Page 94 of Owned By The Bratva King

I grin. “Sorry to break the news, but I let him off. He did the right thing when it mattered, and the guy has a family. I used some of Vercotti’s money to buy him a whole new identity and fake his death. When his wife and daughter are released from witness protection, they’ll all head for Florida.”

“Shame, but I guess it’s fair.” Leon clicks his fingers. “That reminds me. I meant it about Disneyworld. You fancy a trip down there? You’d look cute in Mickey Mouse ears.”

“Leon, you worry me sometimes. But Quinn would love it, so I won’t say no yet.”

“And you’re staying out in the sticks?”

I nod. “It was the last wish of a dying woman. Quinn and I will raise our family far from these grimy streets, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep a close eye on you, tovarisch. You’re my closest friend and the most volatile fucker I know.”

“True,” he says, slapping me on my back. “But you’re living the dream. Power, wealth, security, and now love too? It’s not my style, but if you’re happy, so am I.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you try it. That said, it’d be a challenge for you to attract a woman. You look like something I drew with my left hand.”

Leon downs his champagne and gestures for a server to bring the tray over. “Come on, buddy,” he says, picking up a fresh glass, “my face is fine. It’s my personality that needs a paper bag over it.”

I’m thinking up an immature rejoinder when I hear the tinkling sound of someone tapping a spoon on a glass. It’s Quinn, ready to make her speech.

The room quietens, and she clears her throat, gathering her nerve.

“Welcome, everyone,” she begins. “It’s my pleasure to receive you for the grand opening of my establishment. As you know, I’m the first apprentice to learn from Marcel Chevalier in over twenty-five years—” she blushes at the smattering of applause, “—and I hope my skills justify his faith and effort in training me.”

She’s radiant with joy, and it hits me. I finally did it; I made her happy. No, it’s better than that; she did it herself. I gave her the means, but her hard work, diligence, perseverance, and, crucially, self-belief got her here.

“I have a surprise announcement,” Quinn continues to a chorus of murmurs. She catches my eye, a flash of mischief crossing her face, and I tilt my head at her.

“In partnership with the Hungry Hearts homeless relief charity of New York City, I have committed to opening a training restaurant next door. My dear friend Katrina and I will teach vulnerable young people the art of patisserie, front of house, hospitality, and business management. All profits will fund subsidized housing, education, and social support for runaways and kids at risk on the streets.”

“What made you want to take on a project like that?” a journalist asks.

Quinn pauses, and I see an almost imperceptible shimmer of sadness in her eyes. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Not all kids have someone who cares for them, and they need a leg up if they’re gonna make it.”

I didn’t know anything about this—she kept it to herself. It’s the kind of secret I can forgive; I’m just the bankroll, and money can’t buy heart, talent, or drive. She has it all and more.

I’m so proud of her.

Around the room, heads nod in unison. The sentiment has struck a chord.

“One last question,” a man asks, holding a microphone. “What’s the story behind the name?”

“Ah, the name.” She smiles. “Let’s say it’s my way of honoring the person whose love saved my life.”

Leon leans closer. “Tell me she hasn’t named the place after you?” he whispers. I shake my head.

“So please,” Quinn continues, “ladies and gentlemen, take a seat, and my wonderful wait staff will take your orders.” She throws her arms wide. “Welcome to Carrie’s.”

All I want to do is kiss her. I’m about to make my way through the crowd when Viktor’s hand lands on my shoulder.

“Oh, great, you made it.” I turn to face him. “Where the fuck have you been? Even Kolya doesn’t usually talk for this long.”

His expression is grave. “Roman, we gotta talk about Quinn’s parents.”

A couple of busy hours went by in a whirlwind of high spirits and celebration. The guests received Quinn’s creations with rapturous acclaim, and Katrina and the other staff were excited to make beautiful desserts for such appreciative diners.

The last critic kisses Quinn’s cheek as she leaves and implores her to keep a day free next week for lunch.

The restaurant is finally empty, and my wife looks tired but happier than ever. She sits on the plush seat in one of the booths and slips off her high-heeled shoe, massaging the ball of her foot.

I catch her eye as she looks up, and beckons me to her side.

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