The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,41

even understand what they’re talking about. He didn’t speak or shake his head, but his body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on me.

Apparently Maxim is also practiced at reading Oleg’s non-communication. “You know I’m right.”

Oleg shakes his head.

“Wait...what are we talking about?” I ask.

Ravil catches his hands loosely in his lap. “We’re talking about using you as bait, Story.”

Cold washes over me, especially when Oleg holds me like someone’s trying to rip me from his arms.

“If we don’t get who’s behind these attacks, we can’t stop them from happening. You’ll be hiding here forever, and you’ve already said you’re not up for that.” Ravil looks at Oleg. “We’ll all go to the gig. And I won’t let anyone touch her. We just need to take someone alive, so we can question them. Find out who wants you and what information they’re after. Get to the bottom of this.” He glances at Maxim who holds up his hands in surrender.

“I know. My fault for dispatching the first three without getting answers first. I fucked up,” Maxim admits.

Oleg shakes his head.

Oh God, I’m so out of my mind. “Yes,” I answer. “Let’s do it.” I can’t cancel the gigs. There’s no one who can replace me, and I don’t want to leave the bars in the lurch. It’s unprofessional. Anxiety churns in my stomach, but I trust these guys to protect me. Oleg alone is a formidable bodyguard. He rescued me when he was outgunned, and I was already in the enemy’s hands. If all of his gang or friends or whatever are going to be there, I’ll probably be safe.

Besides, I can’t stay here longer than this week. I can practically sense the time-bomb for our relationship ticking down. Every minute I stay, I sink in deeper with Oleg, which will only make things harder when they end.

I slide to my feet. “So I stay until Friday, and then you’ll take care of the problem,” I sum up. “And I can go back to my normal life.”

Oleg rises, his brows down over his eyes.

A knock sounds at the door. Dima opens the door to let a slender young woman in her twenties with strawberry blonde hair in. He follows her.

“Natasha,” Ravil says. He sounds slightly surprised.

The name sounds familiar, but it takes a moment for me to figure out why. Then I remember—Natasha was the massage therapist Dima and Nikolai were arguing over.

“Sorry, I know you were expecting my mom. She’s out delivering a baby, but she got Maxim’s message and asked me to bring this up.” The young woman holds up a large bottle of pills. “She said to tell you she will come and check on whomever has the infection.” The young woman darts a glance at me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I walk forward and take the pills. “Is the dosage on here?”

“She said to take one now, and one before bed if she’s not here by then.” Natasha cocks her head. “Are they for you?”

I tip my head in Oleg’s direction. “They’re for Oleg. He has a wound. I’m guessing it’s infected. I hope that’s all it is.”

“May I see it? I could make a poultice. I’ve been assisting my mom since I was in grade school, and I’m a licensed massage therapist. I’m into all the natural remedies. I have teas, tinctures, essential oils, salves—you name it.”

I glance at Oleg for his agreement. Of course, as usual, nothing shows on his face, so I make the decision for him. “Yeah, that would be great.”

Oleg takes a step but loses his balance, throwing a hand out to catch the chair, which he nearly knocks over.

Natasha stumbles back into Dima, who catches her with an arm around her waist and a hand at her hip.

“Little help,” I call out, ducking under Oleg’s arm to support his massive body, but he recovers his balance on his own. I notice Dima hasn’t released Natasha yet. He lowers his head as if to kiss the top of hers or smell her hair but stops an inch away. His lids droop like having his hands on her is an unexpected pleasure. He doesn’t release her until she turns into him, blushing, and mumbles something I don’t understand. It sounded like, “Spasibo.”

Interesting. Someone has a crush.

“Are you Russian, too?” I ask as I follow her out the door. Dima holds it open then leads the way down the hall, as if we needed an escort.

“Yes,” she smiles.

“Is everyone in this building Russian?” I say it