The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva 3)

The miracle that it would be unlocked. There’s no room—especially not for a big guy like me, but I climb in anyway.

I’m not sure if I make it all the way in. I definitely don’t get the door closed. I pass out, face down over the speakers, my head splitting with pain.

Story

I dream I’m onstage at Rue’s. Oleg’s watching me from his usual table in front of the stage. I’m performing for everyone, but his attention is the fuel behind my act. He gives me courage to be crazy—go big. I feel more like myself under his watchful gaze. The noise of the crowd fades away, and I come alive. I can be more of myself.

Only this time, something happens. A bunch of girls come up on stage and distract my brother in the middle of the set. I’m pissed at him for being such a man-whore and letting his womanizing get in the way of the band. I’m pissed enough that I shove the mic back on the stand and flip everyone off.

The audience gets crazy, yelling at me to go on. Or maybe they’re yelling at Flynn, I can’t tell. All of it pisses me off.

And then Oleg’s there at the front of the stage. He lifts his arms, and I jump, trusting he’ll catch me. His large hands span my waist, and he easily lifts me down to the floor, then he takes my guitar from me, tosses me over his shoulder, and smacks my ass as he walks out the door.

I wake up, a naughty-girl smile curling my lips.

Oleg did that. Last night.

He threw me over his shoulder and smacked my ass. Then put me to bed.

Why does that memory get me even more wet than the orgasm he gave me? There was also the way he shoved me against the door and palmed my pussy like he owned it.

Oleg has a dommy side. My large guy is larger-than-life in bed, too. Maybe it’s his way of speaking. If you’d asked me yesterday what I liked, I never in a million years would’ve named that. I date musicians. Artists. Soft, articulate boys who smoke pot and philosophize about the environment and social justice. Things I care about, too.

I date guys who are like myself. Or like my younger, not-so-little brother. It’s a familiar type. Guys who seem to fit with me. With my friends. With my bohemian lifestyle.

Not guys like Oleg. Never giant, tattooed, Russian men with chivalrous, but extremely dominant manners.

But I freaking loved the way he touched me.

I’m embarrassed that I tried to get him to have sex with me and peeved he refused.

And I’m also kind of mad he didn’t leave his number or ask for mine.

But he’ll be there next week.

I know it with certainty. He’s been there every week for the last year. And he comes for me.

And all these thoughts about Oleg still don’t negate my saddest one—now that we’ve started down this path, we’re on the road to the end. Because that’s how things roll for me. I don’t do long-term relationships. I don’t like to rely on people because I’ve learned through experience, they always let me down. My parents loved me—deeply—but I sure as hell couldn’t count on either one of them to ever be there for me when I needed them. My mom was always a hot mess, and my dad was often swept away with partying and women—same as Flynn, now. I won’t

I get out of bed, happy to discover I’m not the slightest bit hungover.

I should shower and eat breakfast, but all I want to do is get my guitar. Oleg tickled my muse, and I need to play. Maybe actually compose for once. It’s been eighteen months since I’ve written an original song.

I pull on a pair of pajama pants and boots and throw a jacket over the top I’m still wearing from last night. The keys to the band’s van are right by the door because Oleg is a freaking prince.

I leave my door unlocked and trot down the stairs and out the front door.

The March morning air is frigid, and I yank my jacket closed as I look around for the van. I find it a half-block down. When I get to it, though, I gasp. My heart starts pounding with a surge of adrenalin.

Oh God.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Some fucking asshole has broken into the van. The back gate is slightly ajar! All our sound equipment was in there. And my guitar! Flynn will freak out. I’m freaking out.

Cringing, I swing the door open.

And gasp a second time.

“Oleg?”

Oh my God. Oleg is face down over the equipment. One of his pant legs is soaked with blood. Holy shit—is he dead?

I touch his ankle and find his skin cold. Christ, he could have frozen to death last night.