Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)

by Neva Altaj

How much of an idiot would a person have to be to steal from the Bratva? Sometimes I’m amazed by people’s stupidity. “Can he pay it back?” I ask. “No.” “Kill him. And make an example out of him.”

“Why do you have to be so strange all the time?” “Works great with guys.” I grin. “Men love strange women.”

“I suppose they’ll set up a meeting, or something, where we’ll discuss the details.” “They already did. We are meeting the pakhan in an hour.” I look at my father and bury my hands in my hair. “Perfect. I’m just going to the bathroom to puke up my lunch, and I’ll meet you at the front door in five.”

“You are not what I expected, Mr. Petrov,” she says, and I have to give it to her—the girl has balls. “How so, Miss Grey?” “I expected you to be eighty.” She purses her lips. Is she actually that composed and unperturbed, or is this another of her acts, I wonder? If it’s an act, she’s really good. “I’m thirty-five.”

“We need to make some things clear, Miss Grey. I don’t need a wife just on paper. If anyone suspects we’re not crazy in love, and this marriage is a sham, your father is dead. And you’ll be joining him.”

Roman Petrov. I assumed he was some elderly guy with a beer belly and receding hairline. Why would he be blackmailing a woman into marriage otherwise? I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“It means that if anyone, Mom included, suspects I’m not crazy in love with that son of a bitch, we’re dead.”

If I had to pick one word to describe the Russian pakhan it would be devastating. Black hair a bit longer on the top, sharp cheekbones, and a nose slightly larger than perfect. Nothing that would stand out by itself, but together his is a face I’d never forget.

It must be a primal reaction: the prey’s unconscious knowledge of having been at the center of a predator’s attention.

“It always works for you this way?” I ask, a fake smile plastered all over my face. “You pick a woman, nod, and she comes running?” “Most of the time, yes.” “That must be fun.” “Not really.”

“Well, it looks like there are things no amount of money can buy.” “Yeah. That sucks. At least you can buy a wife.” I shrug. “For three million you could have gotten a whole harem, not just one.”

“Are you ready, Nina?” His nearness is doing funny things to my already unsettled mind, and dear God, he smells amazing. Trying to get back down to earth, I start chanting a new mantra in my head: He’s a criminal. He’s a criminal. “Ready? For . . . what?” I mumble. “To show me how good an actress you really are.” He smiles and crashes his lips to mine.

“Swap your legs, Miss Grey. Right one up.” Regarding him through narrowed eyes, I uncross my legs, then cross them again so my right one is crossed over the left. He bends, wraps his hand around my right ankle, undoes the clasp, and slips the strap from my heel. He removes the shoe, and I stare at his hands as he wipes the wine from my foot with a white napkin he’s taken from the table. When he’s done, he puts my heel back on and closes the clasp. Holding my ankle, he slowly lowers my leg back down.

I should be fucking scared. Something must be very wrong with me because, yes, I feel the anxiety and I’m nervous, but there is no fear. I look up to meet the eyes of the head of the Russian criminal underworld—the man who promised to kill me if I fail to play my part in his strange scheme—and that flock of butterflies explodes in my stomach again. Dear God, I need to have my head checked, because instead of being afraid like a normal person, I’m attracted to him.

The Russian pakhan is an enigma, and the complete opposite of the straightforward funny guys—ones who can make me laugh—I’m usually attracted to. I like a carefree spirit, someone who is easy to talk to and even easier to leave—a man who won’t demand me to open up. Getting tangled up with the pakhan any more than strictly necessary for this plan to work is not wise.

I come in a matter of seconds, with my face buried in the pillow, and the name of a killer on my lips.

“What is it, Leonid?” I bark into the phone. “I heard you brought a woman home. Is she still at the house?” “This is my house, so it doesn’t concern you.” “That means she is. You never bring your sluts home,” he says, and my body goes rigid. “If I hear you call her that again, in front of me or anyone else, I’m going to slit your throat. Is that clear?”

She’s even shorter than I thought, barely five feet. The hem of my T-shirt reaches down to her knees, and she looks comical in it. Barefoot, the top of her head wouldn’t even come to my breastbone.

Someone hurt her, and for her to react this way, it must have been really bad.

“This. Being blackmailed into a marriage with someone like me. Having to put your life on hold for six months. I expected you to be wary. Reluctant. Scared. You seem . . . unnaturally nonchalant.” “You think I’m mentally unstable?” I take a leaf of lettuce, wrap it around a cherry tomato, and dip it into the mayonnaise while Roman regards me with interest. “Are you?” he asks. “Mentally unstable?” “Of course not. I’m the embodiment of mental stability. Ask anyone.”

“You’re a scary man, Mr. Petrov.” “It goes with the job description, Nina,” he says. “There are only three things people understand in my world: loyalty, money, and death. Remember that.”

“Shallow. Harmless. A little bit stupid. Crazy in love with you. Needs access to every part of the house. Let’s see . . . Who am I? Well, Roman’s trophy wife, of course. I am pretty, elegant, and extremely snobbish. I love wearing expensive clothes, just the best labels. I’m not really into dresses unless the occasion requires it. I much more prefer designer jeans, paired with silky blouses. The heels are a must.”

“The heels are a must, and I have dozens of them. Roman loves when I wear them, he says they make my butt look amazing. I’m also very self-conscious about my height, and wearing heels all the time makes me forget how short I am. My favorite pastime is shopping, and I buy a ton of clothes. My husband has to allocate one driver specifically for me and my shopping sprees.”

brush away the tear. “I’m going to kill him, malysh. It’s going to be slow, and it’s going to be painful. Just give me his name.” “No.” “I’m not asking. Give me his fucking name.”

“No holding my wrists or squeezing my neck.” She says, and I feel the cold rush down my spine. “Also, no pinning me down with your body.”

“You have a foot fetish, Roman?” “No. But it looks like I’m developing one,”

“You should get dressed. We’re going down for dinner in thirty minutes.” “Slutty, serious, or something in the middle?” “Middle will work.” “Damn, I wish you picked slutty.”

changed my mind,” she whispers in my ear and breaks my train of thought. “We’ll keep this table. It’s monumental.” “I’m glad you feel that way.” “But the drapes will have to go, honey. That shade of brown is so depressing. My feng shui guru says we should always throw out the things that depress us.” The sound of her voice is completely serious, her face a picture of perfect sincerity, but her eyes are laughing at me. I lean toward her. “Then we’ll burn them,” I say and kiss her.

“I can’t spend the day watching movies. I have a criminal empire to run.”

I just can’t wait to hear this. “Varya, I’m sorry if I interrupted you,” Nina chirrups into the phone. “Do you maybe have popcorn somewhere?” I don’t hear the reply, but I can imagine Varya’s face. I’m pretty sure no one’s ever seen popcorn in this house. We have bombs, a few crates of grenades, and a ton of ammunition in the garage. But no popcorn.

“Igor is teaching her how to make piroshki,” Varya says as she comes to stand by me. “They’re on their third batch.” “Igor speaks only Russian. How can he teach her anything?” “I have no idea. He tells her what to do, and when she does it wrong, he yells.” My head snaps to the side to look at Varya. “He yelled at my wife?” “She yelled at him more.” “What for?” “Well, he yelled because she burned the first batch. She yelled because he didn’t say how long they should stay in the oven. Neither of them knew what the other was yelling about. It was hilarious.”

“The second one was good. They just took it out of the oven when boys started coming in for lunch. Everyone who passed took one or two, and in five minutes, they were all gone.” She laughs. “Oh, she was so mad.” “Why? Did she want to eat them all by herself?” Varya turns to me, and there is a mischievous and satisfied look in her eyes, like a cat who got the cream. “No, Roman. She was mad because they didn’t leave any for you.” At that moment Nina raises her head, our gazes connect, and she smiles at me. It’s like the sun has suddenly broken through the dark clouds, hitting me with its warmth, and I find myself wishing this was real and not just an act.

“You’ll be sexy with the cane, Roman. Very aristocratic looking.” His eyes snap up to mine and his lips lift in a smile. “And I’m not sexy now?” Oh, you have no idea how much, I want to say. Instead, I just laugh. “Are you fishing for compliments, Pakhan? My God, you are so vain.”

“You can’t inform your mother that you got married via text message, Nina. You’ll call her and ask her and your father to come over for dinner.” “Here?” I blink at him. “I can’t ask them to come here. When my mom sees all the guys with guns, she’ll think I married into mafia!” Roman’s eyebrows almost reach his hairline. “And your mother would be right.” “Yeah, but can we leave out that small detail? She freaked out when she saw my nose piercing. My mother is extremely conservative; she even irons her towels. I’m not sure how she’ll react to the fact I married a crime lord.” He laughs and shakes his head. “We’ll take them to a restaurant.”

“Who the fuck is Mark?” I jump and spin around to find Roman glaring down at me. “Why do you call him babe?” he demands. “And what kind of photo are you sending him?” I blink at him and take a bite of my apple. “My pimp. All of us girls call him babe. And I’m sending a photo of my boobs.”

There have been a lot of women in my life, but with Nina in front of me, they all just fade away. We’ve never even kissed properly, other than for the sake of the show, but I don’t remember ever being this drawn to someone. It’s like she’s bewitched me.

“Are you trying to kiss me, Roman?” I whisper into his lips. “I might be,” he says. “There’s no one around to see us.” “Exactly,” he whispers and touches his lips to mine.

I almost come on his hand right then and there, and I probably would have if he didn’t remove his finger, making me growl in frustration. It isn’t about his finger, though. It’s about him. Roman Petrov, the man who will be my doom. Call it a premonition or an instinct—doesn’t matter. I know he will destroy me because one look from Roman turns me on stronger than any other man before him has done with his cock.

“Nina? Everything okay?” “Yeah,” I sigh. “But I’m not moving. I like it here.” “I like having you here as well, malysh.”

“Put your hands on my wife,” I tell the idiot, “and you’re losing them.”

“What are we doing, Roman? This. You and me. I-I have no idea what to think about all of this.” “Then don’t think about it. Just . . . let go. Let the current lead us.” I take her chin between my fingers and kiss her. “Just let go?” “Just let go, malysh.”

“Hands on the headboard,” he says, “and hold tight.”

focused on staying still because I’ve asked him to, that does me in. Roman Petrov is not a man who yields to anyone, but here he is, giving me the reins.

“What happened to Mikhail?” I ask. Roman is silent for a few moments and then takes a deep breath and squeezes me to him. “My father happened.” “Dear God. He . . . did that to him? Why?” “It’s a long story, malysh. A long and terrible story, and definitely not something I want to talk about in our bed. You’ll have nightmares.” “That bad?” “No. It’s much worse than you could imagine, Nina.”

“You are one disturbingly sexy man, Roman.” He breaks eye contact, looking down into his glass of juice. “Even with the crutches?” Yup, that therapy session definitely didn’t go well. “Even with the crutches, Roman.”

The head of the Russian criminal syndicate. A drug dealer. A killer. And I managed to fall in love with him. Someone please just lock me up in a mental institution, because that’s apparently where I belong.

“I’m in love with you, Roman.” I close my eyes for a second and squeeze her tightly. It’s like everything around me stopped. “Then we share the same problem, malysh.” I say into her neck, and feel her go still next to me. When I raise my head and look at her, her lips are slightly quivering, and there are tears in the corners of her eyes. “That six-month deal? It’s off, Nina,” I say and squeeze her waist. “I don’t care what we agreed. You’re mine now and I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

“Where is my wife?” I sneer through clenched teeth, trying my best to keep myself from breaking his neck.

“If there’s a single strand of her hair harmed, there will be a lot of dead people,” I bite out. “Starting with my head of security, who sent my wife out with only one man as her security detail. You got that, Dimitri?” “Yes, Pakhan.”

“No one will be teaching you Russian, but me. Got that?” “Got it, kotik.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “You do not call a Russian pakhan ‘kitten’, Nina. I have an image to uphold here.” She narrows her eyes at me, schools her features to embody seriousness, and touches my nose with her finger. “My deadly kotik. Better?” “Nope.”