Page 81 of Under His Control
TAYLOR
Istep into the elevator, my body buzzing like a live wire, and hit the button for the penthouse. Damas steps in behind me like this is just another Tuesday and not the aftermath of my brother trying to self-destruct in front of a pair of Bratva thugs.
Again.
I cross my arms and keep my eyes glued to the floor numbers passing by, pretending I don’t know he’s watching me. My heart’s still hammering.
I don’t look at Damas. I’m worried he saw something. He’s too sharp to have missed it. And Chris’s comment about how I can’t have kids…if Damas overheard that then he knows something’s off. At least enough to make me nervous.
Sounds like there’s something you need to tell my brother.
What was he referring to?
“You know,” Damas says finally, voice calm and conversational, “when we were kids, Anatoly used to win everything.”
I blink in confusion.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “Spelling bees. Science fairs. Math competitions. Shit, the guy even won a chess tournament when he was eight.Eight. I mean, what kind of nerd plays chess at that young of an age?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks straight ahead, expression neutral, hands in his pockets.
“Sounds like you’re keeping score,” I mutter.
He chuckles, low and smooth. “Only the games that matter.”
The elevator hums beneath our feet, a slow climb that feels more like a countdown. I try to breathe evenly, but my chest is tight. Every floor we pass presses down on me a little harder.
“He ever tell you about the last Moscow trip?” he asks casually.
I shake my head. “Can’t say he did.”
“Of course not,” Damas says. “It was the first time Papa let him tag along on a business deal. It was a big meeting with old-money-type investors. I was nine. Anatoly was twelve. I remember packing my bag, thinking I was going, too.”
His voice becomes lighter, almost boyish. It throws me for a second.
“Papa walked in, saw my suitcase, and laughed. He said, ‘This trip is for the future of the family. Not the spare.’” Damas leans back against the mirrored wall.
There’s something bitter in his smile, something wounded.
“Anatoly came back with a new suit, a gold watch, and a smirk that didn’t fade for weeks. Me? I got a T-shirt.”
I exhale slowly, watching him.
“Is that why you’ve got a chip on your shoulder?” I ask. “Because he got to be the golden boy?”
He shrugs. “You tell me. You’ve seen how he walks into a room, how everyone listens when he speaks, how he doesn't even need to raise his voice to get attention. He’s always been the one they expected greatness from. But me? I was the one they expected to stay out of the way.”
I want to feel sorry for him. I do. There’s something real there in the way his expression tightens, the sad look in his eyes. But I’ve seen too much of what bitterness turns into. I’ve lived too long cleaning up the wreckage of men with daddy issues.
“I’m not here to pick sides,” I tell him.
Damas laughs under his breath. “You picked the day you married him.”
I shift on my feet. “That wasn’t love at first sight, you know.”
He looks amused. “No?”
“No. It was barely tolerance at first sight.” I glance at him.
