The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

“I appreciate the way you operate, Oleg.”

The routine is familiar. The fond way he looks at me. The praise. Then he’ll tell me what he wants with a total and complete expectation that I will deliver.

And I always did.

He leans forward and pulls my lower eyelid down, like he’s inspecting my pupil. “Are you all there? All the way back?”

I don’t answer.

“Oleg?” That quiet, expecting tone coaxes a nod out of me before I realize I’m giving it.

He lifts a finger, and a thin guy with a mustache appears with a bottle of water, which he opens and hands to Skal’pel’. My former employer leans forward and brings the bottle to my lips.

I don’t want to accept his help, but the moment the water enters my mouth, I swallow greedily. The tranquilizer made me cotton-mouthed and thirsty.

“You did the right thing. Your little songbird will be safe. No more bullets on the rooftop.”

Fuck. That was him. I guess I knew deep down it had to be.

I don’t move. If this were a movie, I would struggle against my bonds. Lunge out like I wanted to kill him for talking about hurting my girl. But it’s not a movie. I hang on his every word, needing to hear the rest of them.

I’ve been waiting twelve years for closure. To know why he abandoned me. Balled me up like a used rag and then lit me on fire and left me to burn.

“I never knew what sort of woman would turn your head, but I knew she’d have to be unusual. It’s personality for you, isn’t it? Not that your Story isn’t lovely. But you never looked twice at normal beauty. You were unmoved by the perfect tits or a nice pair of long legs. It takes a special one to captivate you.”

I scowl.

“I’m sorry, Oleg.” Skal’pel’ considers me. “You were never anything but loyal to me. You always did what I asked. Performed better than any man I’ve hired since. But your size made you too hard to hide.” He offers me another drink, and I take it. “Changing your face wouldn’t have worked. And keeping you with me would’ve been a tell for my old identity. I had to cut you loose and ensure no one would come after you.”

God help me, it’s all I can do to keep the skepticism from my expression.

“I left you money. Enough to make you a rich man when you got out.” His expression turns to disappointment, like I’m the one who let him down. “You never used it. Just a few thousand dollars to get to America.”

I shrug.

“The rest of it is still sitting in a bank in your name. Untouched.”

I don’t respond.

He gets up and starts pacing, hands clasped behind his back.

I turn and check out who’s on the plane. I see the two men in the back who put me on the plane. A third, skinny, more secretarial-looking guy with a mustache. He’s the one who brought the water.

The door to the pilot’s cabin is closed.

Skal’pel’ goes on with his monologue. My being mute now hardly makes a difference. The man always preferred to hear himself talk. Not like Ravil, who listens.

But he’s just as smart as Ravil. He strategizes just as well. He reads and understands people like Ravil does. At least, I always felt like he knew me better than I knew myself. That’s what makes him a master manipulator.

“You joined the bratva. A surprising choice although perhaps not, considering the friends you’d made in prison.”

I’m sickened by how closely he followed my life after he mutilated my body and ruined my life. I don’t know what I’d thought he would do. I hadn’t wanted to think about him. What had become of him. Where he was or what he was doing.

But I certainly never imagined he was tracking and following me. My life.

It turns my stomach.

Or maybe that’s just the aftereffects of the tranquilizer.

“I realized that my gift to you wasn’t the consolation I’d hoped it would be. You didn’t crave cash. You craved a master to serve. And you found one with your new bratva cell. Ravil Baranov, smuggler and self-made real estate mogul of downtown Chicago.”

Now I want to kill him.

It’s all I can do not to flex my hands against the zip ties. I don’t like him talking about Ravil. And I especially don’t like his assessment of me, however true it may be.

I could snap his neck. Right here, right now. He’s within my reach. But I might get shot in the back of the head before I finished the job. Would it be worth it?

The world would be safe from this maniac.

Story would be safe.

Oh fuck, Story.

Just thinking of her brings on a wave of grief so heavy it nearly drowns me.

I left her. My sweet lastochka.