Page 97 of Under His Control
He glances at me. “You were protecting yours.”
“That doesn’t mean I had to go for the jugular.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You weren’t wrong.”
A beat passes before he straightens in his seat. “He’s here.”
A gray sedan slows near the curb, rolling to a stop beside us. The man who steps out is tall and lean, wearing a charcoal suit, a gun holstered just beneath the jacket. His eyes are sharp, military-sharp. Cop-sharp. Like he cataloged every potential threat on this street before his door even opened.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Detective Alexei Boone,” Anatoly replies. “Vegas PD. Old friend. He owes me one.”
Boone walks up to Anatoly’s side of the car and taps the window. Anatoly rolls it down.
“You sure this is where he’s got the kid?” Boone asks, cutting right to it. His voice is calm and precise.
“Yes,” Anatoly confirms. “You have backup?”
“Close,” Boone replies, pulling something from his pocket. A slim, black walkie. He passes it through the window. “Press and hold. Mic’s live. Anything goes sideways, I’m going in.”
His eyes shift to me. He looks me over, not in a creepy way, but more like he’s measuring whether I’ll panic or fight. I lift my chin.
“You sure she’s coming in?”
“She’s sure,” Anatoly answers, giving me a side-long glance.
Boone nods once. “Then be quick. Don’t play chess with him. You’re walking into a trap.”
That makes my heart thump faster.
“Thanks for being here,” I tell him.
Boone raises a brow. “Let’s hope you don’t actually need me.”
The walk to the house feels like a slow-motion march toward danger.
The houses around us appear empty—no cars, no lights, no noise. Just crickets, and the sound of our footstep crunching over the sidewalk. Anatoly keeps close to my side, his fingers brushing mine every so often, like he’s reassuring himself I’m still there.
My body hums with nerves. My mouth is dry. Every part of me screams that this is wrong.
Damas opens the front door before we even have the chance to knock.
He leans against the frame like he’s hosting a dinner party, wearing a fitted navy suit and an easy smile.
“Welcome,” he says, stepping aside. “Glad you found the place.”
The stench hits first—mildew, dust, cheap cleaning supplies, and something metallic underneath. The house looks even worse inside. The floors are warped, the drywall cracked. But it’s the floor that gives me pause.
Plastic.
Lots of it. Covering the perimeter of the entire living room. Crinkling under my feet like a horror movie warning.
My stomach flips. Anatoly’s hand slides to the small of my back, grounding me.
“What is this?” I ask, voice low.
“Painting prep,” Damas says casually, gesturing around the room like a proud renovator. “You know how it is—Vegas real estate waits for no man.”
