Page 83 of Under His Control
Each pointless debate frays my patience further, but I keep my mask of cool indifference perfectly intact. To show frustration is a weakness, and weakness in Vegas real estate is lethal.
The vibration of my phone pulls me from my internal fury. I open the message, and my jaw tightens.
It’s from Damas.
Come home immediately. There’s something you need to know about your lovely bride.
The wording is deliberate, bitter. Damas is many things, but he's rarely cryptic without purpose. Unease coils inside me, and I excuse myself, stepping out of the room.
I hit dial, pacing impatiently as the line connects.
Damas answers curtly, “Not on the phone. Come home.”
“What the hell is going on?” I growl.
He chuckles humorlessly. “Trust me, brother. You’ll want to hear this face-to-face.”
He hangs up abruptly, leaving the phone dead in my ear.
Frustrated, I send a quick text to Taylor, fingers tight with tension.
Everything okay?
A reply doesn’t come. Minutes tick by, every second of silence amplifying the sickening dread pooling inside me. Something is off. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good.
Panic flares, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I shove it down and replace it with purpose. Action solves more problems than idle fear ever could.
I dismiss the attendees and leave the building. I slide behind the wheel of my car, the engine roaring to life, vibrating through my bones. Traffic snarls as usual, a sluggish monster indifferent to urgency. My grip on the wheel tightens as my imagination spins dark scenarios.
It takes twenty agonizing minutes to reach theHospitium, and another two minutes waiting impatiently at the elevator to my penthouse. Every second grates against my skin, fraying nerves already raw.
The elevator finally opens to the top floor. I step into the foyer, feeling dread spreading like frost through my veins as I open my front door.
Damas lounges in my leather armchair, a tumbler of whiskey dangling from careless fingertips. His expression is smug, self-satisfied, as if he just orchestrated the perfect trap.
Taylor stands by the vast panoramic windows, her curvaceous form silhouetted by Vegas’s glittering lights. My pulse quickens at the mere sight of her, tension easing for a fraction of a second to see that she is unharmed. Then she turns, eyes wide, face pale and drawn. Fear shines in her gaze, and something inside me clenches tight.
“Anatoly,” she whispers.
Damas opens his mouth, a mocking taunt forming, but Taylor moves first, dashing across the room. She throws herself into my embrace, her body trembling. I instinctively wrap my arms around her, holding her close, protecting her from an unseen threat.
“Are you hurt?” I ask urgently, fingers sliding through her hair, down her back, seeking injuries. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No, not physically,” she says with a shaky voice, burying her face into my chest, seeking shelter there. Her warmth, her scent, anchors me instantly.
Damas snorts, rising from his seat. “God, you’re whipped, Anatoly. One well-timed tear and you’re ready to tear this city apart.”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “Explain.”
“Oh no,” Damas smirks, sipping his whiskey slowly. “I’m going to let her do that.”
Taylor pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting mine. “Chris was downstairs at the casino tonight, gambling with Ivan’s men—thetwo that accompanied him on his uninvited visit to your office. I confronted him. We argued. He lashed out, said some awful things.”
“What kind of things?” I prompt, my voice dangerously low.
Damas chuckles darkly. “She’s avoiding the best part. Tell him the secret your brother let slip Taylor. Tell him or I will.”
Taylor flinches visibly, spinning toward him. “Shut up, Damas. You have no right!”
