Page 2 of Owned By The Bratva King

I raise my head to see a man removing his heavy woolen overcoat. There’s nothing unusual about that. The first of many early commuters, dropping in for coffee on his way to join the rat race. Then I notice he’s brought the sandwich board in with him.

The man stares at me for a moment, then turns away. He flips the door sign over to ‘closed,’ reaches into his pocket, and, to my horror, holds up my key. I must have dropped it outside.

“Looking for this?” he asks. His accent is pure uptown, with a hint of something else I can’t place.

He drapes his coat over a chair, and I clap my hand over my mouth. His shirt is drenched in blood from his left shoulder all the way down his chest and arm.

I can’t find my voice, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He locks the door and pockets the key before lowering the blind against prying eyes.

What is going on? What does he want?

The man approaches the counter and carefully settles himself on a barstool, glancing at his bloodied arm. His eyes are a startling silver, and he doesn’t hesitate to hold me with his gaze. I blanch, shrinking away, and he surprises me with a disarming smile that dimples his stubbled cheeks.

“I could kill for an espresso right now, rusalka,” he says.

2

Quinn

His voice is deep and even, but it still shocks me. I wasn’t sure he was real until I heard him ask me for coffee as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

There’s a fresh pot ready, but I can’t move. Who is this guy who is committed to caffeine yet blasé about a gunshot wound? There can be no good answer to a question like that, surely.

The sheen of his shirt speaks volumes. He has money—heaps of it. I wonder if he’ll be able to get the blood out. It might be okay if he got it to soak with an excellent biological stain remover.

No matter; he probably has a closet crammed with beautiful bespoke tailoring. The resale value of my entire worldly possessions wouldn’t cover the cost of his shoes alone. And I doubt he does his own laundry.

“I asked for coffee.” He nods at the machine. “Strong and short. What else is hot?”

You. The thought comes unbidden to my mind, but it’s true. His bone structure is the kind that Renaissance sculptors loved to immortalize, crowned by thick wavy hair that’s shorn close at the sides. A touch of salt and pepper at his temples sets off those ridiculously intense eyes, and the edge of a chest tattoo crests the loosened neckline of his shirt.

He’s still smiling. His face embodies a confidence I can’t muster at the best of times, and certainly not in these circumstances.

I blink, remembering he asked me a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I want to know what’s fresh out of the oven,” he says. That smirk again. “I assume you know, seeing as you’re doing the baking. So calm down and go about your business.”

“Oh!” I glance at the cooling racks behind me. “The cinnamon buns are wonderful when they’re warm. The frosting has pistachio and cardamom in it?—”

“Shhh.” The stranger holds his finger to his lips. “You’re talking too fast. I understand this situation is unusual for you, but you need to get a grip. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Good girl,” he cocks his head to see my badge, “Quinn. Pretty name.” He takes this week’s New Yorker from the rack on the counter. “If you think the pistachio and cardamom cinnamon buns are good, that’s what I’ll have. Take a few deep breaths, pour the coffee, and get one for yourself. You won’t have any more customers today.”

I turn away, my hand shaking as I shake beans into the grinder. Something about this man’s demeanor demands my obedience.

Pretty name. Well, that’s all I’ve got. I’m here with my hair sticking to my face, flushed cheeks, and a filthy apron. My face is just as scary; I’m pale and tired, with dark rings around my eyes.

Even with his injury, the interloper is from another world, a wealthy, sophisticated world where losers like me are only allowed in to serve. There’s more to it, though; he’s been shot, yet he’s in no hurry to go to the hospital.

Let’s not contemplate the implications of that. Just get his food.

The counter on the customer side is little more than a ledge with two stools. Jeanette thinks it gives the place a European feel; apparently, firing down an espresso and a pastry in half a minute is a mood for Italian commuters. I’m not used to having anyone hanging around, and this man has been here too long by far. What if he… doesn’t leave?

I put the cinnamon bun and coffee down in front of the stranger but don’t see him move until it’s too late. His hand wraps my wrist, and I yelp.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs. His grip is insistent yet painless, and I freeze. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

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