Page 114 of Bratva's Intern

“Max,” I said quietly. “We should be professional at work.”

He blinked, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “I am being professional, or I’d have you butt naked on my desk right now. Now let’s put this nonsense behind us quickly. You get a pass today, but if I see you wearing these frumpy suits again, I’ll strip you out of them, and wouldn’t that be fodder for gossip?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” He planted his hands on my hips and pulled my stiff body into him. Leaning forward, he pecked my lips again and again. “Kiss me.”

“No—”

“Come on. I’ll let you go back to work if you do.”

“One kiss?”

“Yes, just one.”

I should have known he would cheat. One kiss ended up lasting for almost ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes in which I almost climbed on top of his desk and called him Mr. Morozov so he would fuck me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MAXIM

The police station smelled like stale coffee and mold mixed with day-old donuts. I walked in without an appointment, without a badge, without giving a single fuck. A single worn-out ceiling fan droned overhead, doing little to cut through the hazy heat that hung in the air. The desk sergeant looked up from the stack of paperwork cluttering his desk, startled.

“Can I help you?” He sounded like an annoyed librarian.

“Chief Stone is expecting me.”

He had to be.

I’d watched the clip of him shoving Wren when I was in Chicago. What sort of boss would I be if I let that shit fly? What kind of man would I be? What kind of lover?

No one put their hands on my staff, and certainly not on my Wren.

“Name?”

“The name’s Morozov. Maxim Morozov.”

“If you can sit?—”

“This can’t wait. Your chief of police needs to see me now.”

He swallowed, eyeing me up and down. They knew me as a businessman, a wealthy one. I might not be able to put my gun to his head, but my money and status afforded me similar privileges.

“Just a minute, Mr. Morozov.” He picked up an ancient-looking phone and punched in a number with jabbing fingers.

While the desk sergeant was stuttering my name into the receiver, I took in the surroundings. Scuffed linoleum floors and flickering fluorescent lights gave the room an uncanny, grime-tinted glow. Notice boards plastered with wanted posters, community events, and internal memos decorated the walls.

The desk sergeant hung up the phone, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He gestured nervously toward a door with peeling varnish at the far end of the room. “The chief will see you right away.”

I made my way toward the door marked “Chief tone” with the S missing. I didn’t knock. He already knew I was there.

When I pushed open the door, I was met with the sight of Stone on his feet, his face red as he gestured for me wildly to shut the door. I closed it quietly behind me.

“Jesus Christ. Are you insane, walking in here like this?” He pulled at his tie, which was putting ideas in my head of strangling him with it.

“I must be.” Unhurried, I approached him, standing a few inches away from him. “You owe me an apology.”

“A what?”

---