The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva Book 3)

by Renee Rose

  The Enforcer

  Renee Rose

  Renee Rose Romance

  Copyright © March 2021 The Enforcer by Renee Rose and Renee Rose Romance

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors' rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published in the United States of America

  Wilrose Dream Ventures LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  Oleg

  Closing time at Rue’s Lounge is the worst part of every week. I drain the last of my beer and set the bottle down, reluctantly rising from the table I staked out early in the night. Story, my American songbird, and her bandmates gather around the bar, still pumped with energy from another epic performance.

  I hesitate, but there’s no excuse to remain. Not when Rue, the mohawked owner, has already turned on the overhead fluorescents to drive the last patrons out. Not when she’s specifically pointed at me and jerked her head toward the door.

  I have no reason to stay. I’m not hanging around working up the nerve to ask Story out.

  That would be impossible without a tongue.

  I won’t invent some other way to connect with her, either. I’m not the guy for her. I know that.

  And I don’t stay to clock more hours staring at her. Well, maybe some of that. It’s pretty fucking hard to look away when she’s in a room. The honey-voiced lead-singer and guitarist is magnetic. Mesmerizing. Gloriously talented and punk-beautiful.

  No, I stay because I’m incapable of leaving. I can’t quit the premises until I’m absolutely sure Story will get home safe.

  I watch her down her third margarita in a few swift gulps and then laugh at something one of her friends says. Her Debbie Harry bob is a pale pink this week—she added a tint of champagne to her usual platinum, which makes her pale skin glow. She’s so beautiful it hurts.

  I force myself to walk out.

  I know the bar’s familiar to her, and she has lots of friends there. She also has her bandmates, which include her brother. They should all look after her. But there’s alcohol involved. Possibly drugs. And I know I’m not the only mudak harboring wicked thoughts about what they’d like to do with the enigmatic singer of the Storytellers.

  The band members sometimes stay and drink after Rue’s closes, which is legal since they’re on the bar’s payroll. Those nights, I sit in my Yukon Denali and wait until I see Story get safely in the band’s van or leave with someone she knows.

  Tonight, they all head out with their groupies after me. I won’t have to wait long.

  Soon she’ll be safely out of my sight. I can go to the penthouse and start the countdown until she plays next week over again.

  I walk to my vehicle and lean my forearm on the hood, waiting to make sure she gets out of here safely.

  Story weaves as she clops through the parking lot in her Doc Martens, the alcohol obviously hitting her. Her fishnets sport a tear up one thigh that makes me want to finish the job. Rip them open and lick my way to the apex of those shapely legs. Only I don’t have a tongue to lick with.

  Blyad'. I haven’t been with a woman more than twice since it was taken from me. I don’t know how I’d make love to Story without the goddamn tip of my tongue.

  Her brother—the ladies man of the band—has a hot girl tucked under each arm, and he walks behind his weaving sister toward their van. His van—I think. At least, he usually drives it.

  She has a tiny Smart Car she shows up in now and then.

  Flynn says something to Story and veers away from the van, taking his two dates with him.

  “What? Wait—Flynn—you can’t!” Story hollers at his back.

  He ignores her.

  “I had too much to drink to drive home.”

  Flynn isn’t even listening. He’s saying something to the girls, and they’re giggling in response.

  The rest of their crew has scattered to other vehicles, leaving Story alone with the van.

  Drunk.

  Blyad'. I’m not the guy to go and tell her not to drive drunk. Again—I obviously don’t—can’t—tell anyone shit.

  But I don’t like it.

  “Flynn!” Story calls after her brother. “Can’t you drop me off first?”

  “I’ve been drinking, too,” he says although I think he’s probably in far better shape than his sister.

  I step away from my vehicle to show myself. I hold up my keys and point to the Denali. It’s about as close as I’ve come to communicating in a long fucking time. I usually don’t even try. That way people stop trying to connect with me. To include me. That way, I become invisible.

  As much as a guy who’s six-foot-six and two hundred eighty pounds can be invisible.

  Story sees me and hesitates. I can tell she read my offer. She’s considering it.

  Part of me wants her to reject it. She shouldn’t get into cars with men she doesn’t really know. I mean, she knows me from a bar, but I could be any kind of creep.

  But her shoulders sag in defeat. She holds her keys up and waves them at me. “Oleg—can you drive me home?” she slurs.

  She wants me to drive her van.

  I nod, moving before my brain has even considered the consequences.

  This will require connection. Attempted conversation. Awkward silences filled most likely with avoided eye contact and the metallic scent of fear. That’s what’s happened before anytime someone as good as Story gets too close to me. Fuck, I hate that.

  I scare the shit out of people. I’m big, menacing, covered in bratva and Siberian prison tattoos, and I can’t speak because I had my tongue cut out by my last employer to keep me from spilling his secrets. I breathe intimidation. I look like I can kil
l a man with my bare hands without breaking a sweat.

  And I have. Many times.

  I’m the bratva enforcer.

  Story stumbles a bit as I arrive, and I catch her elbow, steadying her. She leans into me, giving me an unfocused smile. “Thank you for rescuing me. I knew you would.”

  I try to ignore the effect of her words on my beating heart. The way they make it double-pump, then skip a beat, then race forward again.

  She knew I would.

  Well, good. Because I sort of figured she was one breath away from calling 911 on me for stalking because I’d been at the beautiful lead singer’s shows every week for a year.

  I didn’t plan to become Story Taylor’s stalker.

  I just like to watch her perform every week. I don’t know when I became obsessed. The first time I saw them play?

  Nah, that was when I became a fan. When I knew I wanted to get her lithe little body underneath mine to make her scream in pleasure.

  The third time?

  Maybe.

  All I know is she’s now my addiction. I don’t want to come. I fucking hate that the guys in my bratva cell figured it out and want to help me hook up with her. I want to stay invisible. A block wall no one can read. I shut down when I suddenly found myself in prison with no tongue. I learned to communicate with my fists and stopped attempting any other form of connection. But she’s my weakness.

  I can’t stay away.

  I can’t stop myself from being the first one to arrive and the last one to leave on Saturday nights. I don’t want to care about anything, especially not a perfect stranger who has zero interest in a giant, mute strongman.

  But here I am.

  Again.

  Unable to look away from her beautiful face. Or stay away from that fuck-hot body that I want to pleasure every inch of. Or even think about leaving her unprotected since no one would fuck with me.

  I take the keys out of her hand, open the van’s passenger door, and lift her up into it with my hands at her waist. I fucking love the feel of her firm flesh under my palms. Of holding her full weight, having control of it.

  “Oh!” My help startles her, and she lets out a breathy giggle. “Thanks.” She’s not usually wasted like this. She often nurses one drink the whole time while the rest of them get drunk. Tonight was a one-off.

  I shut the door and close my eyes, willing my dick to calm the fuck down. To stop reacting like a teenage prick every time I got to touch her. She smells sweet, like margaritas and vanilla.

  I know she’s not mine.

  She’ll never be mine.

  And yet some part of me refuses to understand that. Some part of me claimed her the first time I laid eyes on her.

  I get in the van and start it up then look to her and shrug for directions. “Oh, um, here.” She pulls out her phone and opens the Google Maps app. She enters an address, and the automated voice starts giving directions. “That’s easier than me trying to tell you,” she slurs. She waves a hand erratically in the air. “I might mess up or something.”

  I set the phone in the center console and follow the directions. Her apartment is a few miles from the bar, in a reasonable neighborhood. I find a place to park up the street, turn the van off and hand her the keys.

  Now I know where she lives.

  Which is a huge problem.

  I purposely never followed her. That would definitely cross the line way into stalker territory. But now that I know? Fuck.

  Will I be able to stay away? I’ll need to know she’s safe every time she leaves her apartment, not just the bar.

  Goddammit.

  Probably not.

  This is going to be a problem for me. And her.

  For both of us.

  Story

  I don’t know why it doesn’t occur to me until he hands me the keys that Oleg now has no way of getting home. He left his Denali at the bar!

  Well, duh.

  Looks like he’ll have to stay the night. Ummmm… weird.

  I’m not sorry. I’ve considered taking him home before. I mean, I was one hundred and five percent sure he’d come if I asked. He is my most devoted fan, after all.

  He watches me in a way that makes me feel warm and tingly. He protects me like he’s my own personal bodyguard, putting his body between me and any drunken audience members who get too close.

  I get excited to play at Rue’s every week knowing the big tattooed guy will be there, that he’s in the audience for me. Knowing he won’t take his eyes off me.

  I think the only reason I never pursued it before is because then what we have would be over. It would become another one of my short-lived relationships, and we’d never be able to go back to this. And I kind of love having a silent bodyguard-slash-fan who is always there.

  What if we had sex and hated it?

  Then he’d stop coming. That would make him an asshole, of course, but I’m in a bubble where I can fantasize still.

  Or what if he got creepy? I don’t get that vibe from him, but I’m not stupid. It’s a possibility. Somehow, I feel safe with him. Somehow, I feel like he’d never hurt me.

  But mostly I don’t want him to become like the other guys I hook up with—date for a few months and then ditch before things get serious. My little sister says it’s a safety mechanism. I leave them before they can leave me. She’s probably right.

  Anyway, all I know is that Oleg’s different from those guys. Special.

  I consider it now. Do I invite him in? Or tell him thanks for the ride and ask if he wants me to order him an Uber?

  Somehow, I know if I chose the latter, he would walk away without trying anything. I mean all these months, and he’s never tried once to get me to go home with him or even to hang out. He hasn’t asked for my number or given me his.

  He just shows up. Same time every week.

  Dependable like no one else in my life has really been.

  And yes, I know he can’t talk to ask me out. Annie, the cocktail waitress at Rue’s had told me that when he first started coming. She said he usually ordered by pointing at someone else’s beer. I didn’t even know he was Russian until his friends came in with him and introduced us.

  And it’s that realization that makes me sure he’s safe. He’s not going to get weird. He’d leave if I told him to leave. He’d respect the hell out of me.

  I already know that because I’ve climbed this guy like a tree during my performances. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I’ll crook my finger from the stage, and he’ll launch out of his seat and stand below, so I can pull a Dirty Dancing flying leap into his hands. Or crawl on his shoulders or fall into his arms in a honeymoon carry. I can count on the guy to catch me and carry me around while I sing. It’s become part of the performance. The band members and my fans expect it now. I know Oleg would never let me fall.

  “Come on,” I tell him.

  He hesitates, looking at me with so much suspicion it makes me laugh.

  “You have to walk me to the door.” I sound drunker than I am.

  I blink. One second he’s fifteen feet away on the other side of the van, the next he’s at my elbow, steadying me when I don’t walk a straight line up the sidewalk.

  I unlock the door to the building.

  Oleg doesn’t move.

  “You have to walk me all the way to my place,” I tell him. “What if someone tried to mess with me in the stairwell?”

  His brows slam down.

  Okay, maybe I’m not as sober as I think. That sounded really stupid. “You’re my bodyguard,” I affirm.

  It’s a fact he already knows since he’s self-appointed.

  We walk the three flights up through the old Brownstone to my floor, and I shake out my keys to find the right one. When I get the door open, Oleg takes a step back. He’s huge—wide shoulders, barrel chest, arms like tree trunks. His dark brown hair is cropped close like his beard.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  His heated brown gaze rakes down my body, but
he shakes his head. I’m surprised how much his refusal disappoints me. I mean, I guess I thought he was a sure thing. There’s no way I read this thing wrong, is there?

  I face him and lean in, standing on tiptoe to throw an arm around his neck and tipping my face up to his. “Why not?”

  He freezes, his big body going rigid.

  If I didn’t feel his erection prodding my belly, I would think he wasn’t into it. But he is.

  “Why are you holding back?” I whisper. I pull his head down and close my lips over his, tasting him.

  He remains rigid for one second.

  Two.

  “Please,” I ask, needing him to know I want this.

  And then he surges to life. My back slams against the wall beside my door as Oleg unleashes the months of pent-up attraction between us. One beefy hand cups my ass, the other captures my nape, and he claims my mouth like it’s his last chance at breathing.

  My core instantly turns molten. I grind down on the leg he thrust between mine, kissing him back with as much frantic need as he’s giving. I don’t feel his tongue, but I use mine—probably too sloppily. He kneads my ass, helping me hump his leg.

  I reach out to open my door then grab a fistful of Oleg’s black t-shirt—the one stretched taut over his broad shoulders and chiseled pecs and try to tug him into my apartment.

  Try is the operative word here.

  Because Oleg doesn’t move.

  The pulse between my legs makes me antsy. “Come inside,” I encourage.

  He shakes his head.

  What… the F?

  “Oleg, come inside,” I say it more like an order now. I mean, this guy’s into me. He’s going to give me what I need, right?