The Player (Chicago Bratva #8) Read Online Renee Rose

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Erotic, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Chicago Bratva Series by Renee Rose

Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)

He did. He set me free–not just with the bullet but by inviting me into his world. He’s my everything.

“I hope you’re going to post those on your own social media,” Sasha murmurs to me.

“Should I?” I started my own Instagram and Tiktok channel to post my fashion designs, and now I’m designing burlesque costumes for six other troupes across the country. I continue to design costumes for and perform with Black Velvet Burlesque, which is my personal joy.

“Definitely,” Sasha says. “Ride their success and let them ride yours. Collaboration is everything.”

“Okay.” I post one before I chicken out and caption it, “Sneak peek of The Storytellers new video in my designs!” I don’t have as many followers as Flynn and The Storytellers–Flynn’s is at 2.5 million now!–but I have a decent following. There’s already a lot of cross-over because people know I’m Flynn’s girlfriend.

When they finish the last take, the director calls us over. “Nadia and Flynn, come and take a look at the rough cut we made of ‘Rescued.’”

We go over to look at his phone with him. “Rescued” is the song Flynn wrote for me, so he wanted me in the video. The director wanted to go dark with it because of the lyrics. At first, I resisted–I hate that part of my life. But then I realized this video is like my performances with Black Velvet Burlesque–a taking back of my narrative.

There’s some dark, shadowy shots of cuffs and chains, and me standing in the shadows, but then I emerge. Lots of scenes of me stepping out of the shadows and into the light. Gazing straight into the camera with strength. Overcoming. All of that is spliced with clips of Flynn playing alone in the studio. It’s powerful. Haunting. Artsy and beautiful.

I lean against Flynn—not because I need his support—but to commune with him. To share this moment more fully.

My nightmares are fewer and far between, and I haven’t had a panic attack since the night Flynn and I shot cigar man.

“It’s beautiful.” I brush a stray tear from my eye. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect. Like you.”

“Like You.”



Someone’s knocking on the Kremlin doors. Technically, not my problem. The doors are locked—it’s past business hours. It’s approaching nine at night, for fuck’s sake.

But I have the video feed running in my room–because I take security at the Kremlin very seriously, and this one doesn’t look like she’s going away.

She’s hunched against the wind. The full-length woolen jacket wrapped around her is big, but it doesn’t disguise how slender she appears.

She raises her gloved hand and raps on the glass. “Pozhaluysta.” I can’t hear the word, but I see her lips form it.

Blyad’. She’s Russian.

I’m up and out of my chair in a heartbeat, palming a pistol that I tuck in the waistband of my jeans. I shove my feet in a pair of boots and get on the elevator to go down to the front doors.

I see my share of crazy shit here. I saw when that band kid tried to knock the doors down a month ago to get in. I knew he was here for Nadia, and I also knew Adrian wouldn’t approve, so I didn’t even bother answering the door.

As it turned out, Nikolai let the kid in.

I’ve had to field an aggressive visitor for that mudak, too. Chelle, who is now his girlfriend, nearly climbed me like a tree when I tried to throw her out. I guess her brother has a gambling problem that Nikolai helped her out with.

I open the door and stare at the pale-eyed beauty looking up at me. Her eyes are ice blue, and her lashes and brows a light blonde.

She takes in my tattoos and the width of my shoulders and swallows. “I am Russian,” she says in our mother tongue, ducking her head submissively. “I was told I would be welcomed here.”


I grunt and open the door to at least let her in from the cold. “Told by whom?” I demand in Russian.

She gives a name I don’t recognize.

“What do you need?”

She pulls off her winter cap, revealing a head of pale blonde hair that falls in layers to her shoulders. She’s young, but I get the feeling the submissive act is just that–an act. There’s a steely determination behind her eyes that makes me cautious.

“My name is Kira. I just arrived from Russia, and I need a place to stay.”