The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,45

it’s not the most stable unifying force. I couldn't go to college because things were just too crazy with my mom being in and out of psychiatric care. I needed to stay home and make sure Flynn and Dahlia were okay. So my brother and I ended up in a band. Only Dahlia went to school.”

What else would you want to do? I type. If you could?

Story tosses her phone back in her purse. “I don’t know. I’ve never even thought about it. Maybe I would do nothing different. I love the band. And I like teaching guitar. I really do. It works, you know?”

I study her, trying to decipher whether there’s something hidden in there to decode, but my skills at conversation and women are so lacking, I can only take her words at face value.

I try again. What would you have studied if you’d gone to college?

“Probably something completely useless like French literature. Or Art History.” She shrugs and gives me an impish smile.

I fucking love this girl.

She touches the iPad. “I like talking to you.”

You’re mine for the next five days, I write. I don’t suggest anything more permanent, even though I don’t intend to give her up. Ever.

“I guess so. You’d better get better, so we can hang out. I mean, watching you sleep is fun and all, but…”

She wrenches a smile from me. The unfamiliar expression is happening more and more with her around.

I’m already better, I tell her although it’s not entirely true. My head aches, and I could probably fall back to sleep again in a heartbeat. Tomorrow I will wear you out.

She sucks in a breath and shoots an excited look at me. “Is that dirty talk?”

I nod, and her smile widens. “Oh my God, I can’t wait to hear all the filthy thoughts in that big head of yours.”

I arch a brow. Careful what you wish for.

Story straddles my lap, grinding her warm core over my semi, turning it into a full-fledged boner. “How much better are you feeling?” she purrs.

Well enough to fuck the daylights out of you, shalun'ya, I type, using the non-translate feature on her other pet name, then toss the iPad aside and flip her to her back.

“I hope shalun'ya means something very naughty.” She tugs up my shirt.

I growl and claim her mouth, showing her exactly how I treat my little minx when she’s a bad girl.

Chapter 11

Oleg

I wake to find Story gone.

I fly out of the bed and pound down the hallway in my boxer briefs and t-shirt. The living room is bright with daylight.

Fuck. Did I lose time again? How much?

Vaguely, it comes back to me that I slept through the afternoon and evening. Story stayed with me, playing her guitar softly and moving about the room. I vaguely remember Sasha inviting her to eat—I don’t know if it was lunch or dinner. Maybe both.

That must’ve been yesterday.

“Hey, big guy. How are you feeling?” Nikolai asks from the couch. He’s eating donuts from a box on the coffee table.

I throw my arms in the air in frustration, demanding to know where Story went.

“Relax.” Maxim emerges from the kitchen drinking a glass of grapefruit juice. “Story’s up on the roof with Sasha.”

The roof. I shake my head, already reaching for the door.

“They’re safe up there—you think I would allow it if they weren’t? There’s no clear shot onto that roof from any direction. I promise.”

I relax my grip on the door handle slightly, debating if I should go put on pants before I storm up there, since it’s not an emergency, when I hear screams and the sound of bullets piercing metal from the rooftop.

Everyone in the penthouse flies into action. I fling open the door, running. The footsteps of my brothers pound behind me, Maxim at my neck. Pavel and Nikolai are further back, both with guns drawn. I take the stairs three at a time and throw open the door to the rooftop with a whack. Sasha and Story crouch together in the hot tub, covering their heads.

“They’re shooting at us!” Sasha yells to Maxim in Russian.

Maxim whirls, checking the buildings around us, calming the women at the same time. “It’s all right,” he tells them. “There’s no clear shot. I promise you. The places where there might be, we put up bullet-proof glass.”

I want to kill Maxim for letting Story out of his sight, but I struggle to let his words seep in. They really aren’t in danger.

Ravil and Dima arrive on