Page 100 of Under His Control
“He got in the way,” Damas says simply with a shrug.
Anatoly turns to him, eyes blazing. “You crossed a line you don’t come back from.”
Damas shrugs again. “That depends on who writes the ending.”
Chris moans, and I refocus, adjusting my hands. His blood is everywhere. My jeans are soaked. My palms are slick. My heart is trying to escape my chest.
“Stay with me, Chris,” I beg, tears streaking down my face. “You fight. Do you hear me? You fight, or I swear I’ll come drag your ass back myself.”
Anatoly crouches beside me, one hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes gently.
Then he looks up at Damas.
And for the first time, I see something break in him.
Not fear.
Not rage.
Recognition.
He doesn’t know this man anymore.
The brother he once protected, trusted, loved—is gone.
All that’s left is a stranger in a tailored suit with a plan, holding a gun, with no soul to speak of.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Damas doesn’t flinch.
Anatoly doesn’t look away.
And I press harder on my brother’s stomach, trying to hold in the life that's slipping through my fingers.
CHAPTER 41
ANATOLY
Taylor 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. Likeit’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.
