The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,20

He twists to look at me, screwing a silencer on his own piece. “We’ll be back in ten, okay, O?”

I nod.

“I’ll make them pay for what they did to you.”

I don’t answer. I don’t really give a shit if they suffer or don’t. They were just doing a job. My real concern is who’s behind them.

The guys are back in seven minutes. Maxim checks the mirror and cleans a few splatters of blood from his face before stowing the piece under the seat and taking off.

Pavel sits quietly for a few minutes before he asks, “Don’t you think we should’ve found out who sent them before we killed them?”

A muscle ticks in Maxim’s face. He’s crazy-protective when it comes to Sasha. It affected his decision-making on this one. “They were waiting for us. If we hadn’t fired first, we’d be dead now. Besides, we’re sending a fucking message. Anyone who comes near my wife will meet a swift death.”

Pavel shoots me a glance to see if I’m with him on this one.

Of course, I’m thankful they didn’t get anything out of them. If they had, I might find one of those guns pointing at my head now, so I just shrug.

It worked for me. I needed those assholes out of the picture and away from Story.

The rest of the shit, I can deal with later.

Story

I tune my electric guitar then run through chord changes in fast succession to warm my fingers up. It’s Friday afternoon, and the Storytellers are at the Lounge for weekly practice. If it wasn’t for Rue letting us practice here during the days for free, there would be no Storytellers. Which is why Rue’s Lounge will always be our home base. People ask me sometimes why we don’t try to branch out—get gigs at other places, rotate where we play.

We could. We might even make more money. Maybe we’d build a bigger following. But Rue’s launched us. We grew our base of support here. We’re as loyal to the owner as she is to us.

“Where’s the set list?” Flynn asks me.

People think it’s my band because of the name, but it’s actually Flynn’s. Flynn and his friends got together after high school, formed a band, and then needed a lead singer. They thought a female would make them way cooler than an all-boy band. Of course, my name fit easily for a band name.

Maybe it is my band. I mean, I’m the older sister and creative lead. But I don’t ever think of it that way. I believe strongly in collaboration. That’s where the magic happens. With the Storytellers, I often feel like I’m just along for the ride.

“So what happened with Silent Boris Saturday night?” Flynn asks.

I whip my head around and glare at him, uncharacteristically on edge. “Don’t call him that.”

“Seriously, dude. That guy looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands and not break a sweat,” Lake says.

“I kind of think he has,” Ty agrees. “If I hadn’t seen the way he looks at Story, I would be scared to death of him.”

Flynn’s watching me, though. His mouth stretches into a wide grin. “So you finally sealed the deal with your Russian bodyguard, huh?” He has that sing-song congratulatory tone that makes me bristle even more.

“Shut up. Don’t be an idiot.” Now I really don’t sound like myself. Dang it.

The guys all gawk at me with interest. It’s not like me to get worked up over things. I’m as flighty, follow the energy, and laid back as they come. But the past four days since Oleg’s friends came and collected him have been torture. Endlessly long. Filled with questions. Empty. I’ve worried about Oleg. But more than that, having Oleg at my place changed something in me.

I missed him. Crave more time with him.

All of those things are so unlike me.

Which makes me desperately want to go back to the way things were before. To floating through life without giving two fucks about anything. Especially not a guy.

“Wait.” Flynn suddenly sobers, studying me with concern. “Did something bad happen?”

Now the asshole asks. It’s a fine time to suddenly be concerned about my well-being, when he’s the guy who left with two girls and told me to get Oleg to drive.

“No!” I throw my guitar pick at him.

He dodges it, his pirate grin stretching across his face. “Oh my God… you really like this guy!”

“No,” I scoff. I’m definitely not doing that. Not the relationship boomerang our mom subjected us to