The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

Did he?

I throw myself inside and tug at his massive body, pulling his arm and trying to move him.

He stirs.

“Oh thank God. I thought you were dead. Oleg?”

He barely lifts his head, groans. I’m not sure he even recognizes me.

“Oh my God. What happened to you? I need to get you to a hospital.”

That seems to rouse him because he instantly surges up, hitting his head on the top of the van. He groans and drops it into both his hands, sitting on a speaker.

“Come on, I’ll drive you to a hospital.”

He grunts this time and shakes his head no.

“No? You don’t want to go?”

A very emphatic no because his bloodshot eyes meet mine and hold. I mean, it couldn’t be clearer. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital.

“Why not? Are you… an illegal? Are you afraid of being deported?”

He shakes his head again and lurches forward, stumbling down out of the van. He drops to one knee and then on his side to one shoulder in pain.

“Oleg, you’re bleeding. I don’t know how much you’ve already lost. I need to get you help.”

No.

I swear I can almost hear the word in my head, he projects it so loudly. He struggles back up to his feet, shaking his head.

Tears of frustration spike my eyes. I’m not the type to just override someone’s wishes, but I’m also not sure he’s capable of making a sound decision right now. “What happened to you?” I ask again, which is stupid because I know he can’t speak.

I arrive at the only other option that makes sense. “You have to come inside. Can you make it?”

He steps forward, but his leg gives out. His face contorts in obvious pain. He looks down at the blood-soaked fabric like he’s surprised.

Then he scans the area, even though I’m not sure he can even focus.

I slam the van doors and lock them then tuck myself against his side, pulling his arm around my shoulders, so I can support him. “Let’s go. We’ll get you to my place, okay?”

He allows me to lead him into the building.

It takes forever to get him up three flights of stairs. I’m nearly in tears the whole time because he’s in a ton of pain, a little groan escaping him with each hard jostle. Thankfully, none of my neighbors pick this time to go up or down the stairs because I’d have a hard time explaining. And somehow, I get the feeling that whatever happened to Oleg isn’t something he wants the authorities to know about.

When we get to the last flight of stairs, Oleg faceplants against the wall when he loses his balance.

I cry out for him and grab his arm tight. “Oleg, you can do it. We’re almost there. This is my floor. Just a few more steps.”

He hobbles up them, and I push open the door.

“Come here.” I bring him into the bathroom. “I need to get you cleaned up.”

He leans against the door like he’s weak. No—like he’s dizzy.

“Did you get hit on the head?”

He reaches his hand behind his head and winces when his fingers touch it.

“Oleg,” I moan. This time the tears spill.

Oleg’s head jerks up when I sniff and alarm passes over his expression. He reaches out, his thumb roughly wiping a tear from my cheek.

“No—it’s okay. I’m just crying for you. I don’t know what happened, and I’m scared for you. And I feel bad that you’re hurting.”

Oleg’s brows knit. He’s breathing hard from the trek up the stairs. He catches my face in both his hands and brings his forehead down to mine. We pant together, our breath mingling. His skin is cold against mine. God, he must have hypothermia by now!

After a moment, after his breathing slows, he presses his lips to my forehead.

I blink rapidly, still fighting off the urge to cry. “Let’s get you out of these bloody jeans.” I unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper.

He leans his hip against the bathroom cabinet—I’m guessing because he can’t stand up on his own—and lets me pull them down. He doesn’t hiss or flinch when I get to his wound, but I’m sure it hurts.

A chunk of flesh seems to be missing. There’s a hole in his jeans above it. “What caused this? A bullet?”

Oleg doesn’t confirm with a nod or shake, but I’m sure I’m right. Not that I’ve seen a bullet wound before, but this has to be what it is.

“I think you got lucky,” I tell him. I don’t think the bullet hit anything. I doubt it’s still inside him. It seems like it just nicked the side of his leg.

His jeans are sticky and stiff with blood, which makes them harder to remove, but I manage to get them down to his feet, then I help him toe out of his boots, so I can get them all the way off.