Page 101 of Under His Control
Taylor’s sobs echo against the peeling wallpaper and exposed beams. Her clothes are soaked with blood. Her hands are shaking. Her voice is a broken whisper against Chris’s cheek.
“Stay with me, please, please stay with me…”
“You need to put that damn gun away,” I say coldly to Damas. “And let me get Chris help.”
Damas laughs. “Help? Now you care?” He gestures to the moaning boy on the ground. “That little punk’s been nothing but a walking liability since the day she dragged him into our lives. He mouthed off. Thought he could act like a big man around Bratva company. You saw it.”
“And you shot him.”
“He deserved it.” Damas moves to the corner of the room, resting a hand on the back of a broken chair. “He reminds me of you, actually. Smug. So sure he could talk his way out of anything.”
I clench my jaw. “You shot him because he reminded you of me?”
“No,” Damas says coolly. “I shot him because I wanted your attention.”
His smile fades. “You act like it’s some sort of tragedy. But this?” He gestures around with his gun, “This is the moment everything finally makes sense. The moment I stop being the spare and start being the one who decides.”
“You’ve been making decisions your whole life. “Every disaster, every mess, every burned bridge—that was your doing, based on the shots you called.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “and this time I’m calling one that actually gets me something.”
“And your plan is what? Kill me and hope nobody notices?”
He tilts his head. “Not kill. Remove. Shift. Relocate.”
I stare at him, disgust creeping up my spine. “That’s not a plan. That’s desperation.”
He smirks. “Call it whatever you want. The outcome’s the same.”
Taylor gasps, and I look down to see her trying to keep pressure on Chris’s abdomen. Her arms are slick with blood. She meets my eyes, panic breaking through her usual fire.
I need to keep Damas talking. My thumb continues to press down on the walkie-talkie button.
He steps closer, hands casually in his pockets like we’re old friends catching up over coffee.
“Fatherhood,” Damas says. “It’s official now, isn’t it? You’ve got your heir.”
My heartbeat spikes.
“I never realized you hated me this much.”
He scoffs. “This isn’t about hate, big brother. Hate’s for amateurs. This is about legacy. Money. Power. You want to care about love, honor, and all that sentimental crap? Fine. I care about owning this city.”
I see the shift in his eyes, the cold resolve.
He raises the gun again.
“Anatoly, no!” Taylor screams.
I slam into him, hard. The gun fires wild—exploding a lamp behind us—and then we’re on the ground, grappling. The plastic-lined floor slides beneath us, our feet scrambling for traction. My shoulder hits the wall. He’s stronger, heavier. I feel him trying to twist his way on top.
I can’t let that happen.
I drive my elbow into his ribs and hear the breath punch out of him. He snarls and swings, catching my jaw. Pain flashes white across my vision, but I shove back with everything I’ve got.
We roll. The gun slips between us. His fingers graze the trigger again—no time.
I grab his collar and heave with my legs, tossing him backward.
