The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

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 kill 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.