Owned By The Bratva King (NYC Russian Royals #1)

Chapter 1

1

Quinn

I t’s five-forty-five a.m., and I’m exhausted. But I must keep going.

In the early hours of this cold New York City morning, it’s as though everyone is asleep but me. My boss, Jeanette, left ages ago; as far as she’s concerned, I insist on closing and opening the bakery daily because I enjoy my job.

That part is true, but not the reason I’m always here. Thanks to stupid fate, my place of work recently became my home.

I sleep on the mezzanine level, walled in by sacks of flour. Not that I mind; I’ve lived in worse places. If anything, the anonymity of my existence affords me a degree of safety. I don’t want to be seen, and I don’t want to matter.

The air is hazy with powdered sugar. My back aches as I stand at the kitchen island and lay out the pastry ready to blind-bake, a daily ritual I could do blindfolded. I take a break to wipe my face with the back of my hand, leaving a sweet smudge on my brow, and slide the trays into the oven, stifling a yawn.

You’ll keep going, Quinn. Sure, you’re worn out, but what choice do you have?

Five fifty-five a.m . Almost time to start another day.

I pause to flip the pages of Classique Patisserie. It was Mom’s copy, and it’s well-used, her notes scribbled in the margins. Had things been different, she’d have taught me.

I’m trying to learn, but I only work here and must make what I’m ordered to make. It doesn’t mean I don’t go off-road now and again, like the fancy frosting I invented for the cinnamon buns.

I daydream about becoming a professional patissier, but the training fees are exorbitant. At least dreams are free, even though they hurt. This tiny space is all I have, and my world is shrinking day by day; eventually, there will be only these four walls and me.

If only I could UNO Reverse my life and set off in another direction. Would that be so wrong? I don’t have much going for me; I’m plain-looking and lack the confidence to put myself out there. I have fuzzy memories of being loved, but once my parents were gone, I was not enough.

Too fat, too shy, not smart, and most galling of all, not grateful. For what ? What kid would buy a Greyhound ticket with stolen money and flee to the city if everything was great at home? I was fifteen, for crying out loud. Manhattan seemed too tall back then; not much has changed ten years later.

Five fifty-eight. I rub my sleeve on my cheek, catching a tear, and snatch the keys from the hook beneath the cash register.

There’s nothing for it. Another day and all I have to do is get through it. What did Billy Joel sing? ‘It’s always once upon a time in New York City…’

Six a.m. I turn on the shop light, lift the blind, and unlock the door, turning the sign over to ‘open.’ The sandwich board is leaning against the wall, and I wipe it clean with a damp rag and drag it outside.

Terri from Hungry Hearts is leaning on her car, waiting for me. She seems to arrive earlier every day.

“Hi, Quinn.” She gives me a brisk hug. “Lots of empty bellies on the streets this morning. What you got?”

“I saved a basket of croissants from yesterday.” I ask the question I'm always afraid to ask. “You got a lot of kids on your watch?”

“So many.”

I feel sick to my stomach. The thought of young people being swallowed up by this city reminds me of myself; not only where I've been, but where I'm headed.

I go inside and retrieve the leftover pastries. “Here.” I hand Terri the basket. “I wish I could do more.”

“No worries, honey,” she says. “There's only so much one person can do. Every bit helps.”

Terri drives away. I kneel on the concrete and I retrieve a chalkboard pen from my apron pocket, my breath fogging in the cold.

Specials , I write. Florentines, $4. Baklava and flat white, $5.

My ears ring a nanosecond before I hear the sound, and I hurl myself onto the sidewalk, the bang reverberating through the still air.

A gunshot. Must be.

I scramble inside and touch my hip pocket, looking for the key. It’s not there. Shit, what did I do with it?

When the entry bell sounds, I don’t look up. I’m still scanning the floor, hoping to spot the elusive key, when my eyes stop at a pair of black leather dress shoes.

I raise my head to see a man removing his heavy woolen overcoat. There’s nothing unusual about that. The first of many early commuters, dropping in for coffee on his way to join the rat race. Then I notice he’s brought the sandwich board in with him.

The man stares at me for a moment, then turns away. He flips the door sign over to ‘closed,’ reaches into his pocket, and, to my horror, holds up my key. I must have dropped it outside.

“Looking for this?” he asks. His accent is pure uptown, with a hint of something else I can’t place.

He drapes his coat over a chair, and I clap my hand over my mouth. His shirt is drenched in blood from his left shoulder all the way down his chest and arm.

I can’t find my voice, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He locks the door and pockets the key before lowering the blind against prying eyes.

What is going on? What does he want ?

The man approaches the counter and carefully settles himself on a barstool, glancing at his bloodied arm. His eyes are a startling silver, and he doesn’t hesitate to hold me with his gaze. I blanch, shrinking away, and he surprises me with a disarming smile that dimples his stubbled cheeks.

“I could kill for an espresso right now, rusalka ,” he says.