The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,27

need to demand answers—we’re going to figure out how to communicate one way or another—but part of me isn’t sure I even want to know what he’s into.

I was a witness to murder last night.

I don’t even want to think about all the horrible things that could mean. Right now, without knowing Oleg’s story, I can make up my own fairytale around it. He’s the innocent one being hunted. He did what he had to do to protect me, the girl he loves, because I got caught in the middle of it.

That’s the pretty way I want to spin the story.

This is what I’ve always done. I live in the area between fantasy and reality. My life has never been structured and organized. I had the opposite of what you could call a “stable home life.” There was love—so much love—but it wasn’t stable.

But what if it’s uglier than that? What if Oleg’s the villain in the story?

No.

He’s not. I know that from the deepest place in my soul. Not the man who touches me like I’m the most precious thing in the universe. Who looks at me like I’m the only other being in the world. He can’t be bad.

Just like my mother isn’t bad for all her nervous breakdowns, live-in boyfriends and bad breakups. And my father isn’t bad for drinking too much, sleeping with every band groupie who came into his life, and putting his kids last.

I’ve lived in total chaos my whole life. I think that’s why I choose to live alone now. Because my thoughts are messy and disorganized, and usually, when I add someone else to the mix, I lose myself completely. Except that doesn’t seem to happen with Oleg. Maybe because he doesn’t talk. I don’t want to look at that like a plus, but he not only doesn’t add to the noise, he absorbs it.

Now that I’ve identified it, I’m sure that’s why having him at my shows made it so fabulous for me. He somehow gave me space in the chaos.

“Good morning, sunshine.” I kiss his temple.

Oleg’s dark gaze sweeps over my naked form and grows hooded.

My nipples pucker at his appreciation.

Purposely provoking him, I dance out of his reach to the wall of curtains, curious to see what’s behind them. I yank them back and gasp. “Whoa.”

It’s an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. “This is incredible, Oleg.” I take another look around the place in the light of day, drinking in what, in the shock of last night’s trauma, I failed to notice. This place is gorgeous. And expensive. It’s weird because it’s just a studio without any kitchen—not even a mini fridge, unless I’m missing something—but it’s very high end. We’re in some kind of small penthouse on the top of a building that must be very close to Lake Michigan. I’ll bet other apartments in the building have lake views.

“Can people see in?” I ask, realizing if they can I’m putting on quite a show.

Oleg makes a popping sound with his lips. I turn to find a t-shirt flying through the air at me.

“Thanks.” I catch it and shake it open. It’s one of Oleg’s shirts—soft cotton and hunter green. It’s gigantic. I pull it over my head, and it almost falls to my knees.

“Is this a hotel?”

Oleg shakes his head.

“This is your place?”

A nod.

“I love it.” I race past him to leap onto the bed, which, sadly, doesn’t bounce. “Except your bed has no springs.” I pick up a pillow and lob it at him. “You need a bed with springs, so I can jump on it.”

He catches the pillow. The corners of his mouth tick in a barely perceptible smile. I realize I have never—not once—seen this man smile. His face is usually as inexpressive as his voice, which makes him doubly hard to read.

I’ve just been going by his intense stares—reading everything into those. Or maybe just his solid presence.

I jump off the bed and go to him, like I’m drawn to a magnet. Now that he’s touched me, I can’t get enough. I need more of this giant bear-man who’s always watching me. I push him down into the chair and climb in his lap, careful to avoid his injury. I guess because he can’t give me his words, I crave physical touch with him. Not even sexual—although holy hell—last night! But I’d take any contact right now.

Oleg pulls me in, molding his arms around my hips