Page 46 of Owned By The Bratva King

“Drinks,” he says. “Down to the saloon deck.” He kisses the back of my hand. “Quinn, moya zhena. Viktor will go with you. I have to hang back a minute and talk to Leon.”

36

Roman

Ienjoy the view as my new wife walks away. With an ass like that, I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave.

Quinn is mine, all above board and legal. If Vercotti or anyone else attempts to harm her, there will be hell to pay, and I will have the righteous fury of the bratva komissiya behind me.

“You know something?” I ask Leon. “I’ve always wondered about Silvio Vercotti. I tried to heal the rift between us and offered to bring him into the fold many times, but he insisted on hating me from a distance, running his scams and two-bit business interests. He doesn’t have my power or influence and no friends he can depend on, but despite all this, he could have killed me many times over.”

“How so?” Leon asks, frowning.

I sigh and lean on the deck’s railing. “I hate how it all went down. He was deluded about Bianca, sure, but he was as devastated by her death as I was. He may be the only person who knows how I feel, trying to live in this shitty world without her. That urge to be understood would have been my downfall if he had enough sense to leverage it.”

There’s another possibility that has troubled me incessantly ever since I met Quinn.

Silvio tried to have me killed that night but didn’t have the guts or the will to do it himself. Now Lubomski tells us Silvio plans to attack my home. He’s never done it before; why now?

He knows Quinn means something to me. By marrying her, I have declared my position, and now she’s out of bounds as per bratva law.

It may be too much to assume Silvio Vercotti gives a shit about rules, and in striving to protect Quinn, I may have inadvertently painted a target on her back.

“We have to handle this tonight,” I say. “It could all be machismo bullshit, and Lubomski has taken it too seriously. But if Vercotti and his men do attack, we need to be ready. And I want Silvio alive.”

Leon throws me a glance. “This is your wedding night. Where will your lovely new bride be during this romantic gun battle?”

“I don’t know.” I set off for the saloon deck. “But she sure as hell won’t be with me.”

I know it’s not right, but my head is all over the place.

Vercotti, the fucking press, the bullshit of this fucked-up life I lead. But until sunset, I can forget it, and all there is to do is bask in the glory of what I managed to pull off.

My wife. God, those words sound good. They are lyrical in Russian—moya zhena—but even better in English because Quinn understands them.

Okay, I made her do it, but she didn’t fight me as hard as I expected. Sitting on the velour seats under the saloon deck’s heat lamps, prosecco in hand, she looks like the angel she is.

Ha. Quinn may be an angel, but with a dirty face. I’m willing to bet she did what I told her and is gloriously naked under that dress.

I congratulate myself on my choice; it shows every luscious curve to perfection. I want to fuck her while she’s wearing it.

I catch Quinn’s eye as I approach. Viktor is talking to her about the finer points of property acquisition law in New York state, and I can see my bride is finding the subject less than scintillating.

“Where were you with your business acumen when I bought this floating cash sink?” I ask him, turning to Quinn. “They say the best way to make a small fortune is to start with a large fortune, then buy a boat. But no one told me that.”

Viktor shrugs. “I know buildings, not luxury superyachts.”

“No wonder you look so uncomfortable—although not as uncomfortable as my poor wife, who may be considering launching herself over the side after ten minutes in your company.”

I point at the door to the indoor lounge. “I need a word. Excuse us, rusalka.”

Leon is already down there, nursing an over-decorated frozen margarita.

“Take everyone ashore. The crew, too,” I say. “Get back to the house and prep for trouble. I’ll return the yacht to midtown west moorings before sundown.” I take Leon’s drink from him. “You’re driving, idiot. And what the fuck is this?”

“It’s strong enough tequila man,” Leon says. “Get it? To kill a? Tequila? Oh, come on!”

“I’ll have a sense of humor when it’s over. Gather some safe pairs of hands and set the house up for a siege. They won’t come until it’s dark.”

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