Page 56 of Owned By The Bratva King

My cell rings, and I answer it, ignoring her beseeching eyes. “Viktor, I need you to?—”

“They never attacked and were never planning to,” he says, interrupting. “The whole thing was a fucking set-up. When I started digging for info about Quinn, it got back to Vercotti; presumably, he bought the same information from the same people. He knew what you knew. Someone must have tipped him off that you’d brought her here tonight.”

It makes sense. Make a threat, knowing I won’t want my wife caught up in it, then watch to see where I hide her and go after her there. She should be ashes now. Only her resilience and Silvio’s overconfidence threw a spanner in the works.

“Quinn got out, but many people didn’t,” I say. “The bastard has gone off the rails. You gotta lean on the facilities company and get the parking lot footage.”

“There’s something else, boss.” Viktor’s voice is heavy. “A real nasty sting in the tail.”

“What?”

“He burned down the bakery, too.”

44

Quinn

There’s no doubt now. I was clinging to hope that this was all some horrible coincidence and Roman was being paranoid, but no.

Someone out there wants me dead. Someone he knows.

My husband and I are standing beside the ambulance, and he’s talking to me, saying he’ll make it okay. I’m too numb and tired to respond. It feels like years since I met him; too much has happened.

Sugar Rush is gone. Roman could rebuild it if he chose; there’s nothing he couldn’t give me, and he wouldn’t deny me a thing. I want his love without being forced to accept the fear and uncertainty that comes with it.

“Don’t tell me it will be fine,” I say. I don’t believe you, not yet. I need honesty if we’re going to make it, but there’ll be time for that.” I gesture at the injured people around us. “Where will they go? They’re very sick.”

“I will handle it.” Roman pulls me into his embrace. “No expense is too much. I’ll have Leon contact each hospital and set up cash retainers for the highest-quality private care money can buy.” He kisses me. “Come on. We’ll take Carrie to my on-call medical team.”

The hospital suite is pristine and comfortable, but it feels a bit cold. Carrie is settled into her bed, and a nurse observes before drawing blood.

“A few tests, and we can get you on some steroids to help your lungs,” she says. “Smoke is nasty stuff.”

Roman follows the nurse into the corridor, and I hear muffled voices as he chats to the doctor, giving instructions for the tenth time. There’s nothing he’s unwilling to pay for. If Carrie wants caviar and Dom Perignon, she shall have it. Just put it on the tab.

“Quinn, come here.” Carrie smiles as I sit beside her. “Am I dead?” she asks. “This isn’t heaven, but it could be the waiting room.”

“No, we got out, no thanks to you,” I reply. “Telling me to leave you. There was no way I’d ever do that, and you knew it.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I must say, I prefer life.” A frown crosses her brow. “Roman came back. He had to be worried. Have you asked him what he knows about all this?”

The question is there, knocking at the back of my mind, but I think I already know the answer.

The gunshot wound, the secrecy, the shadowy business dealings. His ability to breeze past legality and do whatever he wants.

I know he’s super-rich, but even the wealthy are not above the law to the same extent. He threatened that paramedic convincingly; I really thought he would shoot him.

The Cyrillic letters on his knuckles, the scars, and even the tattoos all point to one thing, but I don’t want to ask. I can keep lying to myself if I don’t know for sure.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him,” I say, “and I’m scared to do it.”

“You’re married.” She raises her eyebrows. “For better or worse, you’re in it together. Can a man get as rich as Roman Kazanov without doing a few questionable things?” She shrugs. “I doubt it. But you owe it to yourself to discover the truth, even if it’s ugly.”

We left Carrie to sleep as dawn broke. I didn’t want to go to Roman’s house, but he refused my apartment, saying it wasn’t safe there. Instead, he sent a guy to guard my place, and we went to his suite at The Mandarin Oriental.

I watch him as he sidles over to the mini-fridge, his movements relaxed despite the high tension of the night. He doesn’t feel things like I do; he’s accustomed to danger. It can’t be good to be this laissez-faire about it.

It’s been less than a week since I last visited, and so much has happened. If someone had told me Roman Kazanov would buy out Sugar Rush and my apartment, take my V-card and shred it, and force me to marry him, then whatever the hell this evening was—well, I’d have directed them to a friendly psychiatrist.

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