The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

I know I’m probably nuts. The red flag should’ve been when he got shot in front of my apartment or when I saw him expertly assassinate three men in about fifteen seconds. But that’s not it for me. I don’t know, I’ve already seen and experienced some crazy things in my short life. I’ve witnessed death before. Not murder, but a drug overdose at a party and a car accident. Oh, and two friends committed suicide when I was in high school. My tolerance for trauma has been built up.

For me, the red flag is this side of Oleg. The stone-faced man who doesn’t respond to direct questions. I want the guy who makes his thoughts felt and heard, through his touch, through his energy. The guy I got to know at my apartment before his friends showed up.

I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t know who those men were or what they wanted from him. I don’t know what Oleg’s thinking about at all and what he plans to do. But I do know that Oleg needs to figure out how to explain things to me.

I wish I had a smartphone. We could probably find an app to translate-text to each other, but all I have is my flip phone. I’ve been stubborn about upgrading—half because I like how much it shocks people that I’m still on the earliest cell phone technology and partly because it’s an expense I don’t care to incur. My money goes to stuff for the band. I never needed a fancy phone.

I finish my bagel and coffee. “I missed you last night. At my show.” I don’t say it to make him feel bad. Only because I want him to know. He matters. We may have rarely spoken all those months, but I felt his participation and vitaly and viscerally as I felt the strings under my fingers or the mic in my hand.

His gaze holds regret.

“Where were you?”

His expression closes. Turns blank. It’s his non-answering face. Frustration wells in me. I set the guitar back in the case.

“Were you in hiding?”

No answer.

“Why were those guys after you?”

Of course, he can’t answer that one, but he’s gone dead on me, and it drives me freaking insane. I snap up the locks on my guitar case and slide off the bed. “Listen, you can’t do that to me. I know you can’t speak, but there are so many other ways to communicate, and you don't even try.”

He stares at me, eyes wide. At least I got his expression to change.

I wait, but he still makes no move. No gesture. No attempt.

“Well, I’m not sticking around for this,” I say, even though it feels all wrong to leave.

And I’m a chronic leaver.

But this would’ve happened eventually. I knew that when it started. It’s how all my relationships fizzle. This one just exploded rather than fizzled. I’m definitely sorry things went down this way, but I need to cut my losses and go.

Oleg catches my arm. His hand is gentle, but he holds me firmly. I meet his eye. He shakes his head.

“No, what? You gotta give me more.”

He points to the door and shakes his head. Okay, he’s trying, but that just pisses me off even more. He doesn’t get to tell me not to leave when he refuses to even try to communicate otherwise. I shake off his touch. I head into the bathroom to use the toilet and mouthwash. I find my clothes. I pull on the panties, tights, and skirt, which barely shows beneath his long shirt.

Oleg stands in the middle of his beautiful apartment. He watches me, unease in his shoulders.

“Catch you on the flip side.” I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss his jaw. A muscle flexes in it. I know he’s shaking his head, but I ignore it and head past him to the door where I shove my feet in my boots and pick up my jacket and guitar.

I feel Oleg moving up behind me but don’t acknowledge his presence. Not until his giant ham-hand leans against the door to keep me from opening it.

“Oh really.” My voice drips with disbelief. “You’re going to stop me?” I’m used to Oleg being a gentleman. Holding me captive feels out of character.

His hand doesn’t move.

I whirl to face him, chin up. There’s regret in his expression. His brows are down, his eyes troubled. He shakes his head.

It occurs to me that the narrative in my head might be a totally different one than his. Is he stopping me because he’s trying to protect me or is he keeping me prisoner? A sobering thought occurs to me. Is he worried I’ll call the police on him?

“I won’t tell anyone about last night. You know that, right?”

He nods without hesitation.