The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

Relationships always end quickly for me.

She believes this will end as quickly as it started. Maybe that’s her M.O. with men—quick to let them in, quick to throw them out. That seems to fit with her enigmatic personality.

As much as the thought of this ending shreds me, something staunch and stubborn rises up. I will still be hers. I won’t stop coming to her shows. I will always be whatever she needs me to be for her. Even if it’s just the guy in the audience she can trust to climb onto during her shows.

I drop a kiss on her head, and she smiles up at me. I kiss her again, this time on her forehead.

“I’m glad you two finally got together,” Sasha says with a warm smile.

Story’s gaze drops. “Yeah.”

I bring my hand to her nape and gently squeeze. It’s okay, I want to tell her. No pressure. You’re mine whether you claim me back or not.

Chapter 8

Story

I end up hanging out for another hour with Oleg and his friends in the living area, meeting Ravil’s wife, Lucy, when she comes in from a swim. Apparently this millionaire pad has a heated pool and hot tub on the roof. I’m tempted to ask Oleg if we can go skinny-dipping, but I’m starting to get antsy.

But the longer the day goes on, the more I feel like I need to get back to my place. I have classes to teach tomorrow. Or maybe that’s just my excuse. I also have this underlying, nagging anxiety to leave. It’s the nudge I get when relationships get to a certain stage. This one got here faster than most, but it’s been more intense than most. We packed a couple months into the past week.

“Well, I should be going.” I swivel to slide off the barstool I’ve been perched on since lunch.

Oleg blocks my way, concern written on his face.

I change direction and slide off on the opposite side, nimbly taking a quick-step in the direction of Oleg’s room. “It was so great hanging out with you guys.” I turn and wave at the group. Oleg is right behind me.

I head back down the hallway to his room and slide my feet into my boots again. I pick up my coat and guitar.

Oleg shakes his head.

“Oleg, I can’t stay here forever.”

He doesn’t move, but he’s blocking the door.

“Can you drive me to my place?”

He hesitates then shakes his head.

“That’s cool,” I say, pulling out my phone. “I’ll schedule a Lyft.”

Oleg takes my phone away from me.

“Hey.” I get that he can’t talk, but he’s pushing it.

He cups my face with so much tenderness, I can hardly stay mad.

“I really need to go.”

A half-baked idea forms. Knowing he doesn’t seem to want his friends to know what happened last night, I whirl and dart through the door back to the living room then throw open the door to the elevator hallway from there.

Oleg’s right behind me, but as I’d guessed, he doesn’t catch or stop me.

The elevator door is open, and I step into it. I press the button as Oleg hefts his body between the doors to block them from closing.

He shakes his head at me.

“I can’t stay here forever, Oleg. I’m feeling cooped up, and you haven’t told me what’s going on.” I give him a pointed look.

To his credit, he draws back slightly. Like communicating hadn’t even occurred to him.

“I don’t want to have this fight with you,” I tell him, even though we’re really not having a fight. We’re so much sweeter to each other than most people I know, even when we’re at odds.

He shakes his head again, eyes rounding at the word fight.

But he refuses to move. He holds the door open and tips his head in the direction of his room.

“Uh uh. I really have to leave now. I have lessons to give tomorrow.”

He raps his knuckles against the door and tips his head again. I get the feeling he’s trying to appear non-threatening, which is hard for a guy of his size and stature to do. I saw how imposing he was to my errant student at my apartment, and all he had to do there was fold his arms across his massive chest.

My throat works. “You don't want me to leave.”

The elevator dings its annoyance.

He beckons to me again. This stand-off is getting really old.

He steps in and takes my guitar, then very gently tips me up over his shoulder. He stops the elevator doors from shutting with my foot. His hand molds over my ass. Not a spank this time, this just feels possessive. I kick my legs. “Dammit, Oleg. This isn’t cool.”

He carries me down the hall toward the door that enters directly to his bedroom.

“You need to talk to me,” I warn, my voice clogged. “I don’t know how, but you have to tell me what the fuck is going on. I’m not up for the guessing game anymore.”