Page 71 of Owned By The Bratva King

“Oh, shit,” I say, spotting the problem. “I left the icebox open. Everything’s defrosted.”

He smiles indulgently. “Silly girl. So, no Eggos?” He pouts. “Not a frozen lasagne to be had? Ice cream turned to soup? Only one thing for it; we’ll have to order in.”

“Can’t we go out?”

“No,” he heads for the bathroom. You can choose whatever cuisine you fancy, and I’ll have it delivered from a Michelin-starred establishment, but I’m not going out.”

“Is that necessary?” I ask. “Not everything has to cost the Earth, you know. I can go to McDonalds like the rest of the peasants. Or even go to a normal restaurant, like couples do.”

He turns in the doorway and leans against the jam, his hands in his pockets. “What if I want to eat your pussy for dessert? I’m not giving those diners a free show. I’ll enjoy my sweet treat behind closed doors.”

I laugh. “You’re ridiculous. Get clean and wash your filthy mouth out while you’re at it. I’m gonna borrow a mop from the janitor’s closet.”

Roman wrinkles his nose. “Okay. But be quick. As much as I’d love to do a kinky Cinderella role-play, I’m starving, and I gotta eat some actual food before I eat you.”

I run down the stairs and outside. The janitor keeps his gear beside the trash store, and the same key opens both; all the residents have one.

The door is on the side of the building, and I’m reaching into my pocket for my keys when I hear a voice.

“Quinny.”

I hear the nickname I always despised, and I’m catapulted back in time, a kid again. My parents are gone, but it’s okay, the social worker told me—you’ll always have your Uncle Julian.

I wheel around, hoping I’m having a psychotic break; the alternative is far worse. But no. There he is, larger than life.

Julian looks terrible, and given how bad he looked when I last saw him, that’s saying something.

His hair is matted and thinning, with a pronounced bald patch catching the light, and his skin is pallid and pockmarked. He turns his yellowing eyes to mine.

I want to run or scream, but I can’t move. My throat is closing up, panic suffocating me, and I sink to my knees.

No. What the fuck does he want?

“How did you find me?” I say in a hoarse whisper. “Leave me alone. Don’t do this to me.”

“There’s no need to make a fuss,” Julian says, taking a step toward me. “You were always such a drama queen.”

“When?” It comes out as a strangled cry of fear-soaked fury. “Do you mean those times when your friends threatened to screw me? Or when you beat me?”

“See?” He hocks up a ball of phlegm and spits it into the bushes. “That’s not what happened. You caused me a lot of trouble, did you know that? Anyway, I’m here to help you.”

Help me? How?

He doesn’t wait for me to ask. “I’m sick. Sick and tired. I got no beef with you or that degenerate prick you married, but I do wanna see out my days in comfort. You could do that for me, right? After all, I took care of you after your mom and dad got killed. You don’t want the same to happen to me.”

The initial shock is fading, replaced by adrenaline, and I find my feet again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m hiding, Quinny. Your husband is looking for me, and if he finds me, I’m dead.”

Roman promised me he’d let it go. As much as I hate my uncle, he’s a pathetic creature, and I don’t want his murder on my conscience because that would make me worse than him. Roman knows that because I told him, and he agreed to back down.

“I have some information to trade for my life,” Julian continues. “About your parent’s murders. I heard some stuff about the grapevine at the time, but I kept quiet. All I want is five million dollars and to be left alone; in exchange, I’ll tell all I know about it.”

This is almost certainly bullshit, but it doesn’t matter. Five million is chicken feed if it gets Julian out of my life forever, and I have the money in my account.

“I can’t do this now.” I hate myself for sounding so cowed. Just seeing my uncle has sent me spiraling down to where I was before, beaten down and afraid. “I can meet you tomorrow in the daytime, somewhere public.”

“Fine. What about the Rose Gallery at the library, ten a.m? Quiet, lots of people around, no funny business.”

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