The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva Book 3)

by Renee Rose

  “Oh my gawd.” Story’s mouth opens wide, her body undulating beneath mine, responding to my thrust.

  I ease back then arc in again with force, keeping her from sliding up with the hand around her throat. Her core contracts around my cock. With my free hand, I pinch her nipple then squeeze her perfect breast.

  I go slow and hard for a while, punctuating my in-strokes with a pause to let her feel my full length, to get used to me. But both of us soon need more. Story starts reaching for me, holding my sides to pull me in sooner, so I shorten the strokes and increase the pace, leaning one hand against the wall behind her head to brace myself.

  “Oleg,” she pants. “Oh my God, yes. Oleg.”

  Hearing her chant my name sends my ego on a victory march before it’s even over. The most human part of me that had shriveled up and died turning on a little more each time I drink in her goddess-beautiful face.

  Story. I want to chant her name back to her. My lastochka. I shift to lift her legs up to my shoulders, holding the fronts of her thighs, so I can plow deeper. Her cries get louder and more frequent—almost a constant stream of vocalizations.

  I pause and arch a brow. You like that, shalun’ya?

  Spank me, Daddy. Remembering her squeal when I put her over my shoulder Saturday night, I pull out and flip her to belly, giving each buttcheek a sharp slap.

  “Ooh!” She arches her back like a cat, offering her ass up to me. I deliver another two slaps before I push back in, and she moans her contentment.

  I hold her by the nape and ride her from behind, glorying in each delicious, dizzying stroke. The room swoops and swims, but it’s from ecstasy not pain. Nothing feels so right as being inside Story.

  I stroke down her back with the fingertips of my free hand. Admire the umbrella tattoo on her shoulder blade. Grab a handful of her ass. Hold her hip. I pull her cheeks wide to get at her cute little hole, and she lets out a stream of frantic, garbled encouragement. She doesn’t last long. Four more stokes, and then she comes, her legs straightening and jerking, her inner walls squeezing my cock like a fist.

  I fuck her harder and faster to bring on my own finish, and it comes immediately. I plunge deep and hold, reaching my hand under her hips to rub her clit and coax out the rest of her climax. It works. Another gigantic tremor runs through her, and the muscles pulse again, squeezing more cum into the condom. Sparks of light dance behind my eyes. I pull out and topple to my side, my head splitting but my heart, my spirit—something I thought long dead—soaring like a fucking kite.

  Story, I want to croon in her ear. Beautiful story. My crazy, wild, naughty girl songbird. What a fucking priviledge to be in her bed. I settle for a soft hum. The sound for how she makes me feel.

  I manage to remove the condom and throw it in the trash by the bed before I close my eyes and pass out again.

  Story

  I’m just out of the shower getting dressed when a knock sounds on the door. Oleg is passed out on the bed, poor guy.

  Poor him, lucky me. The guy is a freaking stallion. That was by far the best sex I’ve ever had. It wasn’t any special technique, it was just… Oleg. I love feeling his strength and power. The roughness and dominance to his movements. And yet I’ve also never felt so safe with a guy. This guy is dependable. He comes to every show. Sits in the front with the energy of a bouncer or protector. I never once felt nervous when he was manhandling me. I knew if I said stop, he’d stop. I could relax and enjoy it.

  I yank on my sweater run for the door. No one rang the buzzer downstairs, which means it must be a neighbor. Hopefully not to complain about our morning sex session. Not that I was that loud. Or was I? My throat does feel rather raw.

  I swing the door open, but when I see the two tattooed guys behind it, I immediately narrow the gap until only my face shows through. “Yes?”

  “Hey, Story,” the brown-haired guy says. “I’m Maxim, a friend of Oleg’s. This is Pavel.” He indicates his blond friend. “We met at your show? My wife Sasha talked to you—the redhead?”

  “Yeah, hey.” I remember the guy and his friendly wife, and he doesn’t seem threatening, but I don’t know who hurt Oleg, and the guy smashed his own phone like he was afraid of being tracked. Plus, I don’t know how these guys found me or my place.

  “I’m sorry to show up here. It’s just that we haven’t seen Oleg since Saturday night, and we were wondering if you know anything? Was he at your show Saturday?”

  I shake my head quickly. “No.”

  He cocks his head like he knows I’m lying.

  “I mean, yes, he was at my show, but I don’t know where he went after that. I mean, I haven’t seen him.” Damn, I’m a terrible liar. I sound breathless, and I’m speaking way too fast.

  Maxim’s eyes narrow. He tries to peer past me, and when he does, his shoulders relax. “Oleg, what the fuck?”

  I whirl to find Oleg behind me. He pulled on his jeans, but he’s shirtless, and there are no shoes on his feet. He’s certainly not hiding from these guys. Relief flows through me.

  I’m suddenly overjoyed to have someone to share the weight of Oleg’s plight with. “He got attacked. Someone shot him,” I blurt, standing back from the door, so they can come in.

  “What?” Maxim scans Oleg quickly.

  “He got hit over the head and shot in the leg.” I point at the hole in his jeans. I washed the blood out, but the entire thigh area of his jeans is still stained rust.

  “Fuck.” Maxim says something terse in Russian to Pavel who appears grim. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.” I’m slightly offended. Of course, I took care of him. He’s my friend.

  Oleg staggers back toward the bedroom, and Pavel follows him, not offering help but staying close.

  “Do you know who attacked him? Did you see what happened?”

  I shake my head. “No, he drove my van here to take me home. The next morning, I found him in the back of it, bleeding with a wound on the back of his head.”

  Oleg appears with his shirt and boots on.

  “Where the fuck is your phone?” Maxim demands. I bristle a little at the way he speaks to Oleg, but it also puts me at ease. They’re obviously comfortable with each other. There’s a rapport. Like I have with Flynn and the guys in the band.

  Oleg doesn’t answer. Well, of course not, but he doesn’t try to communicate at all. I’ve noticed him do that with me, too, when he decides he doesn’t want to engage. It’s like he doesn’t even try.

  “He smashed it,” I offer, even though I’m not sure Oleg wants me to share that.

  Maxim stares at him, like he’s trying to puzzle it out. “Okay,” he says, like he’s got it handled. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”

  Oleg looks at Maxim and tips his head my way.

  Maxim pulls out his wallet and grabs all the cash in it. I catch sight of more than a few hundred dollar bills. He folds the wad in half and hands it all to me, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Thank you for taking care of Oleg.”

  “What?” I shove the bills back at him, offended. “I didn’t do it for the money.”

  Oleg appears alarmed by my tone. His brows go up, and he watches my face carefully.

  “No, no, no,” Maxim says smoothly. “I didn’t mean it to sound transactional.” He spreads his free hand in a peace-making gesture. “Not at all. I know you did it because you care about Oleg.”

  I calm down a bit.

  “But Oleg wants you to be taken care of. Please accept it.” He stretches his arm out toward me again.

  I hesitate. I’m still a little offended. Or maybe I don’t like that Oleg’s leaving. He’s leaving, and I don’t have his number or know when I’m going to see him again.

  This is so unlike me. Usually I’m the one running from a relationship.

  My eyes suddenly get hot, and I blink rapidly. I still haven’t taken the money. I sort of hate that I’m talking to Maxim right now instead of Oleg.

 
Why is that?

  Why is Oleg letting his friend speak for him? And why is he just leaving with them? Is he even going to say goodbye?

  It pisses me off. I fold my arms across my chest. “Then let Oleg give it to me,” I challenge.

  Maxim pivots, so his arm points toward Oleg. Oleg’s dark brows are down. He snatches the money from Maxim’s fingers and tosses it on my coffee table like he’s throwing it in the trash. He steps right into my space, cupping the back of my head, his mouth descending on mine before I even have time to breathe. To think.

  The tears spear the inner corners of my eyes as I receive his kiss. His hand on my waist, his thumb cupping my cheek. When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against mine and stays there. He makes that soft humming sound he did after we had sex. His friends leave the apartment, standing out on the landing to give us privacy.

  “Don’t do that to me,” I whisper, hurt still lacing my voice.

  He pulls away, worried eyes studying my face.

  “I don’t want an intermediary between us,” I explain because he obviously isn’t sure what I’m talking about.

  He goes still, almost like I shocked him. Like he wasn’t aware of the way he just faded into the background the moment his friends arrived. He nods and bends his head to give me one soft kiss—a press of his lips to mine.

  I don’t want him to leave. It’s crazy how much I don’t want him to leave. Even though I know this thing can’t go anywhere. I know exploring it will only lead to pain and the eventual end. Still, I cling to him. Wrap my arms around his back and press my body up against his in a hug.

  “Get better soon,” I say, my voice rusty. It’s a stupid thing to say. It doesn’t encompass one-fifth of what I want to say to him. “Will you be at my show?”

  Jesus.

  Now I just sound clingy.

  He freezes again, which tells me he doesn’t think he will be, but then he gives a single nod.

  Hmm. I don’t quite believe him.

  But there’s someone after him. Maybe he has to go into hiding now.

  Fuck—maybe I’ll never see him again.

  I catch his sleeve as he turns. “Oleg—”

  He swivels back, that alarmed expression in place.

  “Will you be? Really?”

  He draws in a slow breath then nods.

  I exhale.

  “Be careful,” I say because now I feel guilty for asking him to come to my show when he’s obviously in danger.

  He nods and catches my hand, squeezing it.

  I still don’t want him to go. But his friends shift position in the hallway, and I notice the bulge of a handgun in Pavel’s jacket pocket, and I remember that I don’t belong in his world. Which means he can’t stay in mine.

  “Bye,” I say quickly, turning away to pretend I’m cool. Because I am. I’ve had a lot of weird experiences in my short life. I’m in a band, and many of my friends do a lot of drugs. This will become another crazy story. Or maybe I’ll actually write the songs that have been eluding me for a while now.

  Why, then, does it feel like such a loss when Oleg walks out my door?

  Chapter 4

  Oleg

  I climb in the back of Maxim’s Tesla.

  “Give him your phone,” Maxim barks and Pavel.

  Pavel hands me his phone, and Maxim hands his to Pavel as he puts the car in drive and pulls out.

  “Who was it?” Maxim demands.

  My head throbs, and I still feel raw and rough from upsetting Story back there. Fuck. I definitely didn’t mean to offend her by having Maxim give her money. I just expected him to do and say the right things because I can’t say them myself. I wanted to take care of her. And I’m sure she could use the money. I did the math in my head. She can’t bring in more than eight hundred a week giving guitar lessons. So it’s not terrible money, but it’s not like she’s rich or anything. And Maxim is. He was smooth as fuck, too—saying all the right things, and it still pissed her off.

  She didn’t want him talking for me.

  I’m still rocked to the core by that. Like torn down the center of the chest, heart exposed where it beats. I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life.

  And I still don’t know what I’m going to tell Ravil and the guys about this. I want to ignore Maxim, but I know that’s not going to fly, so I type in the details in Russian.

  Three guys. Spoke Russian. I fought them and got away. I don’t tell him that they wanted me alive.

  That I know why.

  Pavel reads my brief text out loud for Maxim. For me, it’s not brief. It’s about the longest I usually get with any communique.

  “It’s the three guys Dima tracked into the country.” Maxim smacks the dash. “Call Dima and tell him to text the photos to my phone.”

  I remember now that Maxim had Dima set up tracking software to flag any persons of interest from all incoming Russian flights because he feared someone from the Moscow bratva would try to kill Sasha for her millions. If those meatheads who tried to capture me Saturday came over recently, Dima would’ve noted it. They weren’t bratva, but they still might’ve raised flags.

  Pavel makes the call, and a few moments later Ravil’s phone buzzes with the incoming texts. I open them, then nod at Pavel. Maxim catches it in the rearview mirror.

  “Fuck!” Maxim explodes. “I knew they were trouble. Did they ask anything? Say anything?”

  I shake my throbbing head. My pulse races. Maxim believes this is about Sasha. I shouldn’t let him. I should come clean about my past.

  But then, I should’ve done that two years ago when Ravil brought me into the fold. I can’t do it now without them all feeling my betrayal.

  “Did all three walk away?” Pavel asks. Which really means, did I do any real harm to them? Sadly, no.

  I shrug and nod.

  And thankfully, that ends my interrogation. The guys are so used to me offering nothing that they don’t push. Maxim heard what he needed to hear. He will guard his bride and put systems in place to locate these guys. To eliminate the threat.

  Which works in my favor, of course. Until whoever is after me sends another crew.

  Maxim’s phone rings, and Dima’s name comes on the screen. Dima is our hacker. There’s nothing the guy can’t hack or program.

  I hand the phone back to Maxim since I obviously can’t answer. “Those were the guys,” Maxim confirms.

  “I have a location,” Dima clips, all business. Ravil’s organization is smooth and orderly—efficient. Pavel was in the Russian military. Ravil and Maxim are genius-level strategists. Nikolai, Dima’s twin, is a bookie. I’m the muscle. The enforcer. But we’re a team—the spokes of a wheel.

  “Text it to me.” Maxim twists around to look at me. “You okay with a detour? You don’t have to come in.”

  I’m not. I will need to hurl as soon as the Denali stops, and I’m pretty desperate for a painkiller, but of course, I nod. Killing these fuckers is top priority. How I’m feeling is totally irrelevant.

  Maxim navigates through traffic. I open the door at a red light to puke, and he curses in Russian.

  “Maybe we should take him back first,” Pavel says. His gun is on his lap, silencer already screwed on.

  I pull my head back in the vehicle and slam the door then wave my hand impatiently with a frown.

  Pavel shrugs. “Okay. He wants to go.”

  It’s not a long drive. We get to a hotel, and Maxim parks. He twists to look at me, screwing a silencer on his own piece. “We’ll be back in ten, okay, O?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll make them pay for what they did to you.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t really give a shit if they suffer or don’t. They were just doing a job. My real concern is who’s behind them.

  The guys are back in seven minutes. Maxim checks the mirror and cleans a few splatters of blood from his face before stowing the piece under the seat and taking off.

  Pavel sits quietly for a few minutes before he asks, �
��Don’t you think we should’ve found out who sent them before we killed them?”

  A muscle ticks in Maxim’s face. He’s crazy-protective when it comes to Sasha. It affected his decision-making on this one. “They were waiting for us. If we hadn’t fired first, we’d be dead now. Besides, we’re sending a fucking message. Anyone who comes near my wife will meet a swift death.”

  Pavel shoots me a glance to see if I’m with him on this one.

  Of course, I’m thankful they didn’t get anything out of them. If they had, I might find one of those guns pointing at my head now, so I just shrug.

  It worked for me. I needed those assholes out of the picture and away from Story.

  The rest of the shit, I can deal with later.

  Story

  I tune my electric guitar then run through chord changes in fast succession to warm my fingers up. It’s Friday afternoon, and the Storytellers are at the Lounge for weekly practice. If it wasn’t for Rue letting us practice here during the days for free, there would be no Storytellers. Which is why Rue’s Lounge will always be our home base. People ask me sometimes why we don’t try to branch out—get gigs at other places, rotate where we play.

  We could. We might even make more money. Maybe we’d build a bigger following. But Rue’s launched us. We grew our base of support here. We’re as loyal to the owner as she is to us.

  “Where’s the set list?” Flynn asks me.

  People think it’s my band because of the name, but it’s actually Flynn’s. Flynn and his friends got together after high school, formed a band, and then needed a lead singer. They thought a female would make them way cooler than an all-boy band. Of course, my name fit easily for a band name.

  Maybe it is my band. I mean, I’m the older sister and creative lead. But I don’t ever think of it that way. I believe strongly in collaboration. That’s where the magic happens. With the Storytellers, I often feel like I’m just along for the ride.

  “So what happened with Silent Boris Saturday night?” Flynn asks.

  I whip my head around and glare at him, uncharacteristically on edge. “Don’t call him that.”