The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

I find myself looking toward the door, like Oleg might show up any moment. “I don’t know where he is.” I’m obviously not going to explain that my biggest fan is probably in the Russian mafia and got shot outside my apartment last week.

It’s funny how none of that churns my stomach so much as my need to see him again. It’s almost like my body aches to be in his physical presence. I want to sit on his lap. Feel the slap of his hand on my ass. The weight and hardness of that big, strong body against mine again.

And the fact that he didn’t come? Proves that having sex with him was a mistake.

Oleg was supposed to be the dependable thing in my life. The guy who always shows up like clockwork. The only constant in my chaotic universe.

But now we had sex, and its over. The constant became inconstant.

Rue moves back to making drinks, and I sit, deflecting the conversations people try to start around me.

I sit so long Flynn comes to collect me for our next set—which is odd because I’m usually the one chasing the guys down to get back on stage.

I get up on stage, casting a baleful last glance toward the door and start the last set.

Oleg

Closing time. I can’t fucking believe it. I haven’t missed more than one Saturday night show at Rue’s in nine months, and that was to go to Maxim and Sasha’s destination wedding.

I sit in the parking lot and watch the back door. The band’s van is parked out back, and so is Story’s Smart Car, so I know they’re still inside. I’ll just wait until I see her get safely in her car.

I spent most of the week in bed, recovering. And tonight… I just fucking overslept. I laid down to rest my aching head this afternoon, never dreaming I wouldn’t be up and ready to head to Story’s show on time. I didn’t set an alarm because I didn’t think I’d need one. I’d sooner puncture a lung than miss a show.

But when I woke up drenched in sweat with a foggy, aching head, it was already midnight. I had to scramble to take a quick shower and drive down here. I shouldn’t be here. I have no idea who’s sending men after me or how they tracked me down the first time. I should leave before I put my lastochka in danger. But she seemed like she really wanted me here, and the thought of letting her down kills me.

I blink, trying to get my thoughts straight.

Story comes out alone. Her shoulders are hunched, and she walks quickly toward her car. It’s unlike her—she’s usually surrounded by friends and hangers-on. Guys and girls who want to fuck her. Friends who think she’s cool. People who want her at their after-parties to make them happen.

Tonight there’s no smile on her face. No cocoon of a crowd.

Dammit. I did let her down.

As if she senses me, her head turns, and she looks right through my windshield. There’s an accusation in her gaze. Like she’s pissed I didn’t come. That thought blows through me, straightening my spine, puffing up my chest.

I’m out of the Denali before I even think, but things immediately go sideways.

A guy in a bomber jacket with a beard that needs trimming emerges from the shadowy corner behind her. “Get in the car or your girlfriend’s dead.” The Russian words are for me. The gun is at Story’s head. I put my hands slowly in the air. Look around. A car speeds up and stops between me and the mudak with Story.

I see one guy driving, another in the passenger seat. I slowly open the back door of the car. Not because I’m getting in, but to check to see how many guys I have to kill.

It’s empty. Easy. I just have to wait until that gun moves away from Story’s head. I’m not taking any chances where she’s concerned.

I’ll wait until we’re in the car to kill them both.

Except the asshole seems to know what’s important to me because he grabs Story by the arm and brings her to the car. “Get in,” he barks in heavily-accented English. He doesn’t move to open the door for her.

She looks at me with panic in her eyes, and I try to project calm. I won’t let them take her. No fucking way. I will sacrifice myself in a heartbeat before I let anyone touch a hair on her head.

Of course, that’s what they’re banking on. I’m sure the plan is to torture Story to make me sing. Spill the identity of every client Skal’pel’ cut into.

Fuck! How could I let her get involved in this shit?

Story pulls the handle. I palm my gun, keeping it hidden behind my back. Our eyes meet through the back seat of the car.