The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

“Did all three walk away?” Pavel asks. Which really means, did I do any real harm to them? Sadly, no.

I shrug and nod.

And thankfully, that ends my interrogation. The guys are so used to me offering nothing that they don’t push. Maxim heard what he needed to hear. He will guard his bride and put systems in place to locate these guys. To eliminate the threat.

Which works in my favor, of course. Until whoever is after me sends another crew.

Maxim’s phone rings, and Dima’s name comes on the screen. Dima is our hacker. There’s nothing the guy can’t hack or program.

I hand the phone back to Maxim since I obviously can’t answer. “Those were the guys,” Maxim confirms.

“I have a location,” Dima clips, all business. Ravil’s organization is smooth and orderly—efficient. Pavel was in the Russian military. Ravil and Maxim are genius-level strategists. Nikolai, Dima’s twin, is a bookie. I’m the muscle. The enforcer. But we’re a team—the spokes of a wheel.

“Text it to me.” Maxim twists around to look at me. “You okay with a detour? You don’t have to come in.”

I’m not. I will need to hurl as soon as the Denali stops, and I’m pretty desperate for a painkiller, but of course, I nod. Killing these fuckers is top priority. How I’m feeling is totally irrelevant.

Maxim navigates through traffic. I open the door at a red light to puke, and he curses in Russian.

“Maybe we should take him back first,” Pavel says. His gun is on his lap, silencer already screwed on.

I pull my head back in the vehicle and slam the door then wave my hand impatiently with a frown.

Pavel shrugs. “Okay. He wants to go.”

It’s not a long drive. We get to a hotel, and Maxim parks. He twists to look at me, screwing a silencer on his own piece. “We’ll be back in ten, okay, O?”

I nod.

“I’ll make them pay for what they did to you.”

I don’t answer. I don’t really give a shit if they suffer or don’t. They were just doing a job. My real concern is who’s behind them.

The guys are back in seven minutes. Maxim checks the mirror and cleans a few splatters of blood from his face before stowing the piece under the seat and taking off.

Pavel sits quietly for a few minutes before he asks, “Don’t you think we should’ve found out who sent them before we killed them?”

A muscle ticks in Maxim’s face. He’s crazy-protective when it comes to Sasha. It affected his decision-making on this one. “They were waiting for us. If we hadn’t fired first, we’d be dead now. Besides, we’re sending a fucking message. Anyone who comes near my wife will meet a swift death.”

Pavel shoots me a glance to see if I’m with him on this one.

Of course, I’m thankful they didn’t get anything out of them. If they had, I might find one of those guns pointing at my head now, so I just shrug.

It worked for me. I needed those assholes out of the picture and away from Story.

The rest of the shit, I can deal with later.

Story

I tune my electric guitar then run through chord changes in fast succession to warm my fingers up. It’s Friday afternoon, and the Storytellers are at the Lounge for weekly practice. If it wasn’t for Rue letting us practice here during the days for free, there would be no Storytellers. Which is why Rue’s Lounge will always be our home base. People ask me sometimes why we don’t try to branch out—get gigs at other places, rotate where we play.

We could. We might even make more money. Maybe we’d build a bigger following. But Rue’s launched us. We grew our base of support here. We’re as loyal to the owner as she is to us.

“Where’s the set list?” Flynn asks me.

People think it’s my band because of the name, but it’s actually Flynn’s. Flynn and his friends got together after high school, formed a band, and then needed a lead singer. They thought a female would make them way cooler than an all-boy band. Of course, my name fit easily for a band name.

Maybe it is my band. I mean, I’m the older sister and creative lead. But I don’t ever think of it that way. I believe strongly in collaboration. That’s where the magic happens. With the Storytellers, I often feel like I’m just along for the ride.

“So what happened with Silent Boris Saturday night?” Flynn asks.

I whip my head around and glare at him, uncharacteristically on edge. “Don’t call him that.”

“Seriously, dude. That guy looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands and not break a sweat,” Lake says.

“I kind of think he has,” Ty agrees. “If I hadn’t seen the way he looks at Story, I would be scared to death of him.”