Page 72 of Owned By The Bratva King

I should say no and go straight to Roman. But I know him; he would not let it go this time.

It’s one thing to allow Julian to live in peace but quite another to ignore a clear provocation. If my bratva husband found out, he would kill him with his bare hands.

I’m gonna deal with this myself, once and for all. It’s not Roman’s fight; it’s mine, and I can get through with my morals and self-respect intact. I can choose to be the better person.

“Fine,” I say, looking Julian in the eye. “Now get out of here.”

He turns his back on me and walks toward a parked car on the other side of the street. As soon as he drives away, I release the agonizing breath I’d been holding, and the strain in my lungs eases as I pull in fresh oxygen.

Keep it together. Roman doesn’t need to know.

52

Roman

Iwake up too early, as I often do when I have somewhere important to be. I can’t put it off any longer—the komissiya want to see me this morning.

As the leader of the city’s most influential bratva, they are unprepared to divvy up Vercotti’s assets without my input, so I may as well get it done. The meeting won’t be fun, but I’m expected to bring my wife with me to formally introduce her to the Russian mafia old guard. My choice to take a civilian as my spouse is unusual and needs to be handled carefully.

Last night was strange. By the time I got out of the shower, Quinn’s mood had shifted, and she’d lost interest in choosing what we ate. I ordered steak poivre and good red wine from my favorite bistro, and she dutifully tucked in, but her heart wasn’t in it.

We went to bed earlier than usual, and maybe I was weighted down by the weight of unsaid words, but I fell asleep almost immediately.

Quinn is already up, and I pull on my jockeys and open the bedroom door to find her sitting by the window with a cup of coffee in her hands. She’s lost in thought, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Good morning,” I say. “Why are you up at this hour?”

She turns to me, her expression guarded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

I sit down beside her, taking her hand in mine. “I’m sorry to hear that, rusalka. We can do whatever will cheer you up today, but I have a meeting with the komissiya at ten a.m. I’d like you to come with me.”

She shakes her head. “No, Roman. I’m not willing to be paraded around while elderly bratva matriarchs whisper about my dress size.”

I frown, confused. “You’re my wife, which means you’re expected to show up to things. This meeting is important.”

She pulls her hand away, her eyes flashing with anger. “My feelings matter too. Or does everything in my life have to revolve around you and your business?”

I’m taken aback by her harsh tone. “Quinn, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” she snaps. “But I have my own life, my own priorities. I won’t jump just because you say so, and right now, my only plan is to drink my coffee, straighten up my apartment, and go back to bed.

“I can send someone to do that for you. There’ll be time to nap after this bullshit is dealt with.”

“No.” She glares at me. “I. Am. Saying. No. Do you understand? I don’t want you to swoop in and solve every problem, no matter how small. I’m a sentient human, and if I want to clean, I will. This place is still mine.”

I lose my composure. “I fucking own this entire building, Quinn. You wouldn’t have an apartment to trash if it weren’t for me. I was planning to send you shopping for a new home—one for us to share—but I’ll put that on hold if you’re happier to stay here and pay me rent?”

I went too far. I knew it before the words landed, and Quinn’s look confirmed that I’d made a big mistake.

I fear losing control of things, and my wife is no exception, but she’s not a thing. She’s a person, not my prize.

She sets her coffee cup down with a sharp clink. “You didn’t tell me about this last night. What makes you think you can dictate what I do with my time? Don’t come the bad bratva man with me. I’ve forgiven you for a hell of a lot.”

That’s true, and I’m consumed by shame. Quinn has heart enough for both of us; she loves me despite knowing the worst of what I can be.

If I don’t stop saying the wrong things, I’ll end up talking my way out of my marriage, and given that it’s the best thing that ever happened to me, shutting the fuck up would be a wise move.

I go back into the bedroom and dress, rehearsing in my mind. What should I say to make it right?

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