The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,47

we take them,” Ravil says.

I nod. I’ll agree to any plan that doesn’t involve Story. I pick up the paper and pencil still on the counter from before and write, It’s hard to see how that would work without me there. I hand it to Ravil.

He reads it aloud. “True. Then you come. We leave Story here. You’re the bait. It’s far more simple. We need to get this thing resolved immediately.”

“I would like to go, though,” Story says. “You know, to figure out what I need.”

I shake my head.

“Oleg, you’re being irr—”

I cut off Story’s argument with a slam of my fist to the wall beside me. I didn’t mean to show my aggression, but she’s had a gun pointed to her head and now bullets fired at her. There’s no fucking way I’m letting her walk into danger again when she doesn’t have to.

“Hey,” she snaps, her eyes flashing. Clearly she’s not afraid of me, which is a relief. In fact, she gets right up in my face—well, as close as she can get to my face considering how much shorter she is than I am—and points her finger. “Don’t do that again.”

I blink at her. I know I should apologize, but I also can’t promise it won’t happen again. I am fucking irrational when it comes to her safety.

“She has more guts than I do,” Pavel mutters.

“Right?” Dima answers.

“As if he’d ever hurt her,” Sasha scoffs. “You two? You’re a different story.”

“Story stays.” Ravil’s authority cuts across any more arguments. “Oleg comes. Maxim, arrange for back up. We’ll leave in one hour.”

“Not you,” Lucy warns, wide-eyed from the corner.

Ravil hesitates, his gaze flicking to his baby boy and his mother.

“Pakhan stays,” Maxim says, as if he’s the boss rather than Ravil. He knows Ravil wouldn’t choose to protect himself, though, and his marriage depends on sheltering their family from bratva violence.

I hate myself for bringing this violence upon them.

If I had any decency, I’d leave. Walk out alone, offer myself up to the thugs who want me and free everyone else—especially Story—from the danger I’m dumping on them.

But leaving Story feels like an impossibility. My life began the night I took her home. I woke up from the dead. Wanted to connect. To share.

And so I’m trapped now, between the need to keep Story and the need to protect her.

Story

I make a list of things I want from my apartment, and the guys leave.

I’ve seen some crazy shit in my life. I’ve watched my parents have the kind of fights that involved flying dishes and broken furniture. I’ve had to check my mom in and out of mental hospitals. I held my brother while he was on a bad drug trip. In middle school, my best friend slit her wrists, and I sat beside her at the hospital.

I consider myself resilient. It’s why I didn’t totally freak when I found Oleg shot and bleeding in my van. Or when I watched him kill my three attackers. I’ve built a high tolerance for trauma.

But right now, I’m about as keyed up as I’ve ever been. My stomach’s up in my throat, and I’ve never felt so helpless. The idea of anything happening to Oleg terrifies me.

I pace the length of windows that look out over the lake in the penthouse living room, too keyed up to even put my thoughts together.

Sasha watches me with sympathy. “He’ll be all right. They all will.”

I look over to see if she’s trying to convince herself. Her fingers are intertwined tightly and she’s also standing aimlessly.

But she says, “These guys are badass.”

“Yes.” I remember how efficient and skilled Oleg seemed to be at Rue’s. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s not alone.

“Do you like to play music when you’re trying not to think about something?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to get your guitar?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Are you kidding? I need the distraction, too.”

“What about the baby?” I ask.

Sasha waves her hand. “Oh, we have him trained to sleep through anything.”

I go to Oleg’s room and get my guitar. When I bring it back, I tune it and strum my fingers without thinking. “What’s your favorite?” I ask Sasha.

“Oh, stupid stuff. Top forty. You play what you like.”

I play through the Storyteller’s entire album on autopilot, just trying to get through it.

“Is that all original music?” Sasha asks when I finish.

I nod, absently. The noise in my head is so loud.

“Do you guys have a manager?”

I laugh. “Yeah, me.”

“No, you need a real manager. Someone who will