Page 1 of Under His Control
CHAPTER 1
TAYLOR
“You’ve got that look,” Charles says as he falls into step beside me.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to fire someone, re-seat a whale, and still have time to break up a fight at the roulette table.”
“Friday night multitasking,” I say. “It’s a gift.”
He tips his chin at my heels. “Those are a hazard.”
“Just to anyone dumb enough to get in my way.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re all business tonight.”
“When am I not?” I give him a sidelong look.
The Hospitium on a Friday night is a living, breathing creature—glittering, hungry, and mean in the most beautiful way.
Slot machines chirp like neon birds.
The air smells like money and top-shelf decisions people will regret tomorrow.
“That guy in the Hawaiian shirt?” I nod toward a tourist double-fisting tequila at craps. “He’s either going to make it rain or redecorate the felt in under an hour. Guess which one I’m rooting for.”
Charles huffs a laugh. “You’re bad.”
“I’m efficient,” I correct. “You’d be amazed how much smoother the night goes when I get to skip the part where someone loses their dinner.”
Charles Weatherford is the general manager. In his early sixties, his hair mostly silver, lines etching the corners of his eyes. I find those to be lines of wisdom—he’s always been a stable force for me, stepping up with advice, gentle nudges of encouragement or general sidekick energy when need be.
I didn’t claw my way up to Assistant Manager by being sweet as pie. I did it by working front-desk graveyards in thrift-store skirts and knockoff pumps, memorizing every dealer’s tell before I could legally order a drink. By figuring out that high rollers come in two flavors: the kind who tip in hundreds, and the kind who vanish before the tab lands.
Vegas will chew you up if you don’t learn its rhythm.
I didn’t just learn it—I made it my own.
I keep a mental map of every table, every VIP, every potential problem. My job is to run this place like a diamond-encrusted machine—and if trouble sparks, I snuff it out before security even unclips their radios.
And yeah, I do it all with hips that could stop traffic and a chest HR has politely suggested I “minimize.”
Spoiler: I don’t.
My curves aren’t apologies; they’re warnings. I wear them like a signature.
We pass a high-limit room host waving us down. I lift a finger—on it—then keep moving.
The first rule of running the floor?
If Anatoly Ovechkin steps onto the floor, you notice.
Even if you’re pretending not to.
Anatoly Ovechkin isn’t just the boss—he’s the kind of man who walks into a room and the air shifts like it’s been given new instructions.
He transformed the Hospitium into the top tier of Vegas profits.
