Page 67 of Under His Control
He nods, sinking into one of the leather chairs. “I wanted to share something I saw, Anatoly. Might be nothing. Might be your missing puzzle piece.”
I pour two coffees, handing one to him. “Let’s hear it.”
He folds his hands politely in his lap. “Tuesday night, I was comp spotting high rollers. Damas came through, heading toward the roulette alcove. Nothing strange until I noticed Ivan Smirnov drifting in from the baccarat balcony.”
My pulse ticks. “They spoke?”
Charles nods. “Briefly. Damas passed him a plain white envelope. No crest. Ivan slipped it inside his coat then tappedDamas’s shoulder like they’d just closed a deal. Then they parted ways. Thirty-second interaction, I couldn’t hear what was said.”
Heat crawls up my neck, anger mixed with the grim satisfaction of a puzzle piece clicking into place. A mysterious envelope, a discarded master pass. I keep my voice neutral as I say, “People exchange envelopes all the time. Tournament tickets, sports picks?—”
Charles lifts a palm, stopping me. “True. That’s why I held my tongue. But after last night—the keycards, the threats—I’d feel responsible if something happened and I didn’t say anything.”
He’s not prone to gossip. If Charles flags it, I listen. “How long did you observe them?”
“Just the handoff. Like I said, maybe thirty seconds, then Ivan left with his entourage. Damas veered toward the high-limit baccarat cashier, then disappeared among the slots.” Charles removes his glasses and polishes them on a handkerchief. “Could all be coincidence, but…” He shrugs.
I don’t believe in coincidence. I owe Charles honesty—and a request. “Keep this conversation between us.”
“Of course.”
We shake hands once more. When he’s gone, I add a splash of twelve-year Nikka to my untouched coffee. Midmorning whiskey might be inappropriate, but the burn steadies my thoughts.
The evidence trail is flimsy: a video timestamp, a witness, a trashcan keycard. Not enough for a direct accusation but plenty for suspicion. I could subpoena Damas’s bank feeds. I could have security interrogate housekeeping. Once I give the cash toSmirnov, I can keep an eye on Damas’s records to see if anything suspicious pops up.
But each option risks exposing fracture lines to outsiders; theHospitiumis only invincible when the brothers Ovechkin appear united. If Ivan sniffs a civil war brewing, he’ll exploit it.
I down the coffee, then walk over to the window. Sunrise burns off the haze, making the desert look clean and empty. A lie. Down there, loyalties shift on dice rolls. Up here, family should be an anchor. So why does mine feel like quicksand?
My phone vibrates with a text from Taylor.
Meeting schedule set. All department heads at 14:00. Also, pastries ordered—per your recommendation.
She includes a smiley and pastry emoji.
Despite the storm in my head, I smile. Efficiency, humor, even a pastry emoji. She’s handling this better than most would.
Another text follows.
Hope you’re okay.
Warmth unfurls in my chest. No one’s cared about my well-being for a long time. The feeling is unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
I pocket the phone and return to the desk, opening a secure financial console. One quick command flags Damas’s personal accounts for silent audit—discreet and untraceable to me.
Results by sunset.
Next, I pull up the latest org chart, marking every executive cardholder. Twenty-six names. That number will be cut in halfafter the meeting. No more “express privilege” for anyone but Mrs. B., Taylor, me, and a carefully handpicked few.
One hour later, I head upstairs. The penthouse foyer smells faintly of her coconut shampoo. Inside, the bedroom door is ajar. Sunlight spills across rumpled sheets. She’s not here—probably commandeering a conference room downstairs.
In the closet, her clothes mingle with mine—color nested among a gray landscape. It’s a domestic sight that steadies me more than the whiskey.
I run a palm over a delicate floral dress. “I’ll keep you safe,” I say out loud.
CHAPTER 26
TAYLOR
