Page 4 of Owned By The Bratva King

“Of course, but I got something else to do first. Give us twenty minutes.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow. “Is your mother’s health improving?” he asks suddenly.

Blake swallows hard. “She’s still sick,” he says, his voice high-pitched. “Real important she stays on that treatment?—”

“Absolutely. It’d be in her interests and yours if you forgot your other pressing matter and attended to mine. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. I apologize.”

“That’s better. Oh, and by the way—get the corner dumpster emptied. It’s full of trash. Just at the end of the block.”

The officer is confused for a second, then something clicks. “Ah, you got it. No problem, Mr. Kazanov. We’ll be back soon.”

Blake’s colleague calls him a fucking moron as he closes the door behind them.

3

Roman

What an exciting morning it’s turning out to be. Worth getting shot for. This girl is way beyond my experience, and I’m bowled over.

Most women I meet are sharp as flint, with brittle smiles and avaricious, grasping hands. They aspire to nothing more than the same privileged life they grew up in and, if possible, to marry well. They all want me, of course, but I don’t want them. The occasional dalliance is enough to keep my men from asking too many questions.

I certainly never expected to be struck by the lightning bolt that is this curvaceous little chef.

I hold out my hand, and Quinn puts the key into my palm without hesitation.

Goddammit. She’s scared of me, but a more profound, older fear scratched deep into her psyche makes her acquiescent. I’m accustomed to people cowering before me, but for her, there’s a certain resignation, a sense that it’s the natural order for her to be put upon, dominated, used. I don’t fucking like it.

I lock the door and turn, meeting her eyes. “Go home. This bakery is closed.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. My boss will be furious. And,” she breaks eye contact, “I have nowhere to go. I live here and sleep upstairs in the storeroom.”

I feel a sudden flash of murderous rage. Who fucked her over? How did it come to this?

“Stay here,” I say. “I’m gonna search the place.” I walk past her and flip the countertop. “You heard what I said. I got shot tonight. Someone might be hiding out in here. For all I know, you’re in on a plot to take me out.”

It’s all I can do to suppress a laugh as she frowns in confusion. I know perfectly well she’s not a conspirator. This docile nymph of a girl interests me greatly for reasons I don’t quite understand, and I want to know more about her.

Quinn is stunned into silence and doesn’t try to stop me as I walk into the workroom. The space is full of the trappings of her industry: the mixer, the piles of flour, and the dough proving in basins. I notice a dusty handprint on the side of the kitchen island, and I can’t resist putting my own hand over it and imagining her toiling tirelessly through the night.

This woman is straight out of a fairytale—trapped and working her fingers to the bone, waiting for something to change. She doesn’t know she’s a secret princess, but I see it, and she mesmerizes me. I have an insatiable need to reach into her life and occupy it like an invading force.

Wooden stairs lead to the mezzanine level, and as I ascend, I realize it’s Quinn’s little kingdom. She has built a wall of supplies to block the view of her sleeping area, and as I round the corner, I see the small space she calls home.

It’s so meager, so basic: a beat-up denim backpack, a tiny light-up mirror on an upturned cardboard box, mascara, lip balm, a hairbrush, and a foam mattress laid out over the splintered wood floor.

It’s tidy, though, and I notice little details. Sprigs of Gypsophila in a chipped bud vase. Free postcards from art galleries stuck to the wall with tape. And, on the drying rack next to her heater, a few items of fairly decent clothing.

I reach over and flip the waistband of her pants to read the label. My mind runs away with me, imagining her in beautiful, well-tailored pieces that show off her luscious body.

She’s managing to get by somehow, and I find myself rooting for her.

Attagirl, rusalka. You can dig your way out of this mess. I know it.

Then I remember that she doesn’t have to. Not with me around.

There’s a knock at the bakery door, and I return to the shopfront to open it.

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