The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

There’s no question we will climax as one. I feel the surge of his orgasm, and my own rises to meet it. He’s the first one to make a sound. An urgent vocalization. I return the call.

And then we both come. He arcs in deep and stays, shooting his wad. I suck on his neck, my internal muscles contracting around his cock, milking it for more. It goes on and on. A completion, not just of sex, but of us. Of our relationship.

One last momentous time together to remember each other by.

Oleg eases out of me and helps me back to my feet. Dark concern swirls in his brown eyes.

I put my hand on his face, memorizing his beloved features. “I love you.” It’s worth saying, even if we’re breaking up. And I say it as an ending. An Amen to the sacred space we gave to each other.

And Oleg does seem to understand we’re still breaking up because the words make his forehead crinkle as if he’s in pain.

My anxiety revs back up, starting to eat away at the endorphins released by the incredible sex.

I need to end this thing. Maybe that’s why I’m still anxious. Because he’s still here. It’s still going.

“Goodbye, Oleg,” I say firmly.

He flinches, visibly destroyed by my words.

I feel equally destroyed. I don’t know why the anxiety isn’t getting better.

He cups the back of my head and presses his lips to mine. This time the kiss isn’t brutal, it’s soft and sweet.

And then he turns and leaves without looking at me again.

I thought I’d cried all my tears out earlier thinking Oleg was dead, but it seems I still have an ocean left to cry. I mean to walk myself to the shower and put myself to bed, but instead I find myself on my knees, wracked with sobs.

Oleg

I don’t get out of bed other than to eat a little the next day. Or the day after.

Not even on the third day.

I can’t face what I lost. I had Story. She was mine for two short weeks. She let me hold her. Make love to her. Bring her home.

She was going to move in with me. For the first time in years, I had a reason to get up in the morning. Things felt possible again. I was willing to stretch myself. Start interacting with my environment. Join the living.

There was such a lightness around me. I didn’t hate my body for betraying me. I found new ways to communicate. But most importantly, I got to be around Story. My obsession. I had her to myself—all her minutes. All her hours. She sang and played her guitar in my bed. Stood in my shower. Let me love her.

Loved me back.

She said so.

But she didn’t choose us. She didn’t choose me. I caused her too much stress, and she opted out. I can’t blame her. Not for a second. I want to punch myself in my own face for hurting her. For making her cry. For causing her more trauma.

Wednesday morning, Nikolai and Dima come into my room without knocking. I’m on my back in the center of the bed. “So what the fuck happened?” Nikolai demands.

I ignore him, staring at the ceiling.

“This place stinks. You have to get up and take a shower, mudak. And come out and eat something.”

I keep ignoring him.

“I’m guessing Story broke up with you?”

I sit up, my hands curling into fists. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to punch my brothers—something I’ve never done.

Nikolai and Dima seem to realize it because they step back in unison. “I’m sorry.” Nikolai holds his hands up. They both know my fists are as lethal as any gun.

“I do not want to fuck with you, Oleg,” Nikolai says. “We just want to maybe talk it through. See if we can help.”

I shake my head. There is no help. Not for me and Story.

Despite my refusal of their offer to assist, they both sit down on the foot of the bed.

Now I really want to kill them.

“What scared her?” Dima asks. “The danger?”

I glare at him. He tosses the iPad over to me.

I growl, but suddenly the need to discuss Story becomes a fresh addiction. Like talking about her will bring here back.

The drama, I type.

Nikolai cocks his head. “Hmm.” He sounds doubtful, like he’s questioning my answer.

“Of course you know her way better than I do, but I’m not sure that fits. I mean, if she couldn’t handle the drama, she would’ve called the cops the minute she found you shot in the back of her van, right?”

“Da. To me, it almost seems the opposite,” Dima agrees. “What did she tell Sasha? She has a high tolerance for chaos. She didn’t even freak over getting shot at on the roof. I mean, the girl can really roll with things.” He says it appreciatively, and I’m partly pleased and partly infuriated with his admiration.