The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

“Do you like to play music when you’re trying not to think about something?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to get your guitar?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Are you kidding? I need the distraction, too.”

“What about the baby?” I ask.

Sasha waves her hand. “Oh, we have him trained to sleep through anything.”

I go to Oleg’s room and get my guitar. When I bring it back, I tune it and strum my fingers without thinking. “What’s your favorite?” I ask Sasha.

“Oh, stupid stuff. Top forty. You play what you like.”

I play through the Storyteller’s entire album on autopilot, just trying to get through it.

“Is that all original music?” Sasha asks when I finish.

I nod, absently. The noise in my head is so loud.

“Do you guys have a manager?”

I laugh. “Yeah, me.”

“No, you need a real manager. Someone who will pimp you hard. Get you booked outside of Chicago. If you broaden your reach, I’ll bet you could get a recording deal. Seriously.”

I’m saved from deflecting her well-meaning advice by the door opening. Oleg comes through first, and I almost fall down with relief.

I drop the guitar, run right over the top of the sofa—one foot on the cushion, the next on the back—and divebomb him, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He catches me and spins me around and pins my back against a wall, claiming my mouth with an intensity that makes my toes curl. When he pulls away, I don’t let him, chasing his lips with mine for more. I use my tongue, hoping it won’t bother him that he can’t use his back. It doesn’t seem to. He palms my ass and drops my hips lower, so he can grind the bulge of his erection between my legs.

“They were there, but they caught sight of the rest of us and sped off,” I hear Maxim telling Ravil. “Pavel and I chased their car, and we got a plate number. It will be a rental, but maybe Dima can track them.”

“Already on it.” Dima has somehow teleported to his workstation where his fingers fly across the keys.

Oleg puts me down and carries my things to his room, then we return to the living room, where I curl up on Oleg’s lap on the large red sofa. The television gets turned on to Netflix, and Nikolai picks Arrested Development. The relief of doing something normal, of having Oleg back, the way he quiets the noise for me is so great that I almost fall asleep.

“Well, I found something. There’s a three million dollar reward for bringing Oleg in alive posted on the dark web in Russia,” Dima says. “Looks like it might be from another bratva cell.” He reads aloud, Subject: Bratva Enforcer with Ravil Baranov’s cell. Residence: well-guarded bratva stronghold, likely impossible to penetrate. Is known to frequent a bar called Rue’s Lounge, with a possible love interest there. And there’s a photo of Story on Oleg’s table.”

A muscle tics in Oleg’s jaw.

Dima lifts his head. “I say we turn him in and collect the reward.”

Oleg stiffens, head jerking up.

“That’s a joke.” Dima sobers. “Gospodi, Oleg, do you really think we’d sell you out?”

“Put up a notice,” Ravil says. “Oleg belongs to me. Anyone who attempts to touch him dies. If anyone wants the information in his head, it’s for sale. They can talk to me.”

Oleg doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“Is that okay?” I murmur for his ears only.

He swallows then nods.

“Put up a notice,” Dima mutters, but his face is on the screen, fingers flying over the keys. “That’s not exactly how it works, but I understand.”

Ravil looks at Oleg. “I already had a call from Kuznets in Moscow. He wants names. Do you have them?”

Oleg shakes his head.

“No names at all? Not a single one?”

He shakes his head again.

“Only faces?”

Oleg nods.

“And it’s been years. That’s not going to be useful to anyone. Can you put that up on the dark web?” Ravil asks Dima.

Dima snorts but keeps typing. “I’ll put up a notice,” he says sarcastically, but he’s also bobbing his head, as if he will do whatever he can.

“Will that keep Oleg safe?” I ask.

Ravil nods. “I’ll take care of it. No one will touch him without my say-so, which means no one will touch him.” A shiver runs up my spine because I can practically feel the danger radiating from Ravil. At least he’s on Oleg’s side. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of the guy.

Chapter 12

Oleg

“Hey, thanks, man,” Flynn says when I set down the heavy amp on the stage of a brew pub Friday night.

I almost walk away without acknowledging his words—like my old self would—but then turn back and nod. Story is changing me. Bringing me back to the living. Communicating. Giving and receiving from the people around me. It’s so simple and yet profound.

I’m rewarded with a grin that matches Story’s.