Page 9 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Good morning, sir,” she says, ignoring Olivia completely. “Can I get you anything?”

“Two cups of coffee,” I tell her. “We’ll take it in one of the private lounges.”

The moment she disappears, Olivia sidles up next to me. She’s taller than I realized when I first sat down next to her in the cafe. I’d guess around five-nine or five-ten. The slight hunch in her shoulders tells me that she’s spent most of her life trying to make herself smaller.

“There’s a private lounge inside the private lounge?”

“Follow me.”

The private lounges are smaller rooms situated at the back of the greater hall. The furniture in here is darker, more sumptuous, more refined. A private space for doing private things.

Perfect for my purposes.

I escort Olivia inside one of the rooms. We’ve just sat down when the hostess buzzes in with a trolley of coffee and pastries. Among them are small squares of chocolate cake and multicolored macarons.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Privacy.”

The hostess hovers, glancing at me anxiously. There’s an invitation in her smile, but to her credit, she takes the hint and leaves, closing the pod door behind her. Smart woman.

Olivia looks at me with an awed expression. “So… you’re important.”

I shrug. “Or maybe I’m just a rich kid who is using his father’s membership.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

“No?”

We’re sitting on the same sofa, but she’s chosen to position herself a good three feet away from me. I’m surprised at how much that annoys me.

I’ve never been one to put up with anything I don’t like. So I move closer to her. She tenses as I slide in range.

“Um, well, no,” she repeats, struggling to pick up her line of thought. “You… you seem like the kind of man… who, um—”

“What kind of man do I seem like?” I press.

She gnaws at her bottom lip, looking distinctly frustrated with herself. “The kind of man who has made it on his own. Am I right?”

I smile. “Very good. You’re observant.”

“It’s because of my job,” she says. “I watch people. I like to see how they act when they don’t know anyone is watching.”

“Oh, but I am aware you’re watching,” I say softly. “Very aware.”

She flushes and jerks forward to pick up her coffee mug so that she doesn’t have to respond to that last statement. But she grabs it so quickly that more hot coffee splashes over the rim onto her fingers.

“God-fucking-shit-dammit!” she says for the second time.

I pluck the cup from her hands. “Interesting phrase,” I remark, trying to contain my laughter. “Haven’t really heard anyone swear like that before.”

She’s bright red with embarrassment. “My brother used to teach me stuff like that all the time when we were little. Mostly to get me in trouble with our parents, I now suspect. But my sister and I caught the habit and can’t let it go. Very unbecoming of a lady, I know.”

Setting the cup down, I unfold a thick cloth napkin and offer it for her to rest her hand in. She does so reluctantly, looking at me the whole time with a nervous tremor in her cheeks. I fold her hand between mine and dab away coffee yet again.

I move slower than I did before. Savoring the moment.

So much has gone into this that it would be a shame to rush through the moment.

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