5

Roman

She is late.

I return to the conversation around the table, doing my best to fake interest. I was never a fan of big gatherings. Fake people with fake smiles, pretending they are oh-so-happy-to-see-you while, secretly, they wish for your demise. I look around the table and wonder which one of them set up the bomb that fucked up my life. It wasn’t the Italians. Of that, I’m sure. This device was planted under my car, and if it were the Italians, they would have rigged the whole warehouse. I was lucky that the bastard got trigger happy and hit the remote a few seconds before I was even inside. Only a handful of people knew my schedule for that day, and some of them are sitting at this table.

I reach for the whiskey bottle to refill my glass when my uncle lets out a whistle, like the uncivilized pig he is, and motions with his cigar toward the entrance.

“Nice ass,” he comments.

I follow his gaze and my eyes land on a woman in a long emerald-green dress. Black embroidered decorations accentuate the neckline and her tiny waist, and then flow along the edges of a high slit, revealing one slender leg. My eyes trail the slit upward until they stop at her face, and I almost fail to recognize her. She removed the nose ring. Her hair is different as well, pulled up on the top of her head in some complicated design. I can hardly believe that this is the same woman I met a few days earlier. The men at the table are mumbling between each other, and I wish they would shut up so I can enjoy the view in peace.

“Is that Samuel’s wife?” someone asks.

“Yeah, right.”

“Who is this Samuel guy?”

“He’s handling the real estate purchases for Mikhail. It must be his daughter.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind handling that for a night.”

They continue laughing at their stupid jokes, and it makes me so mad I want to break their necks.

“Shut up,” I bark and pin them, one by one, with my gaze.

They all stare at me for a second, and in the next moment, the conversation switches to another subject. I return to watching Nina. She is standing with her father and a few other men, smiling at something one of them said, and I feel this strange urge to shoot the man who’s currently on the receiving end of her smile.

“See something you like, Roman?” My uncle nudges me with his shoulder.

“Maybe.”

“She’s a cute little thing. Not exactly your type.”

“Leave.” I reach for my drink. “And take the guys with you.”

“What?”

“Go find another table, Leonid. Right now.”

He mumbles something but stands, and a few moments later the other three chairs screech. I lean back in my wheelchair, letting my eyes go back to the little hellion on the other side of the room.

Nina

There is this prickling feeling at the back of my neck. It started the moment we came inside, and I can’t shake it. It’s probably anxiety from being here in the middle of a wolf’s den, surrounded by men and women in expensive outfits. They smile and chat, and I wonder how many of them have blood on their hands.

I turn to take a glass of wine from a waiter when my eyes land on a man sitting alone at the table in the corner and my heartbeat quickens.

Casually leaning back in his wheelchair, Petrov is watching me with narrowed eyes, and the vain part of me revels in his attention. Well yes, Mr. Petrov, I clean up nice. The night when we met, the gloomy restaurant’s interior didn’t allow me to see him clearly, but here, with all the grand chandeliers illuminating the room, I can finally see him in all his glory.

He’s wearing black dress pants and a charcoal shirt with two top buttons undone to reveal the ends of a black tribal pattern on his chest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing a similarly designed tattoo around his right forearm. I’m not sure why, but he didn’t strike me as a type of a man who’d ink his skin.

I’ve met many beautiful men. We even had a few fashion models come to pose for us in my Painting Practice Class. Their perfect facial features were always a challenge to replicate on paper. Roman Petrov isn’t anything like those men, and comparing them would be like comparing a gazelle with a rabid tiger. They are a completely different species. 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 could never forget. Maybe it was his dark and piercing eyes, still focused on me, that give off that devilish vibe or his gaze that makes me want to turn around and bolt. It must be a primal reaction, the prey’s unconscious knowledge of having been at the center of a predator’s attention.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for the empty chair at his side, moves it closer to him, and nods toward it. I should probably go there, but my legs are rooted to the spot.

“Miss Grey, Roman Petrov is inviting you to join him,” the man on my left says. “It’s not wise to keep the Pakhan waiting.”

So, it looks like the show is on. With a deep breath, I plaster a seductive smile on my face and start walking toward, probably, the most dangerous man in the room. I wonder if I’m heading to my demise.

I stop right in front of him and offer him my hand. “Mr. Petrov, you called.”

Instead of shaking it, he takes my fingers gently and lifts my hand to his lips, then places a soft kiss on my knuckles. It feels like fire just seared my flesh. He doesn’t let go immediately, and I can’t tear my eyes away, noticing how hilariously tiny my hand looks compared to his.

“Roman, please,” he says in a deep baritone, and a flock of mad butterflies attacks my insides.

I sit down next to him and quickly adjust the fabric of my dress to cover my trembling legs. When I throw a look toward my father, he’s still standing with the same group of people, and every one of them is looking in our direction.

“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.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching the crowd milling around. Most of them are cutting glances at us, but when they catch Roman looking, they quickly turn their heads.

“Tell me, Nina, if there wasn’t this deal between us, would you have come when I nodded?” he asks.

“Nope.”

I don’t expect him to ask me to elaborate, but he does, and his question surprises me. “Why not? Is it because of the wheelchair?”

He says it conversationally, but there is some hidden undertone that I can’t quite define. I abandon watching the crowd and look him right in the eyes. “It’s because I’m not a poodle, Mr. Petrov.”

He laughs and takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head.

“What happened?” I nod toward his legs.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you, Nina?”

“Do you want me to?”

“It was a car bomb. Shrapnel hit my right knee and shattered it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch,” he says curtly and throws back the rest of his drink.

“You have money, I’m sure there’s some surgery that would help.”

“Well, it looks like there are things that 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.”

Roman cocks his head to the side, observing me with interest, and then leans in to whisper in my ear. “You, Nina Grey, are one strange woman.”

Even his voice is sexy, damn him.

“My mother thinks so, too. She says I’m never going to find a man who would want to deal with my type of crazy, in the long run at least.”

“What an optimistic, supportive parent.” He reaches out with his hand and traces a line on the inside of my forearm from the elbow to the base of my palm. “Is there a boyfriend in the picture?”

It’s almost impossible to concentrate while his finger continues tracing the lines up and down my forearm. His touch is feather-light, but still, it feels like he’s branding me. “Why do you ask? Would you reconsider releasing me from our contract?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter, I guess.”

Keeping his eyes on mine, he takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips, one corner of his mouth curves upward in a barely-there smile.

“I googled you yesterday,” he says, still keeping my fingers in his hand, just an inch from his lips. “Who would have thought that such a delicate little hand could create such . . . disturbing art.”

I smile, trying to hide how much his touch and nearness impact me. Roman Petrov, I come to realize, is impossible to ignore, especially when he turns on the charm. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Grey. I love it.”

His lips brush the tips of my fingers and stay there for a few seconds before he lowers my hand, but he keeps holding it in his. He is playing his part so well, this devious, dangerous man.

“Would you paint something for me?”

I look up at him, surprised by his question. “I don’t do commissions.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t like to be pressed into doing things I don’t want to do.”

Roman’s lips widen in a smile. Yup, he understood the double meaning.

“How about a trade, then? You paint something for me, and I give you something you want.”

“Anything?”

“Money, jewelry, anything you want.”

Tempting. It’s not a thing that I want from him, though. “I want an answer to a question,” I say. “Is that an option as well?”

My choice surprised him. I see it in the way his eyes widen just slightly. And he’s not happy. “Depends on the question.”

“In that case, I’ll have to decline, Mr. Petrov.”

He looks at me and then bursts out laughing, making several heads turn in our direction. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Grey.” He leans his head and whispers in my ear, “Ask.”

I find it hard to believe that he accepted. Petrov doesn’t seem like a man who would agree to anyone’s terms. He must really want that painting. I lift my head and look into his calculating dark eyes, while several possibilities run through my head.

“Why do you need a temporary wife, Roman? You’re handsome, rich, powerful. I’m sure there are dozens of women who’d be happy to marry you. Why waste three-million dollars when you could get a wife for free?”

“Because I don’t want a permanent one, and the current business situation requires me to have a wife for the next six months.”

“Why six months?”

“Well, that’s a second question.” He smiles. “And you bargained for only one.”

Touché.

He had answered without revealing anything at all. I should have expected it and phrased my question differently, but there’s no going back now.

“So, what do you want me to paint for you? A landscape? Your dog? Apples, cheese, and dead flowers on a table?” Those are the usual requests when it comes to custom commissions, and the main reason why I hate doing them.

“Nope. I had something else in mind.” There it is again, that devious calculating half-smile. “I want your self-portrait.”

“A self-portrait?” I raise my eyebrows. What the hell is he going to do with my self-portrait? Why not a landscape?

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No. Any special requests? Pose? Background?”

He leans forward until his face is looming right in front of mine, takes my chin with two fingers, and tilts my head up a little.

“Just one,” he says and focuses his gaze on my lips. “I want you to be naked.”

My eyes widen at the realization of what he just said, and I’m so stunned that I can’t find a meaningful response.

“It looks like we’ve become a main attraction in the room,” he murmurs, still focused on my lips. “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.

Erased. Every single coherent thought vaporized. One second, I was a thinking rational being. In the next, every single logical thought vanished, only to be replaced with one maddening need—more. More of his lips, more of his smell, more of everything.

There is a sound of a glass shattering. Something wet splashes my feet. I open my eyes and start registering the reality piece by piece. Roman’s face is looming just an inch from mine, his hand on the back of my neck. My fingers are in his hair, clutching the silky black strands.

“That was an outstanding performance,” he says in low voice. “The glass was a masterful detail.”

I remove my hands from Roman’s hair and look down where my wine glass lays shattered in pieces. Red liquid mares the pristine white marble floor, and some of it ended up splashed all over my right foot and shoe. 

Roman grabs the wheels on his chair and in two quick motions repositions himself so he is in front of me. “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 took 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’m only partially aware of the people in the room who had gone unusually quiet—every one of them staring at us. I’m trying and failing to process what had just happened. That was the most erotic nonsexual thing I’ve ever experienced.

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” Roman says and motions with his hand toward Maxim who’s leaning on the wall not far from us. “Go to your father, tell him you’re coming with me, and make sure a few people hear you say it. We’ll be waiting in the car at the front.”

He takes the wheels of his chair and guides it toward the exit with Maxim following him a few paces behind. People watch them leave, and then their eyes focus on me. I feel like I’m on display as I walk to my father and kiss him on the cheek. “Roman has asked me to join him for a private drink.”

Whispers break out around us. Father smiles, but it’s forced, so I pat him on the arm before I cross the hall toward the exit. The crowd’s eyes bore into my back. They probably think I’m a slut, but I don’t give a damn. With my head held high and a fake smile on my lips, I leave the room.

There is a big white car in the front as promised. Maxim is standing by the back door and opens it for me when I approach. As I get inside, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I am doing.

* * *

I knew Roman was rich. He had to be, with him being the head of the Bratva, so I assumed he would live in some grand house. What I was currently looking at, was not a house. It was a damn fortress, and it came with its own small army.

Tall concrete walls surround a huge estate on all four sides, and cameras are mounted on the top at every ten feet. The car drives through a big automatic gate with the guardhouse on the side, and follows a wide gravel road to a monstrosity of a mansion. A perfectly manicured lawn stretches all around, and there are only a few scattered trees placed here and there so they don’t obstruct the view. Security measure probably.

Two men in black gear with guns on their belts are positioned along the front of the house, and a few more patrol the grounds. I’m sure there are more I can’t see.

“Do you have cameras inside as well?” I ask.

“If you want people to trust you and stay loyal, you have to reciprocate,” Roman says from next to me. “Placing the cameras inside would mean I don’t trust my men.”

The car stops at the front of the house and Maxim opens the door for me while the driver goes to the trunk to take out Roman’s wheelchair. I exit the car and look over the building. It’s only two stories high, but it expands at least fifty yards on each side. The thing is gigantic.

Roman rolls up beside me. “You like it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m not a fan of large things,” I mumble.

Three stone steps lead to the main door, and I wonder how will Roman get up them, but then I notice a narrow ramp at the far side. He wheels himself up with ease. Watching him, I feel a pang of sadness. It must be hard for a man like him to have his life turned upside down so drastically. I take the steps to meet him at the entrance, and a security guard awaiting Roman’s arrival opens the big oak door for us.

Roman leads me across the big foyer to the elevator under the crossing of a huge double stairway. A man in the same black gear as those outside enters from the hallway on the left. When he sees us, he stops and nods his head to Roman.

“Pakhan,” he says.

“Is Varya still awake?”

“Yes. I think she’s in the kitchen.”

“Tell her I’m back. Have her instruct one of the girls to prepare a quick dinner and then she can go to bed,” Roman says and gazes at me. “And tell the staff to make sure to stay out of the east wing. I don’t want anyone there unless I call for them.”

“For tonight?”

I see a mysterious smile form on Roman’s lips. “No. Tell them it’s until further notice, Vova. I’ll ring the kitchen when we’re ready for dinner.”

“Of course.” The man nods and turns to leave, but not before he glances in my direction with interest.

Judging by his facial expression and the way his eyes widened after Roman’s remark, the gossip is about to begin.

When we exit the elevator, Roman leads me down the hallway on the left and through the ornate wooden door opening into a huge space with a living room in the center. There’s a library on the far left and an enormous modern kitchen with a dining room on the right. The furniture is sparse, I suppose to make it easier for him to get around. The space is decorated in earth tones, mostly browns and beige, with lots of natural material—wood, mostly. It’s modern, but not cold. I like it.

“We need to go through some basics,” he says and nods toward the living area where a long sofa that could probably sit five people takes the central place in front of the big TV mounted on the wall.

“You will be sleeping in the room over there.” He points to the right. “My bedroom is on the other side.”

The space is so huge it takes me a few seconds to locate the doors he’s talking about. I don’t particularly care how the room looks, as long as it has a soft bed and a keyed lock on the door. My feet are killing me, so I go toward the sofa, taking off my heels along the way, and drop down onto soft cushions.

It feels strange, being here in his space. I’m going to be living here for the next six months. With him. Somehow it all seemed unreal until this moment, as if everything was happening to someone else. But now, with me sitting on his sofa, in his house, it finally hits me. This is really happening.

I should be scared shitless. 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 to 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.