Page 55 of Bratva Prisoner
“Boss man’s in the office reviewing the manifest for container block C. Something about a shipment from Prague that needs special handling.”
The euphemistic way Dyrel describes Maksim’s work never fails to amuse me. Everyone here speaks in careful code, as if saying the wrong thing might summon federal agents from thin air.
I make my way through the maze of shipping containers and forklifts toward the administrative offices. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve learned the routines of this place—when the legitimate cargo arrives, when the workers take their breaks, and when certain conversations happen behind closed doors.
“Morning, kitten,” Maksim greets me without looking up from his paperwork as I knock on his office door frame. “You’re here early.”
“Dyrel said the same thing. Am I that predictable?”
“Nothing wrong with being eager to feel useful.” He glances up with a smile that makes my stomach flip despite everything. “Which I find incredibly attractive.”
The easy affection in his voice still catches me off guard sometimes. These past weeks have created an odd sort of domestic routine between us—mornings at the docks, afternoons at Ravenshollow, evenings spent having conversations that dance around the growing attraction I’m not ready to fully address.
“What’s special about the Prague shipment?” I ask as I take a seat across from his desk.
“Electronics. High-end surveillance equipment that certain clients prefer to acquire through… alternative channels.”
“Stolen?”
“Liberated from corporate warehouses that never properly secured their inventory.” He sets down his pen and asks, “Does that bother you?”
Two weeks ago, the answer would have been an immediate yes. Now, after watching how Maksim’s operation works, after seeing how much his operations benefit his employees and the respect he commands without intimidation or coercion, my moral compass has become significantly more flexible.
“It bothers me that I don’t mind as much as I should,” I answer honestly.
“That’s called growth.”
“I think it’s called corruption.”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Maybe. But you’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” I agree, though I’m not entirely sure why.
The truth is, I’ve found something at the docks that I didn’t know I was missing—a sense of purpose, of belonging to something larger than myself. Maksim’s workers have accepted me as part of their extended family, and even his brothers treat me like we’re old friends when they visit.
“Dmitri’s stopping by this afternoon,” Maksim mentions as he shuffles through another stack of papers. “Something about coordinating security for a client meeting next week.”
“Will Cecily be with him?”
“Probably. She likes coming here almost as much as you do.”
The comparison makes me smile. Cecily and I have become genuine friends over these past weeks. She’s taught me how to read the subtle signals that indicate when business discussions are happening, and I’ve helped her understand the technical aspects of running a business, which I learned in college.
“Speaking of which,” Maksim continues, “we’ve got a new shipment of automotive parts coming in from Germany. Want to help oversee the processing?”
“Define ‘automotive parts.’”
“Actual automotive parts. Some of our business really is legitimate, you know.”
“I know. It’s just hard to tell which is which sometimes.”
“That’s the point.”
I spend the next two hours learning about import documentation and customs procedures, activities that would have bored me senseless a month ago but now fascinate me. Maksim is a natural teacher, patient with my questions, and impressed by how quickly I catch on.
“You could do this professionally,” he comments after I successfully identify a discrepancy in the German manifest. “International trade, I mean. You have the mind for it.”
“Criminal international trade?”
