The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva Book 3) Read online

  It triggers the rage and frustration I thought I buried long ago, back in prison. After I woke up without a tongue, framed for a crime I didn’t commit.

  Story goes to the kitchen—which is really just one wall of the living area with a two-person breakfast bar to separate the space. She opens the refrigerator and rummages through, eventually returning with a container of lemon yogurt that she opened and sprinkled granola on top.

  “Do you like yogurt? Russians are supposed to like yogurt, right?” she cringes like she just said something stupid, so I take it from her, even though I have no interest in eating.

  I force a few bites down before I set it on her 1970’s coffee table.

  “I teach lessons all afternoon,” Story says. She looks apologetic, so I struggle to figure out what she’s telling me. “Like, here, in the living room.”

  I grunt and throw myself off the couch and onto my feet. My head aches so badly I can’t see straight, but I stumble for the bedroom and miraculously land in the center of her bed.

  I can’t put my thoughts together well enough to decide if I should use Story’s phone to text Ravil. I’m almost positive my pakhan and cell brothers have nothing to do with this shit. They wouldn’t sell me out. They have no reason to.

  But they don’t know I worked for Skal’pel’. That I’ve seen the faces of people he operated on—before and after. And if they found out, they might not forgive me for the omission. My work fell on the other side of the Moscow bratva, where most of my bratva brothers originated. Some of Skal’pel’s clients were hiding from Igor Antonov, the now deceased pakhan. Sasha’s father. I helped them change their identities and disappear. I may recognize their new faces. People would either pay a lot of money for that information or kill me to keep it quiet.

  I have often wondered why I’m still alive. Why Skal’pel’ dumped me in a prison instead of a cedar box.

  It’s a mystery that haunts me. All these years, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to show up and finish the job.

  Looks like it’s finally happening.

  So even if my cell doesn’t forsake me for what I’ve done, I can’t bring this shit down on them. It’s not their problem. I need to handle it on my own.

  That’s what I decide, anyway, before the pounding in my head makes me pass out again.

  Story

  Oleg sleeps in my bedroom all morning and into the afternoon. I change the dressing on his wound, pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. Thankfully, it really doesn’t look that bad, not that I have any experience with bullet wounds. But it’s not deep and appears more like a friction burn than anything.

  I’m more worried about the presumed concussion.

  And about whatever shit Oleg’s in. He’s badly injured, and I have no idea who did it or what happened. I have people showing up for music lessons here all afternoon and a wounded guy who may have men looking for him in my bedroom.

  What if someone shows up here for him? He’s pretty incapacitated. I would have to protect him, and I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. Violence isn’t really in my wheelhouse.

  And a much smaller but still realistic concern—what if he needs my help while I’m trying to give lessons? It would be unprofessional and hard to explain why there’s a giant, bleeding and dizzy man in my bedroom.

  Fortunately, he sleeps through the guitar lessons I give all afternoon. I’ve already seen five regular students when a new student, Jeff Barnes, shows up. I got a bit of a creeper vibe from him on the phone. My mom’s told me a hundred times that she doesn’t like me teaching lessons out of my own apartment, but I don't really have another choice. Leasing a music studio would eat up every cent I make with the lessons, which are how I pay the rent and eat.

  When he called for lessons he played cool, doing that thing where he acted like we’re friends. He dropped a few names of people I know and said he likes to watch the Storytellers play. Sounded enthusiastic. I figured he either wants in the band or he wants in my pants. Still, fifty bucks is fifty bucks, and lessons are how I pay the rent, so I scheduled him. I didn’t get a dangerous vibe from him, and now that I’ve met him in person, I still don’t.

  But the guy is annoying. He’s definitely not here to learn guitar. He acts like he already knows everything I’m trying to teach him, even though he doesn’t, and keeps trying to make small-talk instead of learn.

  At the end of his half-hour, I put my guitar down. “Okay, time’s up.” I don’t offer to schedule another lesson because I didn’t enjoy teaching him. If he asks, fine. But I’m not going to try to get him into a regular package or anything.

  He makes no move to get up off my couch. Instead, he pulls a little baggie out of his jacket pocket and starts rolling a joint.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I don’t happen to have any students after him because it’s already 6:30—my dinner time—but I easily could have. Maybe I’ll pretend I do.

  “You want a hit?” he offers after flicking his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper.

  “No, I’m good. And listen, I’ve got plans for dinner, so…”

  “Yeah.” But the asshole doesn’t take the hint. He just flicks his lighter and lights up in my living room.

  I’m not the type to pitch a bitch. Sounds like we know some of the same people, and I don’t want to completely be rude. I get up and start cleaning the kitchen to give him a better hint.

  I look over to see him watching me with hooded eyes.

  Ugh. Definitely a creeper.

  And then behind him, in the doorway of the bedroom, Oleg appears. He’s put on his jeans, and he still looks pale, but his focus is on the back of Jeff’s head, and his expression is deadly.

  “Oh hey, honey,” I chirp brightly to call Jeff’s attention to Oleg’s presence.

  The guy whips around in surprise, coughing on the hit he just took.

  Oleg folds his arms across his massive chest. He’s huge, and he looks like he could rip Jeff’s head off his shoulders with one hand. I notice, only because I’m looking for it, that he’s also strategically propped himself up against the doorframe for balance.

  He’s playing along for me, just like he always does at my show when I decide to climb him like a jungle gym or make him carry me around on his shoulders. Or catch me when I dive from the stage.

  I wrinkle my nose at Jeff apologetically. “My boyfriend doesn’t really like when guys hang around past their lessons.”

  I’ve never seen a guy move so fast. Jeff shoves his pot back in his jacket pocket and slams his ratty guitar case closed. He’s out the door with only one side of it buckled and his jacket dragging on the floor as he carries it under his arm.

  As soon as the door shuts, I laugh and skip over to Oleg, reaching on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” I purr. “You’re a good bodyguard.”

  Brows still down, he frowns at the door.

  “He would’ve left if I’d told him to,” I reassure him, guessing at his thoughts. “But now he’ll never overstay.” I reward Oleg with a big smile.

  Oleg casts another dark glance at the door.

  “I know, you would’ve beat him up for me if I needed you to, right?”

  Oleg draws his index finger across his throat. A shiver runs down my spine because I believe the threat. As gentle and safe as Oleg seems to me, as much as I think of him as my giant teddy bear, I have every reason to believe he’s a criminal—a dangerous criminal. Those tattoos tell a story of violence. And he runs in a group of Russian guys who all have tattoos like his. They’re Russian mafiya, probably. I don’t even want to know what kind of crimes they’re into. I mean, I found Oleg shot in the back of my van.

  “Okay, that won’t be necessary,” I tell Oleg, sober now.

  He still looks ready to kill someone.

  “Seriously. It’s good to know that, ah, you’re willing to kill for me, but I wouldn’t want that. Ever.” I’m trying to be as clear about this as I can.

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sp; Oleg seems to catch my tone because a flash of uncertainty replaces the deadly expression, and he runs a tattooed hand over his stubbled face.

  “Is that what you do?” I don’t know where I worked up the nerve to ask. I really don’t think I want to hear the answer. I bring my fingertips to touch the place across his breastbone where I saw the dagger tattoo. “That’s what the ink means, right?”

  He gives me a single nod.

  Fuck. A violent shiver runs through me. I definitely didn’t want to know that.

  “Is that why you got attacked? Someone’s after you now?”

  He tips his head to the side, considering my question, then shakes it.

  Okay, so he didn’t get attacked as a retaliation over murder. Good to know. Again, I’m stupid for asking.

  The less I know about Oleg and his crimes, the better.

  For a second time, a wave of regret runs through me about getting to know Oleg better. He’s definitely not the kind of guy to make a boyfriend, not that I ever last more than a month or two with boyfriends, anyway. Now we’re headed down the path toward this thing ending, and I don’t want it to end. And I didn’t want it to change.

  Except that’s a lie. Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the rough way Oleg took me—and he didn’t even take me-take me! But I still feel his hands on me. The way he shoved me up against the wall and palmed my pussy like he owned it. The way he ripped open my fishnets to get to my skin. That bald hunger in him. The dominance.

  I crave more of it. I’m definitely seeing this thing through. I want all the sex I can get before it ends.

  But end, it must.

  Endings are a given with any guy, and Oleg’s profession makes it a certainty.

  Which is too bad. Because I like the way I feel with him. Like I can be me.

  All of me. Unfiltered me.

  It’s just easy with him. Even with the communication disrupt.

  I like Oleg. I press my body against his, asking for an embrace. Like always, he gives me what I ask for. I bite his giant pectoral muscle—only because it seems so inviting.

  He surprises me by fisting my hair and tugging my head back. He lowers his mouth slowly, watching me intently, like he’s looking for a sign of displeasure. I lift my lips. He brushes his across my mouth twice, then nips my lower lip. Then his fingers release my hair to cup the back of my head, holding me in place for a real kiss. A demanding kiss.

  I miss the tongue—my heart fucking bleeds for Oleg and his injured tongue—but even without it, it’s a better kiss than I’ve had from any guy, hands down.

  It’s the energy behind it. That raw, rough desire. That sensation of being both claimed and honored at the same time. It makes my knees weak.

  Unfortunately, it has the same effect on Oleg. No, that’s probably the concussion. He stumbles a bit and breaks the kiss, catching the wall.

  “It’s okay. You should probably lie back down. But you owe me,” I warn him.

  He cocks his head, like he requires an explanation.

  I run my hands across his chest and down his washboard abs. “I’m going to need some of this before you go.”

  Oleg tugs me by the nape back up to his face and gives me a soft, exploratory kiss. Heat flares everywhere. I want him now, but I know that’s impossible. When he pulls away, I bring both hands to cup his face. “Can you eat some more food?”

  He hesitates, then shakes his head, turning back to the bedroom.

  “I’ll bring you some more pain killers,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t acknowledge my words, but when I bring him the ibuprofen, he downs the pills obediently and drinks the whole glass of juice, same as every time. I push away the creeping anxiety that I should’ve taken him to the hospital.

  Oleg

  Story’s scent surrounds me. I dream I’m grinding against her ass, one hand possessively cupping her breast.

  No, not a dream.

  I blink in the morning light. I’m in my little lastochka’s bed with a raging hard-on shoved between her legs like a heat-seeking missile going for home.

  She’s awake. I know because she pushes her ass back against my lap and moans softly. I pinch and rub her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pluck it into a stiff peak. My hand is under her tank top—apparently it sleep-walked there. My dick is still in my briefs, fortunately.

  I’ve never wanted to speak so badly. Fourteen years since my tongue was clipped, and this is the moment that gives me the most pain. Because I have all manner of dirty-talk swimming in my head, and I don’t have a way to get it out. To check in with her. Make sure she wants to get what I want to give.

  But she told me earlier, didn’t she? She made it clear what she wanted.

  I bite her neck and slip my hand down her belly and into her pajama bottoms. She opens her knee for me. I suck in a breath when my fingers stroke past her silky landing strip and over her slit. She isn’t wearing panties, and she’s hot and wet for me. I run the pad of my finger through her juices, dragging them up to swirl around her clit. It stiffens and lengthens under my touch.

  The memory of making her come the last time gets me harder than stone. I want to take my time with her now, but I fear I won’t have the finesse. Not with my head still aching and my stamina so low.

  I catch her throat with my other hand and pull her head back to my shoulder as I slide my finger over her sex, listening to her little gasps and mewls.

  You want me to touch you here? To make you come? Or do you need my cock?

  I wish I could fucking ask her. But I can’t, so I use my fingers to please her. I circle her clit until she squirms, her little whimpers growing more desperate, then I screw one inside her. I love the way her legs clamp closed, and her hand presses down over the top of mine.

  “Your fingers are as big as some guys’ cocks,” she moans.

  I love that she’s dirty-talking, but mentioning other guys’ dicks makes me want to kill every guy she’s ever been with.

  “You’re not going to hold out on me this time, are you?” She rocks her hips taking my finger deeper.

  Aw, fuck.

  Now she’s getting it.

  I slip my finger out and sit up.

  Story sits up, too. “What?”

  Okay, I was working up the strength to climb out of bed for a condom. But I remember she set my wallet on her nightstand when she washed my jeans. I point to it, and she snatches it up. “Condom?” She sounds breathless.

  I love when she reads my mind.

  I take the wallet, flip it open, and pull out the condom.

  “Let me help.” She pushes me to my back. I hide my wince when my tender head hits the pillow. I’m too fascinated by my shalun'ya—my bad girl—to care about the pain. She straddles my legs, ripping the condom wrapper open with her teeth.

  I tug the hem of her tank top twice and lift my chin. I’m being demanding, but I can tell she likes it because a naughty smile curls her lips, and she whips it off over her head and throws it to the floor.

  Ah, those glorious tits. Her nipples are pale—peach tipped—and sweet, making the sight of her breasts feel like an unexpected gift.

  She pulls my briefs down to free my erection and wraps her hand around the base. “Wow.” She sounds impressed. “It’s, ah, definitely bigger than your finger.”

  I hold up my hand for comparison, and she smiles, her gaze lingering on my face.

  “I didn’t expect you to be quite so…”

  I go still, worried about what she’s going to say.

  “...aggressive. It was hot.”

  It takes a couple seconds for me to get over thinking it was a complaint. I hadn’t meant to be so dominant, but it had been hard to hold back all my pent-up desire for her. Story’s been my obsession for a long time now. But to hear she liked it, that she wants that, makes the motor inside me roar to life. Whatever stamina I was afraid I didn’t have appears. I could fuck this girl all night long if it was night.

  Which it isn’t.
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  She lowers her head and slides her mouth over the tip of my cock. My head nearly explodes with pleasure. And pain. But the pleasure. I groan out loud, surprising myself because I generally try to stop myself from letting any sound emerge.

  Story slides her mouth down and up again, raising gooseflesh all over my skin. She pins her gaze to mine watching the havoc she wreaks as she takes me into her mouth again and again.

  It’s all too much. I’ve waited too long for this moment without ever believing it would happen. And fuck, I’m not going to come in her mouth. Not when she told me plainly that she wants me to give it to her hard.

  I grip my own dick, which makes her pop off. I pull her pajama bottoms off. I want to put my mouth on her dripping cunt, but I have more confidence about what I can do with my cock. Not having a tongue to please her fucking killed me last time.

  You’d think after so long I’d have accepted my fate. I’m not a wallowing fuck, but Story awakens the need to be so much more than what I’ve been for the last years—barely half a man.

  She props herself up on her forearms to watch me roll the condom on. She liked me aggressive, so I grab her thighs and tug her to the center of the bed, showing off my strength.

  Her breathy laugh makes it so worth it. “Ooh, there’s Big Daddy.”

  Big Daddy. I don’t know enough American pop culture to be sure I understand the moniker, but I get the gist. She’s my shalun'ya, and I’m the guy in charge. The guy who’s going to fuck her until she screams.

  I position myself between her open thighs and rub the head of my sheathed cock over her slit. I need to be inside her like a bear needs his first meal after winter, but I force myself to push in slowly, knowing I’m big, and she’s a little pixie.

  She arches, her head dropping back as she thrusts her hips up to take me deeper.

  Blyad'. She needs more? I’ll give it to her. I cage her throat with my hand. I don’t squeeze at all—not even a little bit, but the position itself is dominant. I hold her throat and shove my cock in with a hard thrust.