Page 4 of Bratva's Secret Girl

“Oh, and the obnoxious guy I told you about hasn’t returned!”

That’s because he’s dead.

No one upsets my secret girl.

“I’m glad to hear that.” I wonder what detail of her life I can subtly extract today? I hoard the glistening secrets she shares with me as though I’m a dragon. She’s my treasure.

We talk for a few minutes about work. She tells me about the dishwasher being a bit temperamental as she loads it for the last cycle of the day. I’ve repeated to her that she doesn’t need to make it perfect, and offered someone to help, but she’s insistent that it’s not busy enough to justify another member of staff at the end of the day, and since she’s the manager, she’ll do it.

And I guess I’m still a bit selfish, because I love having this time with her. Just the two of us.

“I’ll get the door,” I tell her when she tells me the café is officially closed, and then pull down the blinds. When I return to the counter, she has the cash takings for the day, and we sit at a table, me doing the second count so she doesn’t have to.

I do it very slowly, and never find an error with her totals. I wouldn’t care if I did, but she’s so diligent. It’s adorable. I almost feel bad that the Lazy Bean cafés are designed as a money laundering and illegal product distribution system rather than real businesses.

“Did you watch the end of that series?” I ask as we’re working, and she replies that she did, and then we’re talking about her favourite characters, and god but it feels so good. It’s not the level of intimacy I’d like, but she’s chatting easily with me. As though we’re friends.

There are a few minutes after everything is done when we’re just there, relaxing, talking about carefully impersonal topics.

I want to ask about her family. About what sort of house she likes, and maybe how she needs to be touched to make her moan with delight. Every thought in her head, and all the secrets beneath her clothes and under her skin. I can never get enough of her.

All too soon, I have to force myself to be a good boss, and not keep her late. Do I imagine the flash of disappointment when I mention we should go?

She locks the café door, and I don’t tell her it’s utterly unnecessary. No one would touch anything of mine in Greenwich.

“Goodbye, malishka,” I say softly, for her ears only. I call her baby girl in Russian, and she doesn’t know what it means.

She meets my gaze and smiles, and my poor heart squeezes, as though by making itself flat it could slip between my ribs and go to her. Where it wants to be.

“’Bye, have a good evening!” She turns and walks away, and I force myself to do the same rather than watch her until she’s out of sight. Or follow.

I don’t glance backwards. Too much attention would put her in danger from my enemies.

Until I see her again, I’ll accept the lonely hole in my chest.

My secret girl.

3

HAYLEY

Four weeks later

I look up with a smile when I hear the door open five minutes before closing time at the café, because Maxim often visits then. He says it’s to check up on how things are going, but we end up talking about anything and everything—books, movies, food—and not work.

“Hi!…” It’s not Maxim and my heart drops with disappointment.

Five young men walk in, wearing slim-fit suits with skinny ties. Clean shaven.

Definitely not the sexy, older, chunky vibe that I adore in my bear-of-a-boss.

“We close in a few minutes, and there are no pastries left,” I say apologetically from my place behind the counter.

They keep walking, expressions set.

It’s only then that I glance around and notice there are no other customers. My pulse spikes uncomfortably. This could be trouble.

“I can do drinks, but they’ll have to be take-away.” I’ve already cleaned up the coffee machine, but these men look like the type you don’t say no to.