The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,42

as a joke, but Natasha nods, smiling.

“Yes. That’s why it’s known as the Kremlin. Ravil only rents to Russians and at rates we wouldn’t find anywhere in the city.” She throws a grateful glance over her shoulder at Ravil, who has left the office behind us. “He takes care of his own.”

He takes care of his own. Yes, like any mafia leader. He’s mild-mannered, but I could tell by the tension in Oleg when he questioned him, that he respects and holds his boss in high regard. Ravil wields his power quietly.

They’re killers, all of them. Dangerous men in dangerous business. I keep trying to shove that into a box and forget it, but there’s an anxiety gnawing in the background. I have a high threshold for trauma and chaos, but this is all starting to get to me. My compartmentalizing skills are starting to fray.

As we walk, I notice Oleg favors his leg a bit. He’s not limping, but there’s a stiffening through his trunk when he walks on it. Christ, why didn’t I notice sooner that he hasn’t healed? There’s been so much to decipher and interpret and try to understand since he brought me here. I feel way out of my depth with all of it.

I squeeze his hand, and he looks down at me. It’s faint—barely perceptible—but I see the shadow of a smile at the corners of his lips.

I don’t want to think about where this is going. How close I’m starting to feel with him because I need to brace against this becoming anything real. I can’t start to believe this is going to last. It can’t. He’s Russian mafiya. I’m allergic to relationships. This can’t work.

Still, that ghost of a smile produces that same swirling warmth I always felt as Saturdays approached, and I knew he’d be there to watch me. Up for anything I threw his way—standing on his table. Climbing on his shoulders. Making him catch me as I dead-dropped off the stage.

We pass through the living room and kitchen toward Oleg’s room. Dima is still with us, leading the way. “So, what’s your connection here?” Natasha asks, which I realize is a nice way of asking who I am. I never introduced myself.

“I’m Story. A friend of Oleg’s.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Dima opens the door and steps inside. We all follow, but Oleg hesitates, standing in the middle of his room.

“Pants off, big guy,” I tell him. He toes off his boots and unbuttons his jeans.

“Oh, um. Where is the wound?” Natasha asks.

Dima steps closer like he’s going to shield her from any unwanted peen if it gets flashed.

Oleg sways on his feet again, and I move in to help him carefully get his jeans down over his wound and then sit down.

For fuck’s sake. The bandage is soaked with yellow and red, and when Natasha kneels beside him and gently peels it back, we both gasp. The edges of the wound are swollen and angry, and puss is coming out of it. I look away, suddenly nauseated.

“Okay, wow. Definitely infected. Give him one of those antibiotics for starters.” Natasha indicates the bottle I’m holding.

I jump into action. “Right. Oh my God.” My hands shake as I pry it open.

Dima leaves and returns with a glass of water, which he hands to Oleg, who throws the pill back and swallows.

“I’m going to go downstairs and make a poultice. Do you have hydrogen peroxide you can pour over the wound?” Natasha stands.

I look at Dima who nods. “I’ll get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” I demand.

Oleg pulls me around to his other side and sits me on his good knee.

“Oh my God! I was sitting on your wound!”

He shakes his head.

“No? You could die from an infection like this. What if you have MRSA? I should have taken you to the hospital when it happened.”

Oleg shakes his head lightly and closes his eyes.

“Oleg?”

His eyes open, and he stares back at me.

“You’ve probably been feeling miserable this whole time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head.

“You have to start communicating with me.”

“I can help with that.” Dima reappears with the hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth. He also carries a tablet, which he hands to Oleg. “I have you all set up, my man.” He touches the screen, which reveals a keyboard with the Russian alphabet. “You type in here, it spits out the English for Story. It can even speak it aloud although I didn’t find a