The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

“Mudak,” Dima mutters when I clasp his hand. “Story was out of her mind with grief. You may not give a shit about your life, but the rest of us do.”

I circle my fist over my chest in the sign I learned for sorry.

“Yeah, you better go tell that to your girl.” He tips his head in the direction of the tarmac.

I climb down the stairs and jog to the vehicle. Story looks small and lost in the back seat.

Lonely.

I throw the door open and gather her up. She clings like a koala, wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck. She makes a broken whimpering sound, but she doesn’t speak.

Story, my beautiful lastochka.

She still says nothing and won’t loosen her grip on my neck, so I can see her face. I just hold her, breathing in her sweet scent, kissing her neck. Still, she says nothing. We’re getting soaked in the sleet, so I walk around to put her in the front seat, passenger side where I can see her face.

There’s so much pain in her gaze. Almost like it hurts her to look at me.

It slices a gash right across my chest. I put that pain there. I hurt her—the one person I was trying so hard to protect.

How could I have done this?

I sign sorry, but she looks away, blinking back tears.

I cup her face and bring my forehead to hers. She doesn’t move. I try the sign again.

She swallows. “I’m glad you’re alive.” Her voice is choked.

Sorry, I sign again. It’s all I really know how to say. I see Dima left my iPad on the driver’s seat for me, but I don’t pick it up. Even if I could speak, I wouldn’t have the words. I don’t even know how to navigate when Story’s clammed up, herself.

I guess I’m getting a taste of my own medicine, and it’s a fucking bitter one.

Story pulls her legs into the vehicle and pushes me away. “You’re getting wet,” she says.

Fuck.

I shut the door, walk around to the driver’s side, and get in, picking up the iPad to at least try. Dima called me an asshole for what I did. I’m sorry I caused so much grief.

Story shakes her head. “You weren’t an asshole.” Her voice sounds so fucking heavy. Exhausted. She reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “You were being you. Trying to protect me and do it all by yourself without reaching out for help from anyone else.”

Her words strike home.

I nod. Da. She’s right. I could have played it so differently. I could have gone to Ravil, and he and Maxim would’ve come up with a better option. But instead I played straight into Skal’pel’s fucking plan for me. Forsaking Story and my brothers in my effort to protect them.

“Oleg… did you go to him to die?”

I suck in a breath and nod.

She sags and looks away from me, out the window.

Fuck, I’m losing her. Frantic, I type on the iPad. I went to die, but as soon I arrived, I realized I’d made the wrong choice. It wasn’t right to sacrifice myself and surrender, it was time to fight.

For you.

She gives me a searching look then looks straight ahead at the jet on the tarmac. “I have to play at Rue’s tonight.”

Gospodi. I forgot. It’s Saturday night.

I start the Denali up and put it in gear, turning it around. I don’t know where the fuck we are, so I turn on the map function on my phone to get us back, checking the clock. Enough time to get home and get Story’s guitar from the Kremlin before we head over.

I point at Story and give the sign for hungry, raising my brows, the way we learned.

“Am I hungry? Yeah, actually I could eat. You?”

I nod. We hit the first drive-thru we see—a Wendy’s. I use the iPad to order, which makes Story laugh, lightening the mood a little.

We eat as I drive, and then she drops the bomb on me.

“Oleg, I can’t move in with you.”

Somehow I keep the Denali from crashing into the guy in front of me.

She doesn’t go on, which makes it a million times worse.

I make the sign for why? by pulsing my middle finger by my forehead, brows down.

“I thought I could do this. I care about you. I really do. But I have so much drama in my life already. And your life is really intense. I mean, you’re in the Russian mafiya, and you’re getting shot at, and I’m getting shot at, and then I thought you were going to die, and it’s just too much.”

I want to argue with her. I reach for the iPad, but realize I can’t type and drive at the same time.

Fuck.

I pick up her hand instead and shake my head.