Page 8 of Owned By The Bratva King

“Well, that’s classic Roman. With friends like you, who needs enemas?”

I can’t help but laugh. I’m wound up, but he’s my ride-or-die and knows when to cut through it with a dumb joke. He was at my side through some seriously rough times, and I can depend on him to get real when it counts.

We’ve paid our dues and then some; if I’d known what I’d have to lose to eventually win, I’d have reconsidered joining the game. But now I’m here, I enjoy the view from the top, and I’ll do what I must to ensure the bloodshed has some meaning.

“Where’s Jonny?” Leon asks, throwing back his whiskey. “You never said anything about him.”

The mention of my driver’s name wipes the smile from my face. “He’s dead,” I reply. “Bullet went straight through his head and grazed my shoulder. I got our team to clean up and move the car. Pay his wife a visit; she deserves better than hearing it on the grapevine.”

Leon sighs. “It’s a shame, but the guy knew the risks.” He narrows his eyes at me. “So, as usual, your silence tells me plenty. Who’s upstairs? Don’t tell me your near-death experience made you horny and you’ve got some expensive escort waiting for you.”

“Not exactly.” I avoid his eyes. “A girl who’s seen too much.”

“Bullshit. More like a girl you haven’t seen enough of. It’s been a while since you even looked at a woman, and you’ve never brought one here. Did you really lose that much blood?”

“Shut up and go do whatever it is you do,” I say. “I’m busy.”

Leon gets to his feet. “You got it. But you aren’t fooling me. Don’t get distracted by some hot bit of tail when you’ve got bigger problems. Did you wonder how your would-be assassin knew where you’d be? We may have a rat in the house.”

Fuck. I never thought of that. Ever since I saw Quinn, I was transfixed, my customary vigilance nowhere to be seen.

“So sniff the fucker out,” I say. “I’m gonna see that the girl is properly looked after.”

Leon hisses through his teeth. “Bozhe moy. She must be something to turn the head of none other than Roman Kazanov!”

I will discover all there is to know about Quinn, even if I have to make obsessing over her into my full-time vocation. She doesn’t have to reciprocate; she doesn’t have the power to stop me. I can decide her every breath belongs to me if I so desire.

And I fucking do so desire because Quinn is something. She just doesn’t know it yet.

6

Quinn

Ipress my ear to the door, rooted to the spot. After what feels like forever, the door to the suite opens, then closes, and I heave air into my lungs.

Now he’s gone, I can breathe properly again. I never noticed how still and small I’d made myself in his presence, but I guess it’s muscle memory. I have a persistent fear of occupying too much space in the world.

This is so bizarre. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me; I’m too ordinary. I’ve never been swept off my feet. Is this what it feels like? My mind flashes back to the bakery, the cold steel of Roman’s eyes, the authoritative way he commanded my every move.

A cursory exploration of the room turns up some soft suede sneakers, a light wool sweater, a couple of camisoles, and a satin slip nightdress.

I’m at a loss for what to do next, so I sidle over to the chair and pick up a pair of silk palazzo pants. They’re Gucci, but that’s not the biggest surprise the label has in store. Beneath the designer brand name is the size: a US twelve.

Did Roman guess my size? Or did he go rummaging through my belongings? The realization that the clothes are plus-sized just for me hits me with a mix of emotions I can’t quite fathom, but one is familiar, and despite being alone, I flush beet red.

I don’t need an audience to feel shame; it’s stamped on my DNA. I have too many past wounds that never healed.

A thought occurs to me, and I creep from the bedroom to the suite’s door. To my relief, I’m not locked in; it opens with a click, and I poke my head into the corridor.

Two men sit on the carpeted floor, playing cards, their guns at their hips. Bodyguards?

“Do you need something, miss?” one of them asks. He has a blurry tattoo on his neck.

“Um, no,” I say, intimidation reducing my voice to a squeak. “I’ll…okay, bye.” I close the door and lean against it, trying to gather my thoughts. My heart is pounding so loudly it’s a wonder they didn’t hear it.

I have my cell phone. If I was indeed a prisoner, Roman would have taken it from me, wouldn’t he?

No. He knows I have no one to call; he saw it in my eyes. And he made damn sure I knew the cops would be worse than useless.

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