Page 87 of Owned By The Bratva King

The limousine pulls up, and Leon gets out, holding a paper bag aloft.

“Quinn!” he says. I got your food right here, angel. Roman, get that poor woman in the car and hold her milkshake.”

The convoy moves at a steady pace along the highway toward home. I’ve already decided to take her to my place; the word is out that Quinn has been found and Vercotti killed, but things are still volatile.

Until the komissiya and commission call off their troops, I’ll be happier to keep my wife behind the fortified walls of my mansion.

We sit together in the back, and as Quinn eats, her energy returns. The whole ugly tale comes out as she tells me about Julian accosting her outside her apartment, the secret meeting, the fake arrest, and the shock of realizing it was Silvio who was behind it all.

“Who is Ricky, anyway?” she asks. “He’s not a cop?”

“Nah, just a guy who wanted to play bratva and got in a mess.” I smile as she sucks ketchup from her fingers. “It’s easy to get an NYPD uniform, but the car was a clever touch. I wouldn’t be surprised if the real cop was out cold in the trunk.”

“I wanted to handle it alone, without help.” She drops her head back on the seat. “Thought I could keep going like I always did, relying on no one but myself and keeping a wall up around me. Dumb, right?”

“If you’re dumb, moya zhena, so am I.” I hold out my arms, and she snuggles into my embrace. “That was my shtick, too, so I’m in no position to judge.”

We lapse into silence for a minute, and I think of those few minutes when Silvio had Quinn’s life in his hands. It felt like years, eons.

“I have to say,” I squeeze her hand, “sometime a hundred years in the future when my blood pressure finally drops, I’ll look back and laugh at the moment you took Silvio down. Me punching him was probably like a tickle in comparison.”

Quinn doesn’t reply. Her breathing has settled into a peaceful rhythm, and I realize she’s fast asleep, a sweet smile playing on her lips.

64

The next day…

Quinn

Idon’t remember much about getting to Roman’s house last night. He carried me in his arms, laid me on crisp white sheets, and then lay beside me, stroking my arm as I drifted.

When I wake up, the clock says it’s one p.m. I slept without stirring for many hours in a dreamless oblivion where nothing troubled me.

Julian can’t find me now, even in my imagination. Roman isn’t here, but he left me a note in his familiar looping handwriting.

Moya zhena,

I haven’t gone far, I promise. There was some leftover business to attend to this morning, but I’m all yours after that.

There are clothes and toiletries for you. If the guards are still outside when you wake up, don’t worry. I’m just paranoid about your safety unless I’m home. If they’re gone, I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.

All my love,

I look out of the panoramic windows. This bedroom is high up, and from the view over the river, I guess it’s an Upper West Side property.

His room is weirdly austere, with clean lines and featureless, functional decor—no color, no personal touches.

He told me he never liked the house much, but it fits with his persona of a cold, closed-off, brutal man with no emotional connections. Maybe all it needs is a woman’s touch.

I shower, then check the closet and find it crammed with beautiful clothes, all in my size. Beside them are Roman’s suits and shirts, his shoes lined up neatly underneath.

I dress in a coffee-colored midi dress and weave my hair into a scruffy fishtail braid. There’s no one outside the door, so I venture into the corridor, drifting past expensive-looking artworks until I find the stairwell.

Roman is indeed in the kitchen, and as I open the door, he turns to face me, snatching his pistol from the countertop.

“Woah!” I cry, ducking behind the island.

“Shit.” He puts the gun aside and holds his arms out to me, and I run into them. “Fuck me, Quinn. I didn’t realize how on edge I still was.” He points at a baking dish. “I’m making your cinnamon rolls. They won’t be as good, but I’ve remembered the recipe.”

---