Page 42 of Owned By The Bratva King

Quinn

The voices outside call me, telling me to come to the door. Saying I can’t hide forever.

They’re right—I can’t. I was naive to think I could bury my head and pretend to be someone else.

My uncle will find me now, of course. What then? The whole sordid story will come out; drug-addled dad, frightened mom. Big debts, big risks, and big mistakes. Mistakes that cost them their lives.

I didn’t meet my Uncle Julian until the will was read. My parents had nothing to bequeath to anyone, but if they had, it wouldn’t have gone to him; he despised my mother and always had.

In the aftermath of my parent’s deaths, he was determined to gain custody of me and made impassioned pleas to the family courts until they relented and granted a guardianship order. When he moved into my house, I understood what a bad person he was.

As a foster carer, Julian was entitled to money from the state, supposedly to pay for my care. That was all he wanted; a free house and hand-outs so he could spend his time watching porn and drinking with his nasty buddies.

I learned quickly how to do my own washing, and at school, I was always clean and tidy, so no one suspected a thing. I distanced myself from my old friends out of shame; at home, I became a slave, cooking and cleaning for my uncle and his cronies.

I was thirteen when the threats began.

You can’t hide forever, Quinn. Get your fat ass out here and let my buddies show you a good time!

I would lock myself in my bedroom and barricade the door, hoping they’d lose interest, and eventually, they always did.

I overate, trying to put them off with my ample curves, and somehow, I made it to fifteen without being raped. I lived in fear daily and spent as much time out of the house as possible.

Then Julian announced we were moving with some friends to start a business in Harrisburg. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he told me I would be ‘homeschooled.’

Every inch of me was seized with a primal terror, and that same day, I raided Julian’s wallet and fled for New York City without a backward glance.

Now I’m the love interest of a Russian billionaire. Or the fuck toy of a manipulative, controlling asshole, depending on your perspective.

Roman’s voice emanates from the TV, pulling me from my thoughts. He’s standing in front of glass doors, looking calm and composed, as if he has not a care in the world. Figures.

“This speculation is overblown, to put it mildly,” he says. “Miss Sullivan is the manager of a bakery my company recently acquired—I’m happy to confirm that.”

I shift in my seat, the dull throb of my pussy reminding me of last night. Will he deny me now and claim I don’t matter?”

“The nature of my relationship with Miss Sullivan will become clear in the fullness of time,” Roman continues. “Until then, you may regard it as business and pleasure.”

I blush and wrap my arms around my knees.

“I’m used to this kind of attention. That said, I am furious about this crass invasion of Miss Sullivan’s privacy, and therefore, I insist all journalists and news outlets leave her alone.”

He stares straight down the lens. “I mean it. Desist now, or you’ll be in court tomorrow. Thank you.” Then he gives his back to the camera and goes inside, ignoring the barked questions and flashbulbs.

Outside, I hear car doors and engines firing up. The press pack must have been watching and are taking Roman’s threat of legal action seriously. Within a couple of minutes, the street is empty, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I return to my bedroom and dig in the closet to find my phone. It’s down to ten percent battery, and I plug it in just as a message pings up.

Hi Rusalka. Are they gone?

I tap out a reply.

Yes. What now?

Stay put. My friend Leon will collect you. Pack an overnight bag.

Where are we going?

You’ll see.

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