Page 13 of Owned By The Bratva King

The man smiles. “She was, ma’am. This establishment is now owned by Rokaz Asset Management, and as I said, I’m here to ensure the place continues to run smoothly.”

“What did you say your name was?” I ask.

“Viktor Lurakov, Director of Operations, East Coast.”

I take the offered business card, and he holds the door open. “After you.”

Two Russians in one day. It’s not surprising: there are many wealthy people from all over the world living in this city. Jeanette grumbled about how she wanted to sell up but could never find a buyer, so maybe she got lucky.

“So you’re saying you want me to run the bakery as a manager and hire people to work under me?” I see the plate and cup beside the stool where Roman sat and shudder involuntarily. “I mean, I can do that, but not on my current pay rate.”

“Of course not,” Viktor replies. He’s not quite as tall as Roman but has a devilish handsomeness, with eyes like cut diamonds. “We’d start you on one hundred and fifty thousand.”

He smiles as my jaw drops. “Our conglomerate finances several initiatives each year. Our patronage comes with a few upgrades—better security, new equipment, that kind of thing.”

I’ve heard of this. Prominent local business mentors a tiny one. Good PR.

“So what happens today?” I shuffle from one foot to the other. “I came here to open the place for trade.”

My guest shakes his head. “We’ll be installing alarms and cameras, refitting the counters and workspace, you name it. Give us a couple of days. In the meantime, we’ll advertise for someone to replace you as a shopgirl. You need to get used to being in charge before we think about expansion.”

I don’t know what to say, so I nod, trying to take it in. I can’t tell this man that I have nowhere to go. On the other hand, I have the day off and a tale to tell, so there is one place I could head for.

“So I guess you’ll let me know when I’m needed, right?”

“You got it. Keep that card safe in case you need to call me. If you have any problems with anything,” he pauses, raising an eyebrow, “you let me know. Alright?”

I stop outside the door and unzip my purse. I’ll find my Metro card and hot-foot it to Two Pines. Wait until Carrie hears what?—

I give a short yelp of surprise, and a passerby gives me a funny look. I shrug as she moves on before looking again, half-expecting to see nothing unusual.

I was right the first time. A wad of notes rolled and clean, secured with an elastic band. A wad so thick, it could choke a hippo.

I snatch my Metro card and pocket it, closing my purse hastily. There’s no way I can think about that now, but it’s more money than I’ve ever seen.

It takes a while to reach Two Pines, and when I arrive, I’m saddened to see the building looking run-down. The driveway needs sweeping, and wet leaves are rotting in the gutters.

The home is safe, but the care is basic unless the residents can afford to pay for extras. Without her own funding, Carrie gets what she needs but little of what she wants. Knowing she’ll spend the rest of her short life in this shoddy place hurts my heart.

When the matron opens the door, I’m hit by a reassuring blast of warm air. “Carrie has been asleep all morning,” she tells me, leading me through the day room. “She woke up for lunch. Managed a soft egg and one of her build-up milkshakes. Her stomach is sore, so we’ve hooked her up to something to help keep her food down.”

She stops at Carrie’s door and knocks. “Miss Quinn to see you,” she calls before padding away down the corridor.

I open the door to find her sitting in an armchair by her window. I don’t know why she loves that seat; the only view is the dingy gray parking lot. Then I realize her eyes are closed.

“Carrie,” I say softly. “You okay?”

“Hello, sweetheart,” she replies, her eyelids fluttering. She fixes her watery blue eyes on mine and smiles. “I was a bit sickly after eating, but they’ve got me some fluids and medicine in here,” she gestures to the IV drip attached to her arm, “so I’m already feeling much better. I wasn’t expecting you today. Is everything alright?”

I don’t know. Since the day began, I’ve been held captive at a luxurious hotel by a terrifyingly attractive man with a gunshot wound. I escaped—a fact that feels more ludicrous every time I think about it—and went to work, only to find somebody had bought out the bakery and put me in charge.

Oh, and there’s an indecent amount of cash in my purse, presumably placed there by my kidnapper to bribe me into keeping quiet.

I can’t tell Carrie anything. What if she lets it slip to one of her nurses? I mean, it’s unlikely anyone cares what one elderly, terminally ill lady does or doesn’t know, but I can’t risk it.

“Sorry, yes,” I say, sitting beside her. “Everything’s fine. Sugar Rush is having a refit, so I have some time off.”

“And you’re wasting it on me?” Her laugh turns into a cough, and I pour her some water. “Thank you, dear,” she says, sipping her drink. “Surely you have a million fun things to do with other young people rather than hanging out with a fossil like me.”

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