Chicago Bratva Series Book 8: The Player
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Renee Rose
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Players will play. Flynn Taylor, rock ‘n roll heartthrob, plays fast and loose. He’s with different girls every night. Yes, girls plural. On the brink of becoming not just a Chicago sensation but an American icon, he’s everything I should avoid. Then again, maybe it doesn’t matter. I’m so damaged, I’m not even capable of a relationship. He might be the perfect antidote. The temptation I need to lure me back to the side of the living. He could help me get over my trauma. Attempt physical intimacy. If it goes wrong–no harm, no foul, right? If only I can keep my overprotective bratva brother from threatening to kill him if he even touches me…
Prologue
Nadia
The sound of metallic parts clash in my ears. Cigar smoke fills my nostrils. I hear girls screaming and pleading nearby.
Nadia, look at me. Look here. He slaps my face hard enough to make my head spin. Open your pretty little Russian mouth, whore.
“Nyet…nyet!”
I jerk awake at the sound of my own voice pleading into the darkness.
I try to move, but I can’t–my wrists are immobilized–chained to the bed.
No, wait. They’re not. I sit up and rub them to be sure. I’m free. It was just a dream.
Another flashback.
The lamp beside my bed glows because I can’t fall asleep in the dark. Worse, if I wake in darkness, I scream until I’m hoarse.
I blink, looking for the cots. For the other girls chained to them, but I’m in my own bed. My own bedroom. Not in the basement of Leon Poval’s sofa factory but in our luxury apartment in Chicago. In the bratva building they call the Kremlin.
My brother Adrian and his girlfriend Kat are in the next bedroom. I probably woke them with my cries.
“I’m all right,” I call out in Russian, in case they’re bracing for my screams.
I climb out of bed and walk to my sewing table to pick up my sketchbook.
Three years ago, when I was a different person altogether, I dreamed of designing wedding gowns. I worked as a seamstress doing alterations in a high-end bridal shop and went to school to study fashion design.
Now, I barely leave the apartment. Agoraphobia keeps me trapped here with my sketchpad full of designs and a sewing machine I never use.
I flip it open to the last drawing I made. Four musicians on a stage. Each wearing punked-out versions of a business suit in black pinstripes and red accents. The jackets have one or both sleeves roughly removed, without a neat hem. One has a lapel missing from the left.
The female lead singer is in tiny shorts with fishnets underneath and a pleated red skirt just on the sides of the shorts. Her red tie is wrapped close around her neck like one of the collars Kat likes to wear.
Then there’s her brother, Flynn–the lead guitar player. Tall and dashing. I have him in the jacket missing both sleeves, showing off his shoulders. A red t-shirt underneath–no tie. Black pants with skinny legs. I haven’t sketched his face, but my mind conjures it from memory.
Pirate smile. Eyes that crinkle at the edges. A warmth and ease that extends beyond his lanky form.
He’s the one thing that lures me out of this building. Away from the security I derive from living in the fortress of the Russian mafiya.
I know his friendliness toward me is just that–a casual amicability he extends to everyone in his sphere. I know he takes a different girl home every week–sometimes two. At the same time.
Flynn is a player. Not the guy for me, and yet I’m drawn to him.
He gives me a reason to try to conquer my PTSD and panic disorder. A reason to leave my room.
I fully expect he’ll wreck my heart–that probably can’t be helped. But heartache has to be better than the torment of solitude. Or worse–being afraid to feel anything at all.
