Page 7 of Bratva's Intern

MAXIM

Fuck.

A crowded coffee shop wasn’t where I needed to be the day my PA, Tim, betrayed me.

No notice. No apology. No good-bye. Just an email dripping with self-righteousness and some nonsense about “doing the right thing.”

For eight years, he had no objection to looking the other way. Eight years of loyalty—bought and paid for—down the drain overnight because he decided he suddenly had a conscience.

Conscience.

The word tasted bitter in my mouth, like over-brewed coffee.

He’d been paid well to follow orders and keep his mouth shut. It wasn’t as if I had him do anything gruesome. His level of organization and his knowledge of running my legitimate businesses had made our working relationship perfect.

What was I supposed to do without him?

The din of chatter in the coffee shop almost led me back out the door, but coffee was the only thing that could bring some order to my shitty day. I let the door fall shut behind me and took a step forward.

Students huddled around laptops with neglected screens that had gone dark. Whatever they were working on seemed long forgotten, lost in their conversation. The aroma of coffee beans, burnt toast, and sugary syrups hung thick in the air, clawing at my already frayed nerves. Behind the counter, the baristas moved like a rehearsed dance on the music of clattering cups and sizzling steamers. A chalkboard menu loomed above them, crammed with swirling, artistic handwriting that was nearly illegible unless you stood uncomfortably close.

The line was almost at the door. I checked my watch and frowned. If any of my rivals saw me at the back of the line, they would laugh, but I was in disguise as the charming, wealthy real estate god of Corthall.

I didn’t need to read the menu. I always took my coffee the same way—black. Nothing special about it, according to Tim, but this place somehow brewed the beans just right.

Nope, this line isn’t going to work.

“Excuse me.”

The young lady I shuffled by opened her mouth as though to argue. She swung her head around, no doubt to give me a what-for. Her eyes widened when she saw me. I gave her an apologetic smile, and her cheeks pinkened.

I wasn’t straight, but she didn’t need to know that.

When I stopped at the front of the line, a barista’s eyes lit up with recognition. She abandoned her post at the espresso machine and rushed over, nearly slipping on the tiled floor. “Mr. Black-Coffee-Only Boss, right?”

My eyebrow twitched. Tim. That moniker had his stink all over it. Of course he’d have run his mouth even here on hismillionth trip to the coffee shop over the seven years. But I didn’t care what she called me as long as she took my order.

“Guilty.” I leaned forward, turning on the charm. “Can I get my usual to go, sweetheart? I have an important meeting I need to get to ASAP. My PA—you’ve met—bailed on me, so I have to do my own coffee run.”

“Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Excuse me.”

A hand pulled on the sleeve of my jacket—three sharp tugs. A young man, his tousled dark hair curling disorderly about his head, was the source of the interruption. He tugged my sleeve again, his hazel eyes sharp and unflinching. He raised his pointed chin and set his jaw in a stubborn line. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty and looked as though he was playing dress up in a long-sleeve dress shirt and a crooked tie. My hands itched to right the material.

“Excuse me. There’s a line for a reason,” he said, an edge to his voice.

I arched an eyebrow, glancing at the dozen or so people behind him, none of whom had the nerve to say anything. Why was he trying to play the hero? “I won’t be long. I’m a regular.”

He crossed his arms and looked back at the line. “Who else is a regular here?” Several hands shot up. “That’s not a good enough excuse to cut the line. Some of us have been waiting for almost half an hour.”

“So what’s five minutes more? You understand, don’t you?”

He wasn’t worth my time. I shouldn’t even acknowledge him, but it’d been a long time since I didn’t hear a “Yes, Mr. Morozov, sir. How high, Mr. Morozov, sir” for every little thing I said. That had to be the reason I allowed this stranger to give me lip.

“You, sir, are quite rude. I insist you go to the back of the line and wait your turn.”

“Oh?” I folded my arms. “And who’s going to make me? You, I presume?”

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