The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

I smashed my phone thinking they might have put a tracker in it although in my more lucid moments, I realize they aren’t that sophisticated. They’re not like my pakhan Ravil’s bratva cell. I highly doubt they have someone like Dima who can hack anything. Or a Fixer like Maxim. They didn’t seem organized or high-tech.

They are idiot criminals unprepared for the job they were sent to do.

I’m not dumb enough to think whoever sent them won’t rectify his mistake the next time, though. And that brings on sharp realization.

Those guys were waiting for me. Which means they might know where Story lives.

No… maybe not. They would’ve been waiting outside the door.

The van.

They must’ve followed the van. My brain is so fucking fuzzy it’s hard to think this through. Maybe they got behind in traffic, but then spotted it again after I’d parked?

That has to be it.

I lunge off the bed, a hoarse cry coming out of my throat. Fuck. I hate it when I make noise.

Story runs from her small living area and meets me at the doorway to the bedroom. She’s barefoot, looking gorgeous in leggings and a long dusty rose sweater that falls off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin and delicate collar bones. She isn’t wearing her usual heavy eyeliner and stage makeup, and she’s even more alluring fresh-faced.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

I look around wildly for the keys to the van. Every turn of my head makes the apartment spin. The pounding in my skull makes me want to chop it off my neck. I spot her purse by the door and point.

Story looks over her shoulder, searching. “What is it?”

I clomp past her, stumbling when the floor dips and my feet seem to slide off the surface. I catch myself on the sofa and keep going. When I reach her purse, I root through it, relieved when I find the keys there. I hold them up and point outside.

“You want me to take you somewhere?”

Blyad'.

I shake my head.

“You want to drive?” she asks dubiously.

I nod. I need to move that van. But moving my head makes a wave of nausea climb up my throat. Great. I’m dizzy, and now I need to puke.

“Here!” Story runs and grabs a notebook and pen then brings them back to me.

Fuck.

“Write it,” she encourages.

I hate myself for never bothering to learn the Roman alphabet. Ravil requires his men to only speak English in the penthouse. He wants everyone in his cell to speak it perfectly, to make sure we blend in and avoid discrimination. So I understand it completely. But I, of course, was exempt from speaking it, so I also made myself exempt from learning to write it. Stupid, stupid mistake.

Frustrated, I snatch the pen up and write in Russian, “Move the van.”

She stares at the words. “Shit. You don’t write in English.”

I shake my head. If I hadn’t busted my phone I could find a translation app to help us right now, but I already screwed that up.

“Fuck!”

I take the pen and draw a terrible rendering of the van and the street outside. Then I draw a few more streets. I drag a penline from the van down the street and over a few blocks and then make an X.

“You want to move the van.”

Relief pours through me. Gospodi, how did she even figure that out? I swear the girl can read my mind. She’s magical.

I grip both her shoulders to show how important it is and nod.

“Got it.” She grabs the keys from me then takes her coat off the rack by the door.

I catch her arm and shake my head, pointing at my chest. I can’t have her move the van. What if someone is out there?

“You aren’t going anywhere. You can barely stand,” she tells me. “I’ll be right back. Let me get you to the sofa.”

Dammit. I can’t let her go for me. I reach for the keys, but she dances out of my reach, and the room spins around me.

“Okay, I’m going before you kill yourself trying to stop me. Be back in a minute.”

I groan and make my way to the window to look out. I’m relieved when she makes it to the van safely and pulls out.

Only then do I find my way to the couch where I collapse and breathe into the nausea. The couch is old but comfortable. Story’s place is nice. Not fancy but very comfortable. It’s an old building. The ceilings are high with old-fashioned molding, and the floors are oak. They could use a refinishing, but they’ve worn well. There’s real art on the walls. Not expensive matching art but a random assortment of paintings, framed photographs and poems. Like she lives in a world of artists who all contributed something to her place.