The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

We pass through the living room and kitchen toward Oleg’s room. Dima is still with us, leading the way. “So, what’s your connection here?” Natasha asks, which I realize is a nice way of asking who I am. I never introduced myself.

“I’m Story. A friend of Oleg’s.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Dima opens the door and steps inside. We all follow, but Oleg hesitates, standing in the middle of his room.

“Pants off, big guy,” I tell him. He toes off his boots and unbuttons his jeans.

“Oh, um. Where is the wound?” Natasha asks.

Dima steps closer like he’s going to shield her from any unwanted peen if it gets flashed.

Oleg sways on his feet again, and I move in to help him carefully get his jeans down over his wound and then sit down.

For fuck’s sake. The bandage is soaked with yellow and red, and when Natasha kneels beside him and gently peels it back, we both gasp. The edges of the wound are swollen and angry, and puss is coming out of it. I look away, suddenly nauseated.

“Okay, wow. Definitely infected. Give him one of those antibiotics for starters.” Natasha indicates the bottle I’m holding.

I jump into action. “Right. Oh my God.” My hands shake as I pry it open.

Dima leaves and returns with a glass of water, which he hands to Oleg, who throws the pill back and swallows.

“I’m going to go downstairs and make a poultice. Do you have hydrogen peroxide you can pour over the wound?” Natasha stands.

I look at Dima who nods. “I’ll get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” I demand.

Oleg pulls me around to his other side and sits me on his good knee.

“Oh my God! I was sitting on your wound!”

He shakes his head.

“No? You could die from an infection like this. What if you have MRSA? I should have taken you to the hospital when it happened.”

Oleg shakes his head lightly and closes his eyes.

“Oleg?”

His eyes open, and he stares back at me.

“You’ve probably been feeling miserable this whole time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head.

“You have to start communicating with me.”

“I can help with that.” Dima reappears with the hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth. He also carries a tablet, which he hands to Oleg. “I have you all set up, my man.” He touches the screen, which reveals a keyboard with the Russian alphabet. “You type in here, it spits out the English for Story. It can even speak it aloud although I didn’t find a voice with a Russian accent.” Dima grins.

I pour the hydrogen peroxide liberally over Oleg’s wound, catching the drips with the washcloth. I suck in a breath when it bubbles and hisses over the open wound.

Oleg types something with his forefinger. He’s slow. I imagine his large finger makes it harder.

“Hit that to make it speak aloud.” Dima points at the screen.

An Australian-accented male voice says, “Don’t worry about me, swallow.”

I meet his eye. “What was swallow in Russian?” I ask.

Oleg looks down at the screen, like he’s not sure how to reverse the language, but Dima answers for him. “Lastochka. Is that what he calls you? I can set that word not to translate, if it’s your pet name.” He picks up the tablet and types something in.

Natasha reappears and doctors the wound with a poultice, and then she and Dima leave us alone.

Oleg falls back on the bed. I curl into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He looks at me and points at my chest then at his own.

“I belong to you?”

A tiny smile appears. I didn’t get it right, but he likes my interpretation. He nods.

“Oleg, I—”

He stops my words with a finger on my lips then repeats the gesture, reversing it.

“You belong to me?” His lips tip up again. He nods.

I can’t stop staring at him. He looks so transformed with the small smile. Much younger. So warm.

He belongs to me. One part of me wants to reject that gift. Because believing it’s something I can count on is irrational. I know love doesn’t last. People don’t stick. We just do the best they can as we all muddle through life.

That’s what Oleg and I are doing right now. And it’s a precious moment, despite—no, because of the drama surrounding it.

I want to believe what he’s telling me. That this sturdy, steady man will always be there for me. Always and forever. Something I’ve never had with anyone in my life.

Maybe it could really be true.

Chapter 10

Oleg

I pass out for the rest of the afternoon, falling in and out of feverish dreams. The worst kind—the type that picks up right where real life left off, so I can’t be sure if they’re really happening or not. I know Natasha came back to check on my wound and change the poultice. Dima stood behind her like her bodyguard. Or maybe that was a dream, too.