Page 6 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

T he next day, I show up to the Hospitium thirty minutes before my shift, nerves buzzing like crazy.

As I round the corner into the employee lounge area, I spot Charles, fiddling with a vending machine.

“Taylor,” he says, glancing at his watch. “You’re early.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I tease, trying to infuse brightness into my voice. It’s a struggle, considering the conversation I’m about to have. “Vending machine giving you trouble?”

He smirks, slapping the side of the machine gently. “Always. It’s temperamental, just like half of our clientele.” When he notices my body language—folded arms, tension in my shoulders—concern softens his features. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“I need to speak with Mr. Ovechkin,” I reply quietly.

He takes a moment to process what I just said. “Anatoly? Is this work-related?”

Swallowing thickly, I glance around. “No, it’s personal. My brother’s in big trouble, and it involves the Smirnov Bratva.”

Charles’s eyes widen slightly. “You know better than to get tangled with that bunch.”

I lift my hands helplessly. “Tell that to Chris. He owes them a ton of money after a botched deal. They are threatening to kill him if he doesn’t pay up, and I have no clue how to fix it.”

Charles sighs, stepping away from the machine. “Owing the Bratva is about as bad as it gets.”

I look away, my throat tightening. “I know.”

I can see him studying me out of the corner of my eye, and I meet his gaze. There’s real sympathy in his eyes as he says, “You’ve already bailed him out a few times. I’ve warned you before that if you keep saving him, he’ll never learn.”

“I know, but?—"

“But this is different. You’re concerned for his actual survival.”

“I am,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not your problem.”

“I’m not scolding you,” Charles says gently. “I’m just worried about you. But if you feel Mr. Ovechkin is the only one who can help, then you should talk to him. Just use caution; these people are dangerous.”

I nod, biting my lip. “Do you think the boss will agree to see me?”

Charles rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Well, we both know he aint exactly the warm and fuzzy type. But he is a businessman. If you present your case with confidence, maybe he’ll listen. The biggest mistake would be to grovel or overshare. He doesn’t do pity parties.”

My mind goes back to the elevator incident.

“He intimidates the hell out of me.”

“He intimidates a lot of people. But he’s still just a man. Remember that. Put your shoulders back, hold your head up high, and walk into that office, make your request. Whatever he says, accept it. Like I said, don’t argue or beg. Doing that will only end badly.”

Despite the dread chewing at my insides, I manage a grateful smile. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Head on up there. I’ll call and let them know you’re coming. Good luck. And if you need me for backup, I’ll be in my office.”

With that, he returns to battling the vending machine. I allow myself a fleeting moment of relief at having told someone else about Chris’s predicament. Even though Charles can’t fix it, at least I’m not carrying the secret alone.

I set my jaw, pivot, and head for the private staff elevators that lead to the sixtieth floor. My ID badge is clipped to my blazer pocket, but I also have a special keycard—a perk of being an assistant manager. It grants me access to certain restricted areas if an emergency arises.

And this, in my opinion, is an emergency.

I stride past the glitzy casino floor, humming with activity. No sign of my boss among the gamblers today, though I know he typically makes an appearance at least once every shift. I wonder if he ever sleeps. Judging by the rumor mill, probably not.

A short ride up the staff escalator takes me to a secluded hallway with mirrored walls and black marble floors. It leads to a single elevator at the end, discreetly marked for authorized personnel.

I scan my keycard, the elevator doors glide open with a soft chime. My heart thumps as I step inside. Once the doors close, I steady myself, staring at the digital panel as I pass each floor.

Thirtieth floor. Fortieth floor. Fifty. My stomach flips. The elevator music is a jazzy instrumental, doing nothing to calm my nerves.

I finally reach the top floor. The sixtieth floor.

The doors slide apart, revealing an airy, light blue reception area with pristine lighting and expensive sculptures perched on pedestals.

It’s so silent it might as well be a shrine.

Presiding over all of it, seated behind a sleek ebony desk, is the formidable Mrs. Belova, though everyone calls her Mrs. B for short.

She has a stiff, upright posture, hair always pulled into a tight bun, and a hawk-like expression that suggests she’s memorized the entire employee roster and knows everyone’s deepest secrets.

I step out of the elevator timidly, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Before I can even speak, she hits me with a pointed glare.

“Ms. Jenson,” she greets coldly. “Do you have an appointment?”

My throat goes dry. “I…no, I don’t. But I need to speak with Mr. Ovechkin. It’s urgent.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Yes, Charles called ahead. But Mr. Ovechkin is a very busy man. If there’s an employee concern, please direct it to your immediate supervisor or send an email. You know the protocol.”

I resist the urge to fiddle with my keycard. “I understand the protocol. But this is personal. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. May I speak to him?”

She drums her manicured nails on the desk, sizing me up like I’m a potential threat. “He’s not available for personal issues. Return to your department, Ms. Jenson.”

The condescension in her voice is so heavy, it feels like a physical shove. Everything about her posture says, “You’re dismissed.” But this is Chris’s life on the line, so I refuse to budge. Setting my shoulders, I clear my throat.

“Mrs. Belova, I assure you, this can’t be handled through normal channels. If I don’t speak to him directly, it could result in serious consequences.”

She arches an eyebrow, clearly displeased. “Serious consequences for you or for him?”

“Me. But still.” I try not to sound as rattled as I feel.

For a moment, I think she might be showing some sign of softening, but instead, she reaches for her phone. “I’m calling security.”

My pulse spikes. “What? Ma’am, please?—”

She lifts the receiver to her ear, eyes like steel. “We have procedures. If you insist on disrupting Mr. Ovechkin’s schedule without justification, I will have you removed.”

I square my shoulders. “I’m not leaving until I speak to him.”

Mrs. B raises her eyebrows. I can’t tell whether she’s impressed or pissed.

Maybe both.

“I’ll have security escort you out and you’ll lose your job.”

“I understand the risk,” I say, “but I’m not leaving. I need to see him.”