Owned By The Bratva King: A dark mafia romance, page 1
OWNED BY THE BRATVA KING
NYC RUSSIAN ROYALS BOOK ONE
CARA BIANCHI
Copyright © 2024 - Cara Bianchi
Cover © 2024 - Cara Bianchi
Formatted and published by CBB Publishing Ltd., 2024
All rights reserved.
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ALSO BY CARA BIANCHI
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Angels & Brutes
1 - Ruined Beauty
2 - Savage Beauty
3 - Stolen Beauty
East Coast Bratva
1 - Depraved Royals
2 - Twisted Sinner
3 - Vicious Hearts
As many of you know, I have a terminal illness. Writing this book has been cathartic and a wonderful adventure, and if fate continues to smile on me, there will be many more to come.
To all my readers new and old: this journey is easier with you at my side. Thank you for traveling with me.
Love always, Cara x
CONTENTS
Content Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilogue
Epilogue
Also by Cara Bianchi
CONTENT WARNINGS
Your mental health and psychological safety are important. Please take a moment to read this list.
This book contains:
- graphic and descriptive sexual content
- drug use (mild and mostly off-page)
- child abuse (mild allusions, not on page)
- alcohol consumption (frequent)
- terminal illness and end of life
- genre-typical violence, such as shooting, beating etc.
- peril caused by fire
- dominance/submission in sexual dynamics
- dubcon (mild and one instance only)
- suicide (not depicted on page)
- spanking
- sexual humiliation (balanced with praise, because we need a man that can do both)
- baking (which may be triggering for anyone on a diet. I say forget it and eat the cake!)
- a couple of poor-quality puns, for which I will not apologize
1
Quinn
It’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 pâtissier, 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 woole
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.
2
Quinn
His voice is deep and even, but it still shocks me. I wasn’t sure he was real until I heard him ask me for coffee as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
There’s a fresh pot ready, but I can’t move. Who is this guy who is committed to caffeine yet blasé about a gunshot wound? There can be no good answer to a question like that, surely.
The sheen of his shirt speaks volumes. He has money—heaps of it. I wonder if he’ll be able to get the blood out. It might be okay if he got it to soak with an excellent biological stain remover.
No matter; he probably has a closet crammed with beautiful bespoke tailoring. The resale value of my entire worldly possessions wouldn’t cover the cost of his shoes alone. And I doubt he does his own laundry.
“I asked for coffee.” He nods at the machine. “Strong and short. What else is hot?”
You. The thought comes unbidden to my mind, but it’s true. His bone structure is the kind that Renaissance sculptors loved to immortalize, crowned by thick wavy hair that’s shorn close at the sides. A touch of salt and pepper at his temples sets off those ridiculously intense eyes, and the edge of a chest tattoo crests the loosened neckline of his shirt.
He’s still smiling. His face embodies a confidence I can’t muster at the best of times, and certainly not in these circumstances.
I blink, remembering he asked me a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I want to know what’s fresh out of the oven,” he says. That smirk again. “I assume you know, seeing as you’re doing the baking. So calm down and go about your business.”
“Oh!” I glance at the cooling racks behind me. “The cinnamon buns are wonderful when they’re warm. The frosting has pistachio and cardamom in it—”
“Shhh.” The stranger holds his finger to his lips. “You’re talking too fast. I understand this situation is unusual for you, but you need to get a grip. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“Good girl,” he cocks his head to see my badge, “Quinn. Pretty name.” He takes this week’s New Yorker from the rack on the counter. “If you think the pistachio and cardamom cinnamon buns are good, that’s what I’ll have. Take a few deep breaths, pour the coffee, and get one for yourself. You won’t have any more customers today.”
I turn away, my hand shaking as I shake beans into the grinder. Something about this man’s demeanor demands my obedience.
Pretty name. Well, that’s all I’ve got. I’m here with my hair sticking to my face, flushed cheeks, and a filthy apron. My face is just as scary; I’m pale and tired, with dark rings around my eyes.
Even with his injury, the interloper is from another world, a wealthy, sophisticated world where losers like me are only allowed in to serve. There’s more to it, though; he’s been shot, yet he’s in no hurry to go to the hospital.
Let’s not contemplate the implications of that. Just get his food.
The counter on the customer side is little more than a ledge with two stools. Jeanette thinks it gives the place a European feel; apparently, firing down an espresso and a pastry in half a minute is a mood for Italian commuters. I’m not used to having anyone hanging around, and this man has been here too long by far. What if he… doesn’t leave?
I put the cinnamon bun and coffee down in front of the stranger but don’t see him move until it’s too late. His hand wraps my wrist, and I yelp.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs. His grip is insistent yet painless, and I freeze. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“O-of course,” I say, stuttering.
“Excellent.” He releases me. “Go get it.”
I hurry into the back. The phone is beside the stand mixer, tempting me to use it.
Call 911. Call 911. Why aren’t I doing it?
“Now, Quinn,” the man shouts. “Otherwise, I might wonder what you’re up to.”
I grab the kit and return to the shop, sliding it over the counter to him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He unlocks his cell and hands it to me, and I notice Cyrillic letters tattooed on his knuckles. “Go ahead and call them. I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’d have locked myself in here if I thought you could cause me any problems?”
I make the call, watching him the whole time as I relay the address. The dispatcher says she’ll send officers, but the stranger doesn’t pay much attention; he sips his coffee, eats the cinnamon bun, and reads the magazine like any other customer.
“Did they give you an ETA?” the man asks as I hang up.
“Um, no. She said a few minutes.”
“I doubt they’ll hurry.”
He gets to his feet, lifts the flip-top, and walks behind the counter. I retreat, bumping into the wall behind me, and he chuckles.
“Excuse me.” He presses his body to mine for a moment as he squeezes past, but he’s careful not to get blood on me. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he unbuttons his shirt.
This guy is ripped. He’s not overly bulky, but his chest is solid and covered in inked designs. He takes a clean rag and runs the faucet, sluicing warm water over his torso as he leans over the basin. His muscles glisten as blood gurgles down the drain.
I’ve never seen a half-naked man in the flesh before. I’ve never even been kissed unless I count Mickey Potnik in third grade, and that was only because someone bet him he wouldn’t. He won a dollar, and I lost faith that a boy might like me.
This is ridiculous. I’m being held captive in my workplace, and I’m distracted less by the mortal danger and more by this man’s pecs.
I dart out from behind the counter, desperate to put some space between us, and he laughs, returning to his seat.
He rummages through the first aid kit. “Come here, Quinn.”
I make my way gingerly toward him. The gouge in his shoulder is angry-looking but shallow, and he tips iodine over it, gritting his teeth as a deep growl emanates from his chest. He rips a paper packet and takes a sterile needle, threading it and tying a knot.
“It’s a graze,” he says. “I need you to hold the wound closed. Right here.” I reach out, and he moves my hands, guiding me. “Pinch it together. I’m gonna do it fast. Follow along and help me, okay?”
It’s not as though I can refuse. He works briskly, piercing the ragged edges of his damaged skin and sealing them with a row of neat sutures. I watch, spellbound, moving my fingers to where he needs them.
He’s so in control. Nothing he’s asked of me was really a request, but he has a way of making me feel like I’ve chosen to cooperate. In reality, I’m locked inside the bakery with a guy now sewing up his injury and showing no signs of distress beyond a stoic frown.
A knock at the door takes me by surprise. The stranger snips the loose end of the thread and hands me the key.
“That’ll be the law.”
The officers at the door touch their caps in a gesture of greeting, and the one with the mustache speaks first.
