Page 29 of Owned By The Bratva King

“And do you know Ms. Quinn well?” The paparazzo smirks. “A close friend?”

Roman rolls his shoulders. “Not at all. An acquaintance.”

“Is there anyone special in your life?”

Roman buttons his jacket and steps forward. “No one at all.”

“Okay, if you say so. Quick shot?” The man waves a hand at me. “Can you move in, please, ma’am?”

I glance at Roman, but he isn’t looking at me. Coldness creeps up my spine as the euphoria of what just happened crashes to the ground. “I’d rather not,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I need to get back to work.”

The walk back to the bakery feels like a thousand miles, and I’d swear the rain is getting heavier by the second. When I push open the door, my hair is plastered to my skull, and my shame has washed off my skin.

“Woah!” Katrina tosses me a clean dishcloth. “Take a minute and get dry. The rush is over.”

I rub my hair. “You been okay?”

“Sure,” she grins. “Only three deaths. Nothing serious.”

I smile weakly and go into the back to change. It’s then that the sadness hits.

It’s not as though I expected Roman to declare me the love of his life, but if that’s what I get for letting down my guard, more fool me. Better build it right back up.

My phone pings, making me jump; I left it in my jacket pocket. I grab it and frown at the screen. Unknown number?

Relax, rusalka. I’ll be back for more.

22

Roman

Damn this fucking idiot opportunist. I can’t blame him for following me—a photo of me will always sell—but did it have to happen now?

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Kazanov,” the paparazzo says, scratching his ass as he turns away. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

“You got a job to do, friend,” I reply. “But remember not to push your luck.”

He nods. “You got it. So long.”

Unlike Quinn, the man strolls away like he has all the time in the world. She looked like she wanted to run as fast and as far as she could.

Understandable. I fucked her face in public, then posed for a photo like it never happened. Worst of all, I denied even knowing her.

I have my reasons. It won’t do to have anyone know how obsessed I’ve become. Leon and Viktor are not guys I have to worry about, but even their good-natured jibes are getting to me.

There are only two options: keep her a secret or draw her so deep into my dark world that she might drown. Neither is palatable, but a man like me does not have the luxury of dating and seeing how it goes. Not when the woman in question is a civilian.

With mafia princesses, it’s always arranged ahead of time, a done deal. By the time you go on the first date, you’re already engaged, and whether or not you actually like each other is irrelevant.

I’ve always said I wouldn’t play those games, so I had no attachments or liabilities. When Bianca died, I lost the last person who truly mattered. Now her home is boarded up, a ruin, and I thought my heart was the same, but I'm no longer so sure.

I got what I wanted, or at least some of it; I felt Quinn’s mouth on my cock, drenched her in my come, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

I could demand she close the bakery right now, but Katrina is there, and I don’t want to put the girl in an awkward position. I’m far more interested in what positions I can get Quinn into?—

My cell is ringing. It’s Leon, probably wanting me to rain down my vengeful ire on some unfortunate fuckwit who’s tried to play games with my organization.

I set off walking, kicking a trashcan in fury as I slide the button to green. “What?” I snap.

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