Page 31 of Owned By The Bratva King

I can stand no more. “If Bianca loved you so much, why did she kill herself? She was pregnant, Silvio. You knew that. Why would my sister shoot herself if she wasn’t heartbroken?” I clench my fists. “You’re deluded. It’s sick.”

“Whatever you say.” Silvio shrugs and gives me his back. “I’m going to get coffee and a cake. You’re welcome to stay right here or go fuck yourself someplace else, but this conversation is done.”

The thought of him speaking to Quinn enrages me. There’s no way I’m letting him walk in there; he’s a rude, arrogant piece of shit, and now he’s in a bad mood.

If he so much as looks at my woman in a way that upsets her, I’ll be left with no choice but to cave in his skull on the sidewalk, in full view of the patrons. Even with my considerable leverage with the law, it’d be hard to get away with that one.

I get in my car and slam the door, firing up the engine. Am I gonna do this?

Fuck yes. Silvio Vercotti is a lying, overreaching weasel, and he tried to have me killed. All things considered, I’ve shown a lot of restraint, but now I’m gonna let off a little steam.

Silvio steps aside as I drive slowly behind him. As I gather speed to pass, he flips me off, and I make my move, turning the wheel sharply. The car bumps twice as the front and rear tires run over the whole of Silvio’s left foot.

“Arrgh!” he cries. “You psychotic cunt!”

I wind down the window as I pull away. “Takes one to know one. As the saying goes—better watch your fucking step.”

23

Quinn

The afternoon passes in a blur. I move like an automaton, serving customers as though I’m running on a program, but all the while, my mind spins with thoughts that crash into one another, jostling for space.

I wasn’t in the photos with Roman. I didn’t have to make a thing of it because he acted like I was a stranger, but I can’t have a high profile. Being photographed with a billionaire and splashed across the newspapers is a surefire way to draw attention to myself.

Uncle Julian may find me. It’s always been a risk—true, I don’t know if he’s even looking, but if he finds out my circumstances have improved, he’ll be far more motivated. That asshole was only ever in it for the welfare.

The state paid him good money to be my guardian; he took every penny for himself. Why would he change the habit of a lifetime if he thought he could steal from me again?

Julian always said I’d end up a whore on the streets without him, and maybe he was right. I was functionally homeless, only saved by the man who followed me to the park and fucked my face until I was breathless. That’s not what good girls do.

But then again, good girls wouldn’t buy dildos and leave the chain off the door, hoping for a sexy but dangerous Russian to drop by.

As we close up for the evening, Katrina gives me a nudge. “I know that guy from earlier, you know. Roman Kazanov?”

I try not to tense up. “Oh, really?” I say, my voice too high-pitched to sound natural. “Which guy was that?”

“The stupidly handsome Russian billionaire. You should pay more attention to who comes in here!” She sprays the counter with cleaner and sets about wiping it down. “His company bought this place. I used to work for him in another one of his businesses, and he offered me the job here.”

I look Katrina up and down, feeling suddenly inferior. Her willowy frame and long blonde hair make me feel like a beached whale in an ombre wig. Does Roman just like to keep his various women on a short leash?

“That’s kind of him,” I say, avoiding her eyes. “Do you know him well?”

“Nah, but then again, no one does. They say he’s difficult to get close to. Cold. Shame, with a face like his.”

I stay silent, so she carries on. “He’s had a few flings in recent years, but nothing serious. He likes to toy with his women, but they don’t seem to mind. He gets what he wants; I’m sure his bank balance doesn’t hurt his prospects. He prefers to keep people at a distance.”

My eyes begin to water, and I pretend to sneeze. “Sorry,” I say. I swear the flour and sugar form their own weather system here. Give it a week, and you’ll be as bad as me.”

I lock up, and as we stand on the sidewalk outside, Katrina gives me an awkward little hug. “It’s great working with you,” she says. “I’ll be here whenever you need me. You’re the boss now; don’t bust your ass when you can make me bust mine! What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

I think of all the dark mornings when I rolled pastry here alone. Only days ago, it felt like that would be my life. What is my life now?

“I think we should change it up,” I say. “Let’s stop opening at six a.m. and aim for seven thirty. That’ll catch enough business without us needing a sherpa to carry our under-eye bags. How about you start baking at six, open an hour and a half later, and I’ll come in a bit after that.” I pause, wondering if I’m asking too much. “If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

Katrina nods. “You got it, babe. See you then!”

It takes some time to get to Two Pines on the subway and bus, and by the time I arrive, the sun is low, casting spidery shadows through the bare branches of the trees.

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