Page 7 of Under His Control
“They’re not exactly into diplomacy,” he says finally. “And it’s not the first time I’ve screwed up.”
I curse under my breath. “Oh my God, you’ve done this before?”
“Not like this. Last time was minor, and they let it slide. I didn’t think—” His voice falters. “I didn’t think they’d actually come after me.”
“Well, you were wrong,” I snap. “And now you’re trying to drag me into your mess.”
He goes quiet again, then he sighs. For a second, I hope he might be having his “come to Jesus” moment, when he admits what a screwup he’s been and shows some contrition.
“So, are you going to help me or not?”
“I just—” my words break off as I try to force down the anger that surges like molten lava in my chest. “You keep doing this, Chris. Jail stints, rehab, any high-stakes fiasco you get into. You always drag me into it. This one, though, this one might actually get you, or both of us, killed.”
My voice trembles despite my best efforts to remain calm.
“I don’t know where else to turn,” he mumbles. “You’re the only family I have left.”
A pang of guilt hits my gut. He’s the only family I have, too, which is why I can’t just hang up and ignore this and pretend I never received his call. Even though he’s reckless and borderline toxic, he’s still my kid brother. “Chris, you owe them more than I make in a year.”
I stare at the overhead light fixture, the one that flickers whenever my neighbor upstairs uses the microwave. I think for a moment about how my day off was supposed to be devoted to rest, maybe even a bubble bath.
“What about installments?” I ask. “Maybe they’ll let you pay a little bit each month?”
He snorts. “Come on, Tay. This is the Bratva; they’re going to want it all back in one lump sum. Besides, when you’ve got a reputation like mine, people don’t exactly trust you to make monthly installments. Plus, with what I’d be able to afford, it would take an entire lifetime—or two—to pay it back.”
“Look,” I say, my voice sounding tired, “I’ll think about it and see if I can come up with some sort of solution. But you’ve placed me in an impossible situation.”
He gives me a bitter snort. “Sure. Thanks a lot.”
“Chris—”’
“Listen. I need your help. If I don’t get it, I’m fucked. Do whatever you want with that info, but I’m dead if I don’t pay them back.”
He hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, my phone still pressed against my ear, listening to dead air. My mind is swirling. On the TV, the hosts of some midday talk show chime in with forced laughter,as if mocking my predicament. Anger blooms in my chest; not just at Chris for being unbelievably stupid, but at myself for caring so damn much.
I lower the phone. This is so classic. He fucks up, then dumps the problem in my lap and disappears, trusting I’ll do what I always do—fix it. But this isn’t a parking ticket or the drunk tank in the county jail.
This is the Bratva.
I turn off the TV and stare at my reflection in the dark screen—I look pale, wide-eyed, and stricken with fear. Panic threatens to take over, but I shove it down and start mentally rifling through my options.
I could sell my car, but I’d be lucky to get enough to cover rent. I could take a second job, but that would be useless, because the Russians want their money now. I could go to a loan shark, but that would be trading one violent threat for another.
I have no good choices, only desperation.
Suddenly, I think of Anatoly Ovechkin,my boss. Not simply the guy above me, he’stheboss,the big cheese.
Mr. Ovechkin is the quiet force behind theHospitium. The few times I’ve seen him on the casino floor, the air itself seemed to still. He’s tall, ruthless, impossible to ignore—and quite possibly connected to the very people threatening my brother.
We’ve talked a few times. Nothing major, and only in a group setting. There’s something about him, though, something irresistible, something magnetic, despite how scary he is.
Or hell, maybe even because of it.
I sit on the edge of the couch, gripping my phone until my knuckles ache. Could I actually ask him for help? He probably doesn’t even know my name.
Whispers follow him like shadows—Russian connections, Bratva alliances, billionaire clout.
