The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva Book 3)

by Renee Rose

  I’m only slightly disappointed that he doesn’t follow me in. I really don’t think I could take more sex at this point. The guy is huge and rough, and I’m definitely sore.

  Even so, I’m already excited to do it all over again. I can't wait to experiment in this new way. To play his bad girl. Receive his punishment and dominance with the pleasure of being wrapped up in his arms when it’s over. Something I never wanted before.

  I’m definitely like a cat when it comes to men. I want them on my own terms. I go to them when I want. Leave when I want. I’m the opposite of clingy. So the fact that I would even like being held after sex is freaking weird. But the sex was intense.

  So is Oleg.

  Maybe that’s the addiction.

  I turn on the water and take a long shower, refusing to work through the unwelcome thoughts bumping around in my head. I was too shocked last night to examine everything, and now I don’t want to.

  Oleg’s in trouble. I know that much. Someone wants something from him. First they attacked him in front of my place. Then they found him at Rue’s. And they grabbed me to try to force him into a car. Which means I’m his weak spot. I’m the leverage on him.

  It’s stupid that I’m flattered by that. But what’s more stupid is how much I want to stay here with him. How much I believe this is my problem, too. That we’re in this together.

  But there’s no together if he can’t—or refuses to—explain things to me.

  And there shouldn’t be together anyway because I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to make this a relationship.

  Oleg

  Story puts her clothes from last night back on and pulls one of my button-downs out of the closet to wear over her tiny t-shirt. “Is it okay if I wear this?”

  I nod, absurdly pleased to see my clothes on her body. She leaves it hanging open, like a long jacket.

  “So if that’s your closet, what’s this?” She pulls open the door to the rest of the penthouse.

  From the living room, the sounds of voices and baby Benjamin fussing like he’s about to fall asleep reach us.

  Story’s mouth falls open in an exaggerated “O”.

  “Who’s down there?” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. She stage-tiptoes like she’s in a Scooby Doo episode.

  I hesitate. Selfish me wants to keep Story to myself. Plus, I haven’t told the guys about what happened last night. And I should have. Ravil will have my balls for the omission, but he may have my balls when he finds out my past, anyway, so it’s a lose-lose.

  She runs down the hall on the balls of her bare feet like a little kid, stopping at the end to peek around the corner into the living room.

  I crowd behind her, my arm wrapping around her waist. My head is thick, still aching at times from the concussion.

  “You don’t live alone,” she says with a wondering voice. “That explains the lack of kitchen in your room.”

  I nudge her out into the open.

  The living room is it’s usual gathering place. Dima sits at his computer in front of the television. Pavel’s on the couch watching with him. Maxim and Sasha are in the kitchen. Nikolai eats at the breakfast counter. Ravil has Benjamin on his shoulder, and he’s dancing in front of the wall of windows that look out over Lake Michigan.

  Sasha sees us first and gives a cry of delight. She turns off the blender she’s running to make a smoothie. “Story’s in the house!”

  She and Maxim are in their running clothes, probably just back from a jog. Sasha, who is as friendly and social as I am silent, met Story at Rue’s the night they all decided to come along to see the girl I’d fallen for. She made sure Story knew my name and wasn’t a total creeper.

  Pavel turns off the television and swivels to look at us. “Oleg, you animal.”

  “Shut up,” Sasha says, which is good because I was saying the same thing with my glare. “Here, let me do introductions again because you probably don’t remember. I’m Sasha, this is my husband Maxim. Nikolai and Dima are twins, if you hadn’t guessed. Pavel’s on the couch, sexting his girlfriend in L.A. who he saw just a few hours ago, and that’s Ravil with the baby. This is his place.”

  A very diplomatic way of saying that Ravil is our boss. Sasha has such an easy way of speaking, and so does Maxim. Now that they’ve come to love each other, they’ve become quite a power couple. Especially with her money and his strategy.

  Ravil looks over, Benjamin still sounding off on his shoulder. Even with the distraction, his gaze is shrewd. I’ve never brought anyone to the penthouse in the entire time I lived here. I don’t socialize. I don’t go out, other than to Rue’s.

  “So this is Story,” he says lightly. He doesn’t walk over, just keeps bouncing the baby. “Sorry I haven’t been out to hear you play yet. I’m Oleg’s boss.”

  Story waves. “Nice to meet you all—again. This place is incredible!” She gestures toward the lake view.

  I pull out a stool at the breakfast bar for her to sit on. She must be getting hungry for lunch after all that sex. I know I am.

  “I thought I heard a guitar playing this morning, but I figured it was someone’s radio. How was the show last night?” Sasha quizzes Story.

  Story shoots me a glance. I give the tiniest shake of my head, which she seems to understand. “It was good. Yeah.” She doesn’t say a word about the men I killed.

  I go into the kitchen and pull out the makings for a sandwich, then hold them up with a questioning face.

  “Sandwich? I’d love one, thanks.”

  Sasha and Maxim exchange a look, like they think it’s amazing I’m making a sandwich. Or maybe that I’m offering to make someone else a sandwich. Or just that I’m communicating.

  “Would you like a mango smoothie?” Sasha offers, holding up the blender.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Sasha pours Story a glassful and leans her elbows on the breakfast bar across from Story.

  Ravil gets Benjamin to sleep and walks over to shake Story’s hand. “Who’s this sweet baby?” she coos in a soft voice, so as to not wake him.

  Ravil rotates, so Story can see the baby’s tiny slumbering face. “This is Benjamin. He’s four months old today.”

  “Happy four-month birthday, little guy,” Story sing-songs in a breathy baby voice, lightly rubbing his back. “Congratulations, he’s angelic.”

  I’m transfixed by her. How beautiful she looks talking to the baby. How easy and natural everything is for her. I’ve lived with these people for two years—the men are my bratva brothers—and she seems more comfortable than I feel with them after one minute.

  I fix two sandwiches and slice up an apple then bring them on two plates to Story.

  “Thank you. My wife is getting a massage in the bedroom right now, but hopefully you’ll meet her soon.”

  “With Natasha?” Nikolai interjects. “I think I’ll schedule with her as well.”

  Dima’s head jerks around, and he glares at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

  “A massage.” Nikolai sounds a bit too innocent. There’s some fuckery going on between the twins that the rest of us aren’t privy to. “That sounds nice. I think I’ll schedule with Natasha, too.”

  “What, for you?” Dima practically explodes.

  “Yeah. Unless you’re going to.” He raises his brows in question.

  “I will fucking kill you.” I’ve never heard Dima make a threat. Especially not to his brother.

  “Whoa. Okay.” Ravil clears his throat. “Sounds like you two have some shit to work out.”

  “No, I think we’re good.” Nikolai picks up a magazine from the coffee table and pretends to read it. “Unless he wants me to make that appointment for him instead.”

  Dima switches to Russian. “I will seriously throw you off the rooftop if you fucking say a word to her.”

  Ravil shrugs. “Glad we didn’t have twins. I’ll be back after I put him down.”

  “So, do you all live here?” Story asks, pulling the pl
ate in front of her and scooting her stool over to make room for mine. Maxim and Sasha pull up bar stools opposite ours.

  “Yep. It was just the guys and then Lucy—Ravil’s wife—moved in. And then Maxim brought me here from Moscow,” Sasha explains. “It was an arranged marriage, but I’ve decided to keep him.” She winks.

  “I guess you can never get bored with so much going on.”

  “No.” Sasha laughs. “I like it. I was an only child growing up, so it’s nice to have people around all the time.”

  Story smiles. “I grew up in total chaos. Two siblings, a mother who is… emotionally unstable, and a dad who partied like a rock star. We had a lot of love but not much consistency. Consequently, I have a very high tolerance for chaos.”

  “So, was your dad a rock star?” Maxim asks. “Do you take after him?”

  Story’s laugh is chagrined. “He thinks so. He has a classic rock cover band that’s been playing Chicago since the early eighties. The Nighthawks?”

  It bothers me that I didn’t know this about her. That I haven’t been able to make this easy, comfortable conversation. Blyad', until this week, I really didn’t give a shit about not being able to communicate. In fact, I sort of preferred it. I still do, so this is making my head ache with conflicting desires.

  Maxim shakes his head. “I don’t know them. So that’s where you and your brother learned to play?”

  “Yep. My dad taught guitar lessons in the living room when I was a kid.”

  “What were you playing this morning? That was an oldie, right?” Sasha asks.

  “Van Morrison—yes. My dad used to play it for me because I have brown eyes.”

  Sasha studies Story. "What color is your hair naturally?"

  Story tsks. "Pink," she says like she's offended Sasha doesn't think it's natural. "Just kidding, it's dirty blonde."

  "I love your look," Sasha tells her. "You really rock the rockstar."

  Story’s lips quirk. "Rock the Rockstar. I might steal that for a song."

  "Feel free." Sasha beams like they’re best friends.

  It’s wrong how badly I want them to be. How much I want Story to stay.

  “And play away while you’re here. We love your music,” Maxim says.

  Finished with my sandwich, I stand and move closer to Story, putting my hand on her back. Drinking in these delicious morsels about her life. Story leans into me, tipping her head to rest it against my chest. Maxim and Sasha exchange another look, like they can’t believe I’m cuddling someone. Or maybe that someone is cuddling with me.

  It does seem strange and fantastic that Story just accepted me. We went from strangers to lovers in the blink of an eye.

  Relationships always end quickly for me.

  She believes this will end as quickly as it started. Maybe that’s her M.O. with men—quick to let them in, quick to throw them out. That seems to fit with her enigmatic personality.

  As much as the thought of this ending shreds me, something staunch and stubborn rises up. I will still be hers. I won’t stop coming to her shows. I will always be whatever she needs me to be for her. Even if it’s just the guy in the audience she can trust to climb onto during her shows.

  I drop a kiss on her head, and she smiles up at me. I kiss her again, this time on her forehead.

  “I’m glad you two finally got together,” Sasha says with a warm smile.

  Story’s gaze drops. “Yeah.”

  I bring my hand to her nape and gently squeeze. It’s okay, I want to tell her. No pressure. You’re mine whether you claim me back or not.

  Chapter 8

  Story

  I end up hanging out for another hour with Oleg and his friends in the living area, meeting Ravil’s wife, Lucy, when she comes in from a swim. Apparently this millionaire pad has a heated pool and hot tub on the roof. I’m tempted to ask Oleg if we can go skinny-dipping, but I’m starting to get antsy.

  But the longer the day goes on, the more I feel like I need to get back to my place. I have classes to teach tomorrow. Or maybe that’s just my excuse. I also have this underlying, nagging anxiety to leave. It’s the nudge I get when relationships get to a certain stage. This one got here faster than most, but it’s been more intense than most. We packed a couple months into the past week.

  “Well, I should be going.” I swivel to slide off the barstool I’ve been perched on since lunch.

  Oleg blocks my way, concern written on his face.

  I change direction and slide off on the opposite side, nimbly taking a quick-step in the direction of Oleg’s room. “It was so great hanging out with you guys.” I turn and wave at the group. Oleg is right behind me.

  I head back down the hallway to his room and slide my feet into my boots again. I pick up my coat and guitar.

  Oleg shakes his head.

  “Oleg, I can’t stay here forever.”

  He doesn’t move, but he’s blocking the door.

  “Can you drive me to my place?”

  He hesitates then shakes his head.

  “That’s cool,” I say, pulling out my phone. “I’ll schedule a Lyft.”

  Oleg takes my phone away from me.

  “Hey.” I get that he can’t talk, but he’s pushing it.

  He cups my face with so much tenderness, I can hardly stay mad.

  “I really need to go.”

  A half-baked idea forms. Knowing he doesn’t seem to want his friends to know what happened last night, I whirl and dart through the door back to the living room then throw open the door to the elevator hallway from there.

  Oleg’s right behind me, but as I’d guessed, he doesn’t catch or stop me.

  The elevator door is open, and I step into it. I press the button as Oleg hefts his body between the doors to block them from closing.

  He shakes his head at me.

  “I can’t stay here forever, Oleg. I’m feeling cooped up, and you haven’t told me what’s going on.” I give him a pointed look.

  To his credit, he draws back slightly. Like communicating hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “I don’t want to have this fight with you,” I tell him, even though we’re really not having a fight. We’re so much sweeter to each other than most people I know, even when we’re at odds.

  He shakes his head again, eyes rounding at the word fight.

  But he refuses to move. He holds the door open and tips his head in the direction of his room.

  “Uh uh. I really have to leave now. I have lessons to give tomorrow.”

  He raps his knuckles against the door and tips his head again. I get the feeling he’s trying to appear non-threatening, which is hard for a guy of his size and stature to do. I saw how imposing he was to my errant student at my apartment, and all he had to do there was fold his arms across his massive chest.

  My throat works. “You don't want me to leave.”

  The elevator dings its annoyance.

  He beckons to me again. This stand-off is getting really old.

  He steps in and takes my guitar, then very gently tips me up over his shoulder. He stops the elevator doors from shutting with my foot. His hand molds over my ass. Not a spank this time, this just feels possessive. I kick my legs. “Dammit, Oleg. This isn’t cool.”

  He carries me down the hall toward the door that enters directly to his bedroom.

  “You need to talk to me,” I warn, my voice clogged. “I don’t know how, but you have to tell me what the fuck is going on. I’m not up for the guessing game anymore.”

  Oleg stops. He stands there in the hallway, unmoving. Holding me captive over his shoulder.

  Oleg

  Blyad'.

  My life is ugly. I’ve never been proud of any of it, but I’ve done what I had to do to stay alive. Still, exposing it to my little swallow is something else. She will run so fast the pavement will light on fire beneath her feet.

  And if I‘m going to let this darkness out, if I’m going to tell Story about my past, I should come clean with my cell broth
ers, as well. Own up to my betrayal by omission. I knew this day would come at some point, and every day that went on, I wished it wouldn’t. Because I’ve come to care about this family. I trust them. I rely on them.

  And now they will find out they can’t trust me.

  But for Story, I’m willing to risk losing everything I have here. She said we were having a fight, which terrified me. I can’t stand the idea of her mad at me. This girl is the heart that beats in my fucking chest. Hurting her or even pissing her off is the last thing I want to do.

  I change direction and walk back to the door to the penthouse, carrying Story inside.

  “Um… pretty sure if she wants to go you have to let her,” Nikolai says from the breakfast bar where he’s working on his laptop. I lower Story to her feet and go for the notepad of paper and pen on the breakfast bar, pushing it beside Nikolai.

  I start to write a note to her—but it’s rudimentary and crude. I don’t speak, and I’m also no writer. Nikolai reads and translates the note over my shoulder. “I can’t let you leave. I’m so sorry, Story.”

  “Um, what the fuck, Oleg?” Nikolai says. His twin stands up from his work table to walk over, texting as he does. Probably telling everyone else to come to the living room.

  Story holds up her hand, eyes on my paper, even though she can’t read it.

  I scribble on the paper. Nikolai reads it. “You’re in danger because of me. You must stay here where I can protect you.”

  Story nods. “Okay, that’s what I thought. The people after you know you care about me. That’s why they waited at Rue’s.”

  I meet her eye and nod. I’m grateful and shocked by how much Story understood without being told. And she still didn’t run away screaming last night.

  Sure enough, Sasha and Maxim emerge from their room, and Ravil comes out, too.

  “Which people are after you?” Nikolai asks.

  “Am I to understand that the men Maxim dispatched last week weren’t after Sasha?” Ravil’s tone is dangerous.

  I nod.

  “When were you going to tell me?” Ravil wants to know.

  I go blank-faced—my usual default when I don’t want to engage. Being mute normally makes it easy to dodge questions.