Page 92 of Owned By The Bratva King

Carrie greets us with a warm smile and sets down her cup. We sit, and I cradle her hand in my lap. Her fingers are thin, her skin blueish and mottled, and I try to tuck them under the blanket.

“Don’t fuss, my Quinn.” She chuckles at my fussing. “I can’t feel the cold anymore. Esmeralda says the blue color will work its way to the middle, and when it gets to my heart, I will finally go.” She closes her eyes. “I’m ready.”

“Would you like us to stay?” Roman asks. “You needn’t be alone, no matter how long you hang on.”

He’s hiding it well, but I know how desperately he wants to see this through—not just for her but also for his mother and everyone else who Fate denied a loving hand to hold at the end.

Carrie furrows her brow, turning to face Roman as though she’s only now aware of him. “Why, Winston,” she says, her voice reduced to an awe-struck whisper. “When did you get here?”

“I never went far,” Roman replies. He wraps his large hand around her delicate one. “You knew I’d wait.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. What a wonderful man he is. It would be easier for him to dodge this emotional responsibility and tell her she’s mistaken.

How simple it would be to remind her that her beloved husband is dead, has been so for years, and she’s imagining things. But no—he’s leaning into it and doing whatever it takes to comfort her.

Carrie extracts her hand from mine and picks up her teacup. “You know what this is?” she asks. “It’s whisky. I wasn’t allowed it before, but this handsome man brought it for me as a present.”

I arch a brow at Roman, and he shrugs. “She asked for it. You know me; I hate to say no to the women in my life.”

Carrie takes a sip and settles back in her chair. Then she whips her head to stare at Roman.

“Oh, goodness,” she exclaims. “I thought you were my husband. And look at him, Quinn, working his charms on me. Right in front of you, too!”

We laugh despite everything. She is still her glorious self, but it won’t last. I’d do anything to preserve these precious minutes, but they’re passing too quickly, like water trickling through my fingers.

“Sweetheart, help me,” she says. “I want to go for a walk.”

“Really?” I stand, allowing her to lean on me. “It’s kinda breezy, and you haven’t been on the beach since?—”

“Quinn.” She clutches my arm, rising to her feet, and I realize she’s barefoot. “I want to sit on the sand and watch the sun go down, like Winston and I used to. Then I’ll know he’s here for real.”

“Go,” Roman says, removing his coat and wrapping it around my shoulders. “She needs you.”

Carrie and I sit with our knees bent, toes burrowing into the sand. She rests against me, her head nestled into my shoulder as the sun eases below the horizon.

Waves foam as they kiss our feet, barely touching at first but getting closer until they lap at our ankles.

“You should keep the house,” she says. “Fill it with love and happiness, as Winston and I did. Promise me?”

“Sure. Anything.”

I could say so many things, but none seem important enough. I thought I would die when Silvio Vercotti held a gun to my head, but I didn’t have time to contemplate it.

Carrie has had months to stare her mortality in the eye, but of all my millions of questions, only one stands out.

“Are you afraid?” I ask.

She draws a deep breath. “Not anymore.”

“So you were afraid before? What changed?”

“I never feared for myself,” she says. “I’m old, and old people die. It’s the natural order. It was you I worried about. I knew you needed someone to take care of you, and despite all your big talk, things were not okay. Until you met Roman, of course.”

I was crazy to think I could fool her that I was doing fine. I never told her about the horrible business with Julian and Vercotti, but I did clue her in about my husband’s criminal proclivities. She was unsurprised; she’d called it already but left it to me to get to the truth myself.

“I believe in him,” she continues. “It takes a lot for a man like yours to open up and surrender his heart. He’s risked everything for you, and that’s what love has to be—a risk. If you have nothing to lose, what can you possibly gain?”

“We’ll be fine,” I say. “Roman and I have been through a lot together. He will be there for me; I know it.”

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