Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(22)

“Why do you keep the guest rooms locked? What do you do when you have people staying over?”

“I don’t invite people to stay over in my house. It’s a security risk.”

We come to a stop at the top of the stairway, and I nod toward the hallway that extends into the west wing. “My men have rooms there. It will be hard to bug any of those without someone becoming suspicious.”

The elevator takes us to the ground floor, and I turn right toward the “business” part of the house.

“The lounge.” I motion toward widely opened double doors, showing a large living space used by my men. “On the right, Leonid’s office.”

“What does he do?”

“Leonid is officially in charge of the finances, but in reality, Kostya and Ivan are doing all the work. Mikhail handles distribution and some other stuff. He has his offices at home and in one of the warehouses, so he’s rarely here.”

“Mikhail is the big guy with the eye patch?”

I stop for a moment, take Nina’s forearm, and turn her toward me. “What happened to Mikhail is personal, please don’t ask around about it.”

“Okay.”



“One other thing. When Mikhail is around, try not to touch him by accident. He . . . doesn’t deal well with skin contact.”

Nina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t ask anything further, just nods.

“Good. This door here leads to the basement. You won’t go down there under any circumstances,”

I say.

“Why?”

Telling her that’s where we usually torture people is out of the question. “You just don’t.”

“Did you already . . . you know?” She points to her ear.

“Maxim handled that already.”

“What’s his position?”

“He’s my second in command. Dimitri works with him, but he mainly handles the security.”

“And the rest?”

“Pavel is in charge of club business. Anton and Yuri handle the foot soldiers. Sergei, the tall blond guy, handles negotiations as well as all our legitimate deals, like real estate and rentals. He rarely comes here, but when he does, try to avoid him. He’s got issues.”

“Everybody has issues, Roman.”

“Not like Sergei’s. Believe me. Stay away from him.”

“And all of them live here?”

“All of the men you met last evening have rooms upstairs, but only Leonid, Pavel, Kostya, and Ivan live here.”

“And what about the staff? Maids?”

“Valentina and Olga have rooms on the other side, where the kitchen is. Varya also has a small apartment there. The rest go home every evening.”

“Is Varya your housekeeper?”

“She was the housekeeper for the old pakhan. When I took over, I set her up for life, so she won’t need to work anymore. She didn’t want to leave. Still doesn’t. So I let her run the house; it makes her happy.”

“She doesn’t want to leave you, you mean.”

“Yes.”

I see it in her eyes, she wants to ask more but she doesn’t, and I don’t volunteer. Some things are better left unsaid.

“This is Maxim’s office, then Dimitri’s.” I point to the doors on the right. “Kostya and Ivan share the office, it’s the door next to Leonid’s. Mine is the last one down the hallway. If I’m not upstairs, I’m probably here. I’ll give you Maxim’s and Dimitri’s numbers later, just in case.”

“Can we see the kitchen?”

“If you insist.”

“You sound reluctant. Is something wrong with the kitchen?”

Everything is wrong with the damn kitchen. “You’ll see.”




We’re right in front of the open kitchen doors when something big and metallic falls to the floor with a crash. There is a split second of utter silence followed by throaty yelling so loud I flinch.

When we get inside, I look around and feel like I just walked into a madhouse.

A huge bearded man in his sixties, wearing a white chef’s apron and a bandana over his head, is standing with his hands on his hips and shouting what I can assume are Russian obscenities. He’s not very tall, but he’s as wide as a truck. A big overturned pot of what looks like soup lays on the floor near his feet. Valentina and two other women, who I presume are Olga and Galina, run around the kitchen, getting rags and then kneeling to wipe the floor. Meanwhile, the cook stands still in the middle of a big puddle of soup. Varya is on the other end, near the big fridge, pointing at the cook and also shouting in Russian.

On the far right, there is a small dining table where Kostya and Dimitri are sitting, drinking coffee, and discussing something. They don’t look even slightly perturbed by the yelling match happening behind them.

Nobody even notices us.

“Is it always like this in here?” I mumble.

“Most of the time.”

The two women wiping the floor start arguing. One of them throws the rag to the other and heads toward the sink.

“They are just under your suite. How come I’ve never heard them before,” I ask in awe.

“I got the kitchen soundproofed.”

“Good call.” I nod, still staring at the chaos with amazement. “Should we leave them to it?”