The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

Oleg’s in trouble. I know that much. Someone wants something from him. First they attacked him in front of my place. Then they found him at Rue’s. And they grabbed me to try to force him into a car. Which means I’m his weak spot. I’m the leverage on him.

It’s stupid that I’m flattered by that. But what’s more stupid is how much I want to stay here with him. How much I believe this is my problem, too. That we’re in this together.

But there’s no together if he can’t—or refuses to—explain things to me.

And there shouldn’t be together anyway because I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to make this a relationship.

Oleg

Story puts her clothes from last night back on and pulls one of my button-downs out of the closet to wear over her tiny t-shirt. “Is it okay if I wear this?”

I nod, absurdly pleased to see my clothes on her body. She leaves it hanging open, like a long jacket.

“So if that’s your closet, what’s this?” She pulls open the door to the rest of the penthouse.

From the living room, the sounds of voices and baby Benjamin fussing like he’s about to fall asleep reach us.

Story’s mouth falls open in an exaggerated “O”.

“Who’s down there?” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. She stage-tiptoes like she’s in a Scooby Doo episode.

I hesitate. Selfish me wants to keep Story to myself. Plus, I haven’t told the guys about what happened last night. And I should have. Ravil will have my balls for the omission, but he may have my balls when he finds out my past, anyway, so it’s a lose-lose.

She runs down the hall on the balls of her bare feet like a little kid, stopping at the end to peek around the corner into the living room.

I crowd behind her, my arm wrapping around her waist. My head is thick, still aching at times from the concussion.

“You don’t live alone,” she says with a wondering voice. “That explains the lack of kitchen in your room.”

I nudge her out into the open.

The living room is it’s usual gathering place. Dima sits at his computer in front of the television. Pavel’s on the couch watching with him. Maxim and Sasha are in the kitchen. Nikolai eats at the breakfast counter. Ravil has Benjamin on his shoulder, and he’s dancing in front of the wall of windows that look out over Lake Michigan.

Sasha sees us first and gives a cry of delight. She turns off the blender she’s running to make a smoothie. “Story’s in the house!”

She and Maxim are in their running clothes, probably just back from a jog. Sasha, who is as friendly and social as I am silent, met Story at Rue’s the night they all decided to come along to see the girl I’d fallen for. She made sure Story knew my name and wasn’t a total creeper.

Pavel turns off the television and swivels to look at us. “Oleg, you animal.”

“Shut up,” Sasha says, which is good because I was saying the same thing with my glare. “Here, let me do introductions again because you probably don’t remember. I’m Sasha, this is my husband Maxim. Nikolai and Dima are twins, if you hadn’t guessed. Pavel’s on the couch, sexting his girlfriend in L.A. who he saw just a few hours ago, and that’s Ravil with the baby. This is his place.”

A very diplomatic way of saying that Ravil is our boss. Sasha has such an easy way of speaking, and so does Maxim. Now that they’ve come to love each other, they’ve become quite a power couple. Especially with her money and his strategy.

Ravil looks over, Benjamin still sounding off on his shoulder. Even with the distraction, his gaze is shrewd. I’ve never brought anyone to the penthouse in the entire time I lived here. I don’t socialize. I don’t go out, other than to Rue’s.

“So this is Story,” he says lightly. He doesn’t walk over, just keeps bouncing the baby. “Sorry I haven’t been out to hear you play yet. I’m Oleg’s boss.”

Story waves. “Nice to meet you all—again. This place is incredible!” She gestures toward the lake view.

I pull out a stool at the breakfast bar for her to sit on. She must be getting hungry for lunch after all that sex. I know I am.

“I thought I heard a guitar playing this morning, but I figured it was someone’s radio. How was the show last night?” Sasha quizzes Story.

Story shoots me a glance. I give the tiniest shake of my head, which she seems to understand. “It was good. Yeah.” She doesn’t say a word about the men I killed.

I go into the kitchen and pull out the makings for a sandwich, then hold them up with a questioning face.

“Sandwich? I’d love one, thanks.”