The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

Besides, I can’t stay here longer than this week. I can practically sense the time-bomb for our relationship ticking down. Every minute I stay, I sink in deeper with Oleg, which will only make things harder when they end.

I slide to my feet. “So I stay until Friday, and then you’ll take care of the problem,” I sum up. “And I can go back to my normal life.”

Oleg rises, his brows down over his eyes.

A knock sounds at the door. Dima opens the door to let a slender young woman in her twenties with strawberry blonde hair in. He follows her.

“Natasha,” Ravil says. He sounds slightly surprised.

The name sounds familiar, but it takes a moment for me to figure out why. Then I remember—Natasha was the massage therapist Dima and Nikolai were arguing over.

“Sorry, I know you were expecting my mom. She’s out delivering a baby, but she got Maxim’s message and asked me to bring this up.” The young woman holds up a large bottle of pills. “She said to tell you she will come and check on whomever has the infection.” The young woman darts a glance at me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I walk forward and take the pills. “Is the dosage on here?”

“She said to take one now, and one before bed if she’s not here by then.” Natasha cocks her head. “Are they for you?”

I tip my head in Oleg’s direction. “They’re for Oleg. He has a wound. I’m guessing it’s infected. I hope that’s all it is.”

“May I see it? I could make a poultice. I’ve been assisting my mom since I was in grade school, and I’m a licensed massage therapist. I’m into all the natural remedies. I have teas, tinctures, essential oils, salves—you name it.”

I glance at Oleg for his agreement. Of course, as usual, nothing shows on his face, so I make the decision for him. “Yeah, that would be great.”

Oleg takes a step but loses his balance, throwing a hand out to catch the chair, which he nearly knocks over.

Natasha stumbles back into Dima, who catches her with an arm around her waist and a hand at her hip.

“Little help,” I call out, ducking under Oleg’s arm to support his massive body, but he recovers his balance on his own. I notice Dima hasn’t released Natasha yet. He lowers his head as if to kiss the top of hers or smell her hair but stops an inch away. His lids droop like having his hands on her is an unexpected pleasure. He doesn’t release her until she turns into him, blushing, and mumbles something I don’t understand. It sounded like, “Spasibo.”

Interesting. Someone has a crush.

“Are you Russian, too?” I ask as I follow her out the door. Dima holds it open then leads the way down the hall, as if we needed an escort.

“Yes,” she smiles.

“Is everyone in this building Russian?” I say it as a joke, but Natasha nods, smiling.

“Yes. That’s why it’s known as the Kremlin. Ravil only rents to Russians and at rates we wouldn’t find anywhere in the city.” She throws a grateful glance over her shoulder at Ravil, who has left the office behind us. “He takes care of his own.”

He takes care of his own. Yes, like any mafia leader. He’s mild-mannered, but I could tell by the tension in Oleg when he questioned him, that he respects and holds his boss in high regard. Ravil wields his power quietly.

They’re killers, all of them. Dangerous men in dangerous business. I keep trying to shove that into a box and forget it, but there’s an anxiety gnawing in the background. I have a high threshold for trauma and chaos, but this is all starting to get to me. My compartmentalizing skills are starting to fray.

As we walk, I notice Oleg favors his leg a bit. He’s not limping, but there’s a stiffening through his trunk when he walks on it. Christ, why didn’t I notice sooner that he hasn’t healed? There’s been so much to decipher and interpret and try to understand since he brought me here. I feel way out of my depth with all of it.

I squeeze his hand, and he looks down at me. It’s faint—barely perceptible—but I see the shadow of a smile at the corners of his lips.

I don’t want to think about where this is going. How close I’m starting to feel with him because I need to brace against this becoming anything real. I can’t start to believe this is going to last. It can’t. He’s Russian mafiya. I’m allergic to relationships. This can’t work.

Still, that ghost of a smile produces that same swirling warmth I always felt as Saturdays approached, and I knew he’d be there to watch me. Up for anything I threw his way—standing on his table. Climbing on his shoulders. Making him catch me as I dead-dropped off the stage.