.”

Charlotte beams up at him. “Thank you, Uncle Igor!”

Chris hands Taylor the grocery bag, then joins Charlotte in the yard to blow bubbles. Taylor follows them, laughing. Charles lingers by the steps with a two-finger salute in my direction.

“Thought we’d get started early. Hope that’s alright.”

“Perfect,” I say, holding the screen door open. “Coffee?”

“Always.”

Inside, I pour us both a bit of coffee before heading to the shaded end of the deck, away from the bubble chaos and squeals.

“You’ve got a nice setup here,” Charles says, sipping slowly. “Feels like a home.”

“It is,” I say simply.

We sit in companionable silence for a moment, listening to Charlotte demand that Chris build her a birthday cake from mud.

Charles finally speaks again, glancing at me over his mug. “He’s doing well, you know.”

I nod. “I know.”

“Been clean. Shows up early. Stays late. Polite, professional—even when a guest threatens to vomit on his shoes. He handled a drunk bachelorette party last week like a damn diplomat.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Didn’t throw anyone into the fountain?”

“Nope. Not even tempted, far as I could tell.” Charles finishes his coffee. “He’s gunning for floor manager.”

I look over at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. And between you and me, I think he might get it. He’s hungry. For the right things now.”

My chest tightens with something like pride. “Good.”

Charles nods, but I can tell there’s something else on his mind. I respectfully wait.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “I know it’s none of my business, but any word on Damas?”

I shake my head. “Nothing new. He used what favors he had left to disappear before he could be prosecuted. Last we heard, he fled the country. Probably back to Russia.”

Charles watches me carefully. “You think he’ll ever reach out?”

“No.” I say without hesitation. “And I hope it stays that way.”

He nods slowly. “If he does?—”

“I’ll handle it.” I look him square in the eye. “But right now, this,” I gesture to the porch, the laughter, the family. “this is what I care about. This is what matters.”

Charles clinks his mug against mine. “Damn right.”

By late afternoon, the backyard is buzzing. Kids from the neighborhood race across the grass, giggling with Charlotte as bubbles float through the air. Parents mingle near the grill, sipping iced tea.

We head down to the yard, where Chris is trying to wash mud off his sneakers and Charlotte is insisting the hose is her best weapon against dragons.

Taylor is at the grill, flipping burgers and looking every bit like the queen she is of this tiny domestic kingdom.

I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss her cheek.

She leans into me, her smile soft. “You happy?”

I look around.

The sun. The food. The laughter. The love.

She turns and kisses me slow and sweet.

“I’m home.”

The End