Page 54 of Owned By The Bratva King

I rub my face with my palm. “Fuck. How long was I out?”

“Couple of hours. If Vercotti and his boys plan on bringing the noise, they’re taking their time. We’re all dressed up, and there’s no goddamn party.”

I check my cell and find no messages. I’m about to fire one off to Quinn when I remember it’s the middle of the night, and she will be asleep like any regular person.

Leon hands me a drink, but I don’t want it. The whiskey smells smoky and smooth, but it’s making me gag right now.

The dream that woke me had no substance or form, but the essence of it was nothing less than distilled agony. I haven’t felt that kind of visceral terror since Bianca died. To feel it again, someone I care about would have to be in grave danger, and that can only mean Quinn.

I love my wife with everything I have, and the fear that comes with it manifests in bizarre paranoia.

That’s all it is. Right?

No. I can’t dismiss it out of hand; my instincts are usually sound, and something is very fucking wrong, but what? Vercotti has not attacked. Lubomski could be full of shit, but somehow I doubt it—he believed what he was telling me. So why would Silvio tell a pointless lie?

Bile rises in my throat as the pieces fall into place. He fed Lubomski false information, knowing he’d bring it to me and I’d have to act on it.

He also knows I wouldn’t risk the safety of the woman I love, so I’d ensure she was far from the scene of the fight. The whole thing is a diversion and a test.

I could be going crazy, but maybe not. And if Silvio discovers where she is, he might be on his way to her right now as I sit here on my ass like a fucking idiot.

I snatch up my cell and call her. All she has to do is pick up, and I’ll tell her to hide somewhere until I can get to her.

No answer. Goddammit. Two Pines’ landline doesn’t ring at all, and I mutter curses under my breath as I redial Quinn, ignoring Leon’s confused stare.

Still nothing, just Quinn’s voicemail message. I wait for the beep.

“Rusalka, get out of there,” I say. “I’m on my way.”

I’ve never hoped to be wrong before. But as I get closer to Two Pines, I drive faster, desperate to confirm what a fool I am.

Everyone will be asleep, all will be at peace, and I’ll be left in no doubt that I have totally lost my head and should retire to the nearest padded cell with as much blended food and antipsychotic medication as I could ever need.

Almost there. Just coming up over the rise, and then I’ll see it.

A reddish-orange glow paints the haze where the sky meets the road, and I know what it is before the thought coalesces in my mind. It’s not the sun—wrong time and wrong direction—so there’s only one other explanation.

As the car crests the hill, I roar in anguish.

Two Pines is burning. Not merely a fire but an inferno, with every inch of the building engulfed in a wall of flame. Several fire trucks are hard at work as men fight the blaze, and numerous first responders attend to the injured at the edge of the parking lot.

I barrel too fast down the track and slam on, skidding to a halt, but no one notices. The heat is blistering even at this distance, and I shield my eyes, scanning the area for Quinn. The marshall is a few feet away, barking orders, and I call out to him.

“Hey!” I shout, and he turns to look at me. “What happened?”

He shakes his head sadly. “Some sick bastard set it alight deliberately; there were accelerants all through the place, and the first floor doors were barricaded from the outside.

The guy knew how to trip the circuit and fritz the sprinklers and alarms but didn’t think to disconnect the one that goes straight to the fire department. We arrived fast and helped as many people as possible, but it was too late for some.”

No. No, this can’t be happening. If Quinn is dead, I’ll never forgive myself. I turn away from the marshall and run toward the ambulances, grabbing a paramedic by the collar.

“Where’s my wife? The young woman staying in the private apartment at the back with one of the residents. Tell me she got out.” I shake him. “Please!”

“She’s okay,” he says, his eyes wide with shock. “She got her friend out, too, down the side fire escape. She even went back for a few more, but then we arrived and wouldn’t allow her back inside; the fire had spread too far. Apart from mild smoke inhalation and some scrapes and bruises, she’s doing fine. Over there by the third ambulance, under a foil blanket.”

I let him go and look where he’s pointing. There’s Carrie, an oxygen mask over her mouth. Then I see my wife, her head bowed.

Relief floods my senses, and I almost fall to my knees. I’ve never prayed in my life, but I owe someone for this moment, and I offer my thanks to the universe for sparing me the agony of losing her. I appreciate the mercy all the more because I don’t deserve it.

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