The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,35

her. How beautiful she looks talking to the baby. How easy and natural everything is for her. I’ve lived with these people for two years—the men are my bratva brothers—and she seems more comfortable than I feel with them after one minute.

I fix two sandwiches and slice up an apple then bring them on two plates to Story.

“Thank you. My wife is getting a massage in the bedroom right now, but hopefully you’ll meet her soon.”

“With Natasha?” Nikolai interjects. “I think I’ll schedule with her as well.”

Dima’s head jerks around, and he glares at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

“A massage.” Nikolai sounds a bit too innocent. There’s some fuckery going on between the twins that the rest of us aren’t privy to. “That sounds nice. I think I’ll schedule with Natasha, too.”

“What, for you?” Dima practically explodes.

“Yeah. Unless you’re going to.” He raises his brows in question.

“I will fucking kill you.” I’ve never heard Dima make a threat. Especially not to his brother.

“Whoa. Okay.” Ravil clears his throat. “Sounds like you two have some shit to work out.”

“No, I think we’re good.” Nikolai picks up a magazine from the coffee table and pretends to read it. “Unless he wants me to make that appointment for him instead.”

Dima switches to Russian. “I will seriously throw you off the rooftop if you fucking say a word to her.”

Ravil shrugs. “Glad we didn’t have twins. I’ll be back after I put him down.”

“So, do you all live here?” Story asks, pulling the plate in front of her and scooting her stool over to make room for mine. Maxim and Sasha pull up bar stools opposite ours.

“Yep. It was just the guys and then Lucy—Ravil’s wife—moved in. And then Maxim brought me here from Moscow,” Sasha explains. “It was an arranged marriage, but I’ve decided to keep him.” She winks.

“I guess you can never get bored with so much going on.”

“No.” Sasha laughs. “I like it. I was an only child growing up, so it’s nice to have people around all the time.”

Story smiles. “I grew up in total chaos. Two siblings, a mother who is… emotionally unstable, and a dad who partied like a rock star. We had a lot of love but not much consistency. Consequently, I have a very high tolerance for chaos.”

“So, was your dad a rock star?” Maxim asks. “Do you take after him?”

Story’s laugh is chagrined. “He thinks so. He has a classic rock cover band that’s been playing Chicago since the early eighties. The Nighthawks?”

It bothers me that I didn’t know this about her. That I haven’t been able to make this easy, comfortable conversation. Blyad', until this week, I really didn’t give a shit about not being able to communicate. In fact, I sort of preferred it. I still do, so this is making my head ache with conflicting desires.

Maxim shakes his head. “I don’t know them. So that’s where you and your brother learned to play?”

“Yep. My dad taught guitar lessons in the living room when I was a kid.”

“What were you playing this morning? That was an oldie, right?” Sasha asks.

“Van Morrison—yes. My dad used to play it for me because I have brown eyes.”

Sasha studies Story. "What color is your hair naturally?"

Story tsks. "Pink," she says like she's offended Sasha doesn't think it's natural. "Just kidding, it's dirty blonde."

"I love your look," Sasha tells her. "You really rock the rockstar."

Story’s lips quirk. "Rock the Rockstar. I might steal that for a song."

"Feel free." Sasha beams like they’re best friends.

It’s wrong how badly I want them to be. How much I want Story to stay.

“And play away while you’re here. We love your music,” Maxim says.

Finished with my sandwich, I stand and move closer to Story, putting my hand on her back. Drinking in these delicious morsels about her life. Story leans into me, tipping her head to rest it against my chest. Maxim and Sasha exchange another look, like they can’t believe I’m cuddling someone. Or maybe that someone is cuddling with me.

It does seem strange and fantastic that Story just accepted me. We went from strangers to lovers in the blink of an eye.

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