The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,6
a graze. I feel a burning line all along my outer thigh.
The gun clatters to the ground.
Lights come on from the windows in the buildings all around us. Someone shouts down that he’s called the police.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” Mudak #1 is conscious again. “You’re not supposed to shoot him.”
I’m still trying to get to the gun—a mistake—when I feel a sharp jab to the back of my neck.
A fucking needle!
They tranqued me. I have to work fast. I spin and backhand Mudak #1 in the temple. He staggers, and I punch his mouth with my left fist, then his nose with my right, then his jaw with the left again, and he’s down.
The world is already starting to spin. I can’t tell if it’s because of the head injury or the drugs or both. I have to get away before I black out.
I forget about the gun and my aspirations of eliminating these guys. The cops are on their way, and there’re a few dozen witnesses looking through their windows now. The two upright assholes try to wrestle me to the ground at the same time, which gives me the advantage. I hook the throat of one of them with my hand and spin him around to knock the head with the other guy. Four more punches, and they’re on the sidewalk.
My vision’s fading around the edges. I stagger, limp-running in the direction of Story’s building. I won’t make it, though. I just need to find a place to hide before I pass out. Before the cops arrive.
Are those sirens?
My vision has streaks in it. I can’t focus. I stumble and fall against something. A car.
No, a van.
Fuck, it’s the van. Could it be Story’s van?
I fumble with the back door, but my fingers don’t work.
Or maybe it’s because it’s locked.
No, my fingers work now. The door opens. I was an idiot for not making sure it was locked when we got here. The inside is packed with amps and speakers. The sound system. Story’s guitar. I don’t even know how it’s possible I found the van.
The miracle that it would be unlocked. There’s no room—especially not for a big guy like me, but I climb in anyway.
I’m not sure if I make it all the way in. I definitely don’t get the door closed. I pass out, face down over the speakers, my head splitting with pain.
Story
I dream I’m onstage at Rue’s. Oleg’s watching me from his usual table in front of the stage. I’m performing for everyone, but his attention is the fuel behind my act. He gives me courage to be crazy—go big. I feel more like myself under his watchful gaze. The noise of the crowd fades away, and I come alive. I can be more of myself.
Only this time, something happens. A bunch of girls come up on stage and distract my brother in the middle of the set. I’m pissed at him for being such a man-whore and letting his womanizing get in the way of the band. I’m pissed enough that I shove the mic back on the stand and flip everyone off.
The audience gets crazy, yelling at me to go on. Or maybe they’re yelling at Flynn, I can’t tell. All of it pisses me off.
And then Oleg’s there at the front of the stage. He lifts his arms, and I jump, trusting he’ll catch me. His large hands span my waist, and he easily lifts me down to the floor, then he takes my guitar from me, tosses me over his shoulder, and smacks my ass as he walks out the door.
I wake up, a naughty-girl smile curling my lips.
Oleg did that. Last night.
He threw me over his shoulder and smacked my ass. Then put me to bed.
Why does that memory get me even more wet than the orgasm he gave me? There was also the way he shoved me against the door and palmed my pussy like he owned it.
Oleg has a dommy side. My large guy is larger-than-life in bed, too. Maybe it’s his way of speaking. If you’d asked me yesterday what I liked, I never in a million years would’ve named that. I date musicians. Artists. Soft, articulate boys who smoke pot and philosophize about the environment and social justice. Things I care about, too.
I date guys who are like myself. Or like my younger, not-so-little brother. It’s a familiar type. Guys who seem to fit with me. With my friends. With my