Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(23)

Roman looks around himself, reaches for a thick cutting board, and smashes it down onto the metal counter beside him. The sound reverberates across the room, making me jump. Everyone shuts up.

“This is Nina,” Roman says. “My wife.”

I smile widely and wave in their general direction.

“Nina Petrova,” they all shout and nod at the same time.

“Oh, you can just call me Nina.”

“No, they can’t,” Roman barks.

“Honey!”

“End of discussion.”

“You are so stern, Roman.” I pout just a little, then turn toward the kitchen staff. “He is, isn’t he?”

They all watch me like I’m a simpleton. Perfect. I turn to Roman. “Can I stay here?”

“You sure about that?”

“Yup.”

“All right. I’ll be in my office.”

“I’ll drop by later.” I place a quick kiss on his cheek.



*

Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the table in the corner, trying to discuss the breakfast with Igor, the cook. He only speaks Russian, so Varya is acting as my translator. It’s not coming along well.

“Igor thinks you didn’t like his piroshki this morning,” Varya says. “He is afraid that the Pakhan will fire him or worse, if he hears you don’t like his food.”

Oh, for crying out loud. I have this urge to start banging my forehead on the tabletop. Instead, I smile sweetly. “I loved the pie. It was delicious, and I’ll make sure Roman knows. I’d even love to learn how to make it. Just, can I please get some cereal for breakfast as well?”

Varya translates for me, and Igor beams. He jumps from his chair babbling something and



motioning with his hand. I follow him toward the kitchen island where he puts an apron over my head and starts taking out stuff from the cupboard. I turn to look over my shoulder at Varya, hoping she’ll tell me what’s going on, but she just laughs and shakes her head.




I finish going over the numbers with Leonid and Kostya, and look at my watch. It’s almost seven in the evening; the whole afternoon flew by with all the meetings and paperwork that I was behind with.

I wonder what Nina is doing. She said she would drop by but didn’t, and I’ll be damned if I know why, but it doesn’t sit well with me.

“How long do you plan on continuing with this thing, Roman?”

I look at Leonid who is sitting in a chair on the other side of my desk. Kostya already left, so it’s only the two of us. “What thing?”

“The marriage. You didn’t even have a church wedding. People will talk.”

“No, they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I will silence them, Leonid. The same way I silenced my father.” I cock my head to the side. “Do you remember that night?”

He tenses and doesn’t say anything, but I notice the vein pulsing in his neck. Yes, he remembers that night very well.

“If you don’t have any other questions, you can leave.” I nod toward the door.

He gets up and marches out of my office.

Leonid has started acting strange the last couple of months. He’s always been a lazy piece of shit who prefers to have other people work for him while he takes all the credit. He’s been trying to take over more responsibilities from Kostya recently, which is the main reason I suspect he’s had something to do with that bomb. I will have to do something about him, proof or no proof, and soon.

Now, however, I am dying to know what my peculiar little wife has been doing the whole afternoon, so I call Varya.

“Where is she?”

“Still here in the kitchen,” Varya says, her tone amused.

“What has she been doing there this whole time?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

I wheel myself down the long hallway and into the kitchen. Nina is standing by the work surface, placing round pieces of dough into a big pan while Igor is standing behind her, overseeing. Even though she’s wearing an apron, her pink lacy blouse and jeans are covered in flour. Her ponytail is standing askew, and she has something that looks like jam on her left cheek.

“Igor is teaching her how to make piroshki,” Varya says as she comes to stand by me. “They are 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 knows what the other one has been yelling about. It’s hilarious.”

We stand there at the door and watch them.

“What happened with the second batch?” I ask. “Burned as well?”

“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.”