Page 93 of Owned By The Bratva King

“He will.” Carrie draws circles in the sand with her fingertip. “I just wish I could have met the baby.”

“I’m not pregnant,” I laugh. “I only threw away my pills this week.”

“Not yet, but soon,” she says. “A baby girl with your eyes. I’ll have a word about it upstairs.”

We allow the rushing of the water to soothe us. Carrie lies on her side, her head on my lap as she looks out to sea, and I stroke her cheek. The breeze ruffles her thin hair, and she wraps an arm around my knee.

“I love you, my Quinn,” she says, her voice high and light, like a child’s.

“I love you too.” I hug her close. “We should get in from the cold soon, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t hear me. “Hello, Winston,” she murmurs. “It’s a beautiful evening.”

I drape her blanket over her, tucking it in so she won’t feel the chill. She says nothing more, and I silently watch the sun descend, vanishing where the ocean meets the boundless sky.

Carrie gives a shuddering exhalation. Panic seizes me but releases its grip as I remember what she said.

She’s ready to go. If it’s time, I have no right to interfere. It’s my honor to comfort her on her final journey.

After a few minutes of shallow, rapid breathing, she stills. I wait to see whether her chest will fill again before moving my hand so I can place it over her heart.

There’s nothing but a devastating, silent finality. Her broken vessel is as empty as the shells that litter the beach.

Carrie is going home, unencumbered by age and her failing body. She will return to the universe, where she and Winston will be young and in love for all eternity.

The night is settling in, and stars pepper the expanse of indigo deepening overhead. I gaze at them, my eyes stinging with tears, the grief like a brand in my heart.

She was right. I am smiling.

EPILOGUE

Six months later…

Roman

The place is heaving with people; journalists, food critics, and other movers and shakers. Many are my associates from the business world—both sides.

I have barely seen Quinn since we arrived. She’s been holding court, dazzling interviewers, and handing out cute quotes for their articles. Every time I try to get close, someone else takes the space.

She looks incredible. Her curvy body perfectly fills her emerald green gown, the satin train trailing behind her. She seems more like a mystical sea nymph than ever, and I can’t help but enjoy a surge of pride every time I catch a glimpse.

It could have been all too different. A few minutes here, a twist of fortune there, and we could both have died.

If Silvio hadn’t been so hell-bent on seeing me suffer, I would have spent my life tearing my hair out in torment, searching every corner of this godforsaken planet in the hope of finding my sweet wife alive.

“Could you try to look less moody?” Leon hands me a champagne flute. “It’s about her, not you.”

“I know, asshole,” I say. “My wife is a fucking superstar. Who else could complete her training in record time, hire a full staff, get Katrina up to speed, and look that good doing it?”

“There you are, buddy,” Leon says with a smirk. “Thought I’d lost you for a minute. Where’s Viktor?”

“Wrapping up with the komissiya.” I sip the fizz. “I refused to go to their meeting this time. I’m taking Bernard Familio’s place; what else is there to say?”

“And what will become of Bernard?” Leon asks.

“Out of respect to his family, he will be excommunicated from the mafia and sent back to them in Sicily. I don’t fancy his chances, though. Kolya made sure Bernard’s shit-kicking Sicilian uncle knew the whole tale.”

Leon hisses through his teeth. “Sheesh. We won’t hear from him again. What did you do with Ricky Lubomski?”

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