The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva Book 3)

by Renee Rose

  I swipe my keycard through the lock and push the door open. The shades are drawn, and the suite is dark.

  Story steps in, and I flick on a lamp, so she can see. Everything in the penthouse is expensive and tasteful, but the decorator Ravil hired got the message that I wasn’t interested in anything fancy, so she left it mostly empty. There’s a minimalist king platform bed, low to the ground, and a large overstuffed chair. The end tables and dresser are mid-century modern teak. There’s a small table with two chairs in front of the window. It’s probably all expensive—I don’t know. I don’t care about any of it. It’s a place to sleep—that’s all that matters to me.

  “This is your place?” She looks up at me.

  I nod.

  She still seems shaken and stiff. I can’t stand it. I would do fucking anything to erase what just happened back there. What she saw me do.

  Fuck!

  She sets down her acoustic guitar and takes off her wine-colored woolen coat, draping it over the neck of the case. “Where’s the kitchen?”

  I lift my brows and mime eating.

  “No, I’m not hungry. I just think it’s weird that you don’t have one.”

  I nod. I don’t know how to begin explaining that I live with seven and a half other people—six Russians, one American, and a baby named Benjamin.

  She kicks off her combat boots and heads into the bathroom. She’s in a corduroy micro-mini, frayed at the edges, with a pair of pale pink tights on underneath. On top, she’s wearing a skin-tight t-shirt with a rainbow across her chest and the sleeves cut off. I think it might have belonged to a child before it became Story’s.

  “Wow. This is...beautiful.” She opens the shower door and takes in the giant shower. She turns on the water and looks over her shoulder at me. “Looks like there’s room for two.”

  It’s not flirty, she almost sounds… vulnerable.

  She needs me. It’s my job to take care of her. I follow her in, stripping off my clothes as I walk. She drops her skirt to the floor at her feet and shimmies out of the tights. I tug the t-shirt off over her head and unhook her bra. I don’t feel the aggression I felt last time. The wild storm of lust that made me rough and crude with her. This time, the need to take care of her is too strong.

  She just saw me kill three men. She saw that, and she’s still here with me. She didn’t protest me bringing her here, and she hasn’t tried to leave.

  She asked me into the shower with her.

  But she’s not okay. I know that in my bones, and my need to soothe her comes first.

  I know I’m right, when she just turns and steps into the shower. It’s like she wants to wash off the events of the night. I finish undressing and step in behind her, shutting the door.

  I don’t crowd her, but she comes to me, her fingers coasting over my hairy chest.

  “Why didn’t you come tonight?” she asks.

  I flinch, the question hitting me like a punch to the gut. I’d tried to tell myself I didn’t matter enough to Story. That she wouldn’t be hurt by my absence tonight, but she clearly was. I trail my fingertips down her face, tracing the water droplets over her nose, then her lips.

  “Was it because of those guys?”

  Fuck. I don’t want to tell her it was because I overslept. And of course, I don’t have a way of giving her the words, even if I had them. I step into her space, walking her slowly backward until she hits the soft quartz wall. My hands coast lightly down her arms. One settles on her waist, the other wraps behind her neck. I lean my forehead against hers.

  “You’re sorry,” she murmurs, doing her trick of reading my mind.

  I nod.

  When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. “I’m scared, Oleg.” She sucks in a sobbed breath. “I don’t know what’s happening, and you can’t tell me.”

  I wrap my arms around her, and she presses her cheek to my chest, crying. I hold her until her tears subside. It doesn’t take long. She sniffs and pushes me gently back. I pick up the bar of soap and roll it in one hand, then gently begin to suds down one of her arms to her hands, where I massage each calloused fingertip. I turn her and wash her back, massaging her neck firmly, stroking down her sides, gripping her ass possessively.

  She moans softly. “Yes.”

  I soap the other shoulder and arm, then both her breasts, pressing my thigh between her legs and pinning her against the shower wall. I tug her head back with my hand around her wet hair. She opens her mouth. Our lips connect for a searing kiss then come apart.

  “I’m on the pill,” she murmurs.

  I check her face to be sure I’m getting the right memo.

  “Are you clean?”

  I nod. Definitely clean. I’ve only had sex twice since I got out of prison, and both times I wore a condom.

  “Me too.” She reaches for my cock.

  I wasn’t going to go there unless I was sure she needed it, but apparently she does.

  I impale her with my erection in one swift stroke. Being inside her bare is another incredible level. But this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I need to give my lastochka what she needs.

  She gasps, lifting one leg to wrap around my waist, clinging to my shoulders for stability. I fill her, pumping in and out, her skin under my hands a form of worship.

  Her breath rasps. Her gaze stays on my face, intensifying the moment. She’s searching for something. Connection? Truth? Trust?

  I wish I fucking knew how to give it to her. All I know is our bodies, so right together. Our skin, wet and slick. The communion of this act, this coming together for mutual release. I know I need this as badly as she does, even though I’d willingly deny myself the pleasure if it meant I could undo what happened tonight.

  I work her ass in my hands, massaging it, stroking between her cheeks. Pressing against her anus.

  Her eyes fly open in surprise, and her hips thrust frantically, taking me deeper, meeting my strokes.

  You like that? You want my finger in your ass while I make you come?

  That’s what I would say if I could just dirty-talk my girl.

  I bend my neck to meld my lips to hers, drinking in her gasps as I work my fingertip into her anus. When her head arcs back, I kiss her throat and gently pump my finger in and out, just to the first knuckle as I hold her hips captive and thrust into her.

  She shatters—throwing herself fully in my arms, both legs wrapped tightly around my waist as she comes. Her nails score my neck and shoulders, the contracting of her muscles around my dick bringing on my own release. I stay deep but rub her clit up and down over my loins, my erection straining with each mini-thrust. I come inside her, and she squeezes more, milking my dick for its seed. I fucking love that I can feel everything. That I’m inside her without any barriers between us.

  “Oleg.” She sounds broken.

  I don’t put her down. I don’t ever want to put her down again. I ease my finger out of her ass and wash us both under the water, then carry her out of the shower, still wrapped around my waist. I grab a towel and pull it tightly around her back and ass, using it to hold her against my body. Carefully, like she’s made of glass, I prop her ass on the bathroom counter, the towel tucked softly beneath her cheeks, and I use the ends to pat her face dry. Her make-up left smudges under her eyes, but I don’t know what to do about those. We’ll figure it out in the morning.

  I run the corner of the towel between her breasts and down her belly, wrap both sides up to dry her thighs, and then I pull her back into my arms, wrap the towel around her back and carry her to my bed.

  Story’s quiet the whole time, watching me with big, brown eyes. I lay her gently down and flick off the light before I lie beside her. The chaotic thudding in my chest is soothed when she instantly rolls into me, molding her body against my side, resting her wet head on my shoulder.

  “You’re warm,” she murmurs.

  She’s right, I’m burning up. But the only thing I care about is holding Story.

  Chapter 6

&nb
sp; Story

  For a moment, when I wake, I don’t recognize where I am. The soft sheets, the warm bed. The sense of comfort. There’s a feeling of safety and of the presence of another, but I can’t quite remember…

  I open my eyes, and it all comes rushing back to me.

  Oleg.

  It’s amazing how comforting his presence is to me. Grounding. Solid. When I’m around him, the chaos in my head seems to quiet.

  Oleg is up and dressed, sitting at a table near the curtains. A bag from the local bagel place sits on the table, along with a cup of take-out coffee. The scent gets me out of bed.

  I don’t want to think about last night.

  The gun at my head.

  The three men Oleg killed. The trouble he must be in. I know I need to demand answers—we’re going to figure out how to communicate one way or another—but part of me isn’t sure I even want to know what he’s into.

  I was a witness to murder last night.

  I don’t even want to think about all the horrible things that could mean. Right now, without knowing Oleg’s story, I can make up my own fairytale around it. He’s the innocent one being hunted. He did what he had to do to protect me, the girl he loves, because I got caught in the middle of it.

  That’s the pretty way I want to spin the story.

  This is what I’ve always done. I live in the area between fantasy and reality. My life has never been structured and organized. I had the opposite of what you could call a “stable home life.” There was love—so much love—but it wasn’t stable.

  But what if it’s uglier than that? What if Oleg’s the villain in the story?

  No.

  He’s not. I know that from the deepest place in my soul. Not the man who touches me like I’m the most precious thing in the universe. Who looks at me like I’m the only other being in the world. He can’t be bad.

  Just like my mother isn’t bad for all her nervous breakdowns, live-in boyfriends and bad breakups. And my father isn’t bad for drinking too much, sleeping with every band groupie who came into his life, and putting his kids last.

  I’ve lived in total chaos my whole life. I think that’s why I choose to live alone now. Because my thoughts are messy and disorganized, and usually, when I add someone else to the mix, I lose myself completely. Except that doesn’t seem to happen with Oleg. Maybe because he doesn’t talk. I don’t want to look at that like a plus, but he not only doesn’t add to the noise, he absorbs it.

  Now that I’ve identified it, I’m sure that’s why having him at my shows made it so fabulous for me. He somehow gave me space in the chaos.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” I kiss his temple.

  Oleg’s dark gaze sweeps over my naked form and grows hooded.

  My nipples pucker at his appreciation.

  Purposely provoking him, I dance out of his reach to the wall of curtains, curious to see what’s behind them. I yank them back and gasp. “Whoa.”

  It’s an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. “This is incredible, Oleg.” I take another look around the place in the light of day, drinking in what, in the shock of last night’s trauma, I failed to notice. This place is gorgeous. And expensive. It’s weird because it’s just a studio without any kitchen—not even a mini fridge, unless I’m missing something—but it’s very high end. We’re in some kind of small penthouse on the top of a building that must be very close to Lake Michigan. I’ll bet other apartments in the building have lake views.

  “Can people see in?” I ask, realizing if they can I’m putting on quite a show.

  Oleg makes a popping sound with his lips. I turn to find a t-shirt flying through the air at me.

  “Thanks.” I catch it and shake it open. It’s one of Oleg’s shirts—soft cotton and hunter green. It’s gigantic. I pull it over my head, and it almost falls to my knees.

  “Is this a hotel?”

  Oleg shakes his head.

  “This is your place?”

  A nod.

  “I love it.” I race past him to leap onto the bed, which, sadly, doesn’t bounce. “Except your bed has no springs.” I pick up a pillow and lob it at him. “You need a bed with springs, so I can jump on it.”

  He catches the pillow. The corners of his mouth tick in a barely perceptible smile. I realize I have never—not once—seen this man smile. His face is usually as inexpressive as his voice, which makes him doubly hard to read.

  I’ve just been going by his intense stares—reading everything into those. Or maybe just his solid presence.

  I jump off the bed and go to him, like I’m drawn to a magnet. Now that he’s touched me, I can’t get enough. I need more of this giant bear-man who’s always watching me. I push him down into the chair and climb in his lap, careful to avoid his injury. I guess because he can’t give me his words, I crave physical touch with him. Not even sexual—although holy hell—last night! But I’d take any contact right now.

  Oleg pulls me in, molding his arms around my hips and back to cradle me against him. I lean my head against his giant shoulder, and he shakes open the bagel bag and brings it under my nose.

  I shove my hand in the bag and fish for a cinnamon raisin one. Oleg cracks open the cream cheese and hands me a plastic knife.

  “Mmm, this is good.” I reach for the coffee, opening a tiny container of half and half and dumping it in. “They make these too small, don’t you think?”

  Of course, he doesn’t acknowledge my words. I don’t really expect him to. It’s okay, I can talk enough for two of us.

  “I need, like, five of these for one coffee.” I open the other three packets that were on the table and empty them into my cup then try my coffee. Still too black.

  Oleg’s brow wrinkles, like he’s concerned.

  I shrug. “I’ll live. I’m just grateful for the coffee. You don’t drink it?”

  “When did you even go to get bagels?” I straighten myself on his lap to spread the cream cheese. I twist to look at him and raise my brows. I swear to God, he’s going to have to start trying to communicate. I mean, he could gesture. He could draw, like he did at my apartment to let me know to move the van.

  This is a problem for me. Oleg doesn’t just not speak. It’s like he’s abandoned all other methods of communication as well.

  Maybe no one tries with him. He’s been written off. Or he wrote himself off. That thought sends a sharp shard of pain straight through my chest because it rings true, but I steel myself against it.

  I know I’m probably nuts. The red flag should’ve been when he got shot in front of my apartment or when I saw him expertly assassinate three men in about fifteen seconds. But that’s not it for me. I don’t know, I’ve already seen and experienced some crazy things in my short life. I’ve witnessed death before. Not murder, but a drug overdose at a party and a car accident. Oh, and two friends committed suicide when I was in high school. My tolerance for trauma has been built up.

  For me, the red flag is this side of Oleg. The stone-faced man who doesn’t respond to direct questions. I want the guy who makes his thoughts felt and heard, through his touch, through his energy. The guy I got to know at my apartment before his friends showed up.

  I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t know who those men were or what they wanted from him. I don’t know what Oleg’s thinking about at all and what he plans to do. But I do know that Oleg needs to figure out how to explain things to me.

  I wish I had a smartphone. We could probably find an app to translate-text to each other, but all I have is my flip phone. I’ve been stubborn about upgrading—half because I like how much it shocks people that I’m still on the earliest cell phone technology and partly because it’s an expense I don’t care to incur. My money goes to stuff for the band. I never needed a fancy phone.

  I finish my bagel and coffee. “I missed you last night. At my show.” I don’t say it to make him feel bad. Only because I want him to know. He matters. We may have rarely spoken all those
months, but I felt his participation and vitaly and viscerally as I felt the strings under my fingers or the mic in my hand.

  His gaze holds regret.

  “Where were you?”

  His expression closes. Turns blank. It’s his non-answering face. Frustration wells in me. I set the guitar back in the case.

  “Were you in hiding?”

  No answer.

  “Why were those guys after you?”

  Of course, he can’t answer that one, but he’s gone dead on me, and it drives me freaking insane. I snap up the locks on my guitar case and slide off the bed. “Listen, you can’t do that to me. I know you can’t speak, but there are so many other ways to communicate, and you don't even try.”

  He stares at me, eyes wide. At least I got his expression to change.

  I wait, but he still makes no move. No gesture. No attempt.

  “Well, I’m not sticking around for this,” I say, even though it feels all wrong to leave.

  And I’m a chronic leaver.

  But this would’ve happened eventually. I knew that when it started. It’s how all my relationships fizzle. This one just exploded rather than fizzled. I’m definitely sorry things went down this way, but I need to cut my losses and go.

  Oleg catches my arm. His hand is gentle, but he holds me firmly. I meet his eye. He shakes his head.

  “No, what? You gotta give me more.”

  He points to the door and shakes his head. Okay, he’s trying, but that just pisses me off even more. He doesn’t get to tell me not to leave when he refuses to even try to communicate otherwise. I shake off his touch. I head into the bathroom to use the toilet and mouthwash. I find my clothes. I pull on the panties, tights, and skirt, which barely shows beneath his long shirt.

  Oleg stands in the middle of his beautiful apartment. He watches me, unease in his shoulders.

  “Catch you on the flip side.” I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss his jaw. A muscle flexes in it. I know he’s shaking his head, but I ignore it and head past him to the door where I shove my feet in my boots and pick up my jacket and guitar.