Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(26)

Four pieces are done and waiting to be sent to the gallery. Ten, when combined with the six I sent before my life took such a drastic turn. I have five more to finish by the end of next week to make my deadline for the exhibition. They would have to wait, though, because I decided to work on the big guy next. Usually, I finalize all the standard pieces first and work on the main piece last. Not this time.

Looks like Roman not only managed to mess up my head but also my creative process.

I haven’t seen him much the last two weeks—usually only in the mornings, before he goes

downstairs to his office to do whatever mafia crime lords do, and in the evenings when he returns for dinner. I make sure to drop by his office at least twice a day, always at the most inconvenient times.

Often, there has been someone else inside with him. On my way there and back, I wander around the house, rearranging potted plants and paintings or doing similar idiotic stuff. Other than that, I spend most of my time in the suite, which has left me a lot of time to paint.

Yesterday, Maxim came by to give me a quick newbie-friendly course on planting the bugs. I

expected it to involve wires and sneaking around with a screwdriver, unscrewing vents, and placing small microphones inside. Instead, he gave me a few black plastic things that looked like phone chargers, only without the cables. All I had to do was get into a room and plug it into a socket not in plain sight. Scary. The moment he’d left, I walked through the whole suite twice, checking every socket.

Today, I’m still fighting a lingering urge to look at every outlet I pass.

Lowering the brush, I take a few steps back and regard my big baby with a huge grin on my face.

Yup, that’s perfect. Carefully, I turn the painting so it faces the wall instead of the door, in case Roman comes in. He never comes into my room, but it doesn’t hurt to be extra careful. I don’t want him to see the big guy before the exhibition, which is why I decided to work on it in my room instead of beside the big bookshelf where I work on my other pieces.

I check the clock on the nightstand, then look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m covered in black and red paint up to my elbows, and I have several gray and red splotches all over my shirt. Some on my face too. My delivery will be here shortly, I should probably change and wash my face and hands before going downstairs to wait for them.




I’m on the phone with Mikhail, who is giving me the report for the last shipment, when there is a

knock on the door and Dimitri enters the office.

“I’ll call you back,” I tell Mikhail and cut the call.

“Some stuff arrived for Nina Petrova,” Dimitri says and looks at me pointedly.

“So? Tell some of the men to take them to the east wing.”

“What should we do with the lamps?”

“What lamps?” I ask, and then I remember.

Shit. I put my elbows onto the desk and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Big? Gold with black?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen,” he deadpans.

“Fourteen lamps . . .” I sigh. “Put them into the library for now.”

“Alright. What about the animal?” he asks, and my head snaps up.

“What . . . animal?”

“Small. Black. It’s in a carrier so I’m not sure what it is. Looks like a dog, but it sounds strange.”

I grab the phone and call Nina. “Did you seriously order an animal online?”

“Excuse me?”

“Dimitri says there’s a dog that came with your decoration stuff.”

“Oh, that’s Brando. I’m coming right down.”

I stare at the phone in my hand. Brando. I’m going to kill her.



*

At the front door, I park my wheelchair at the top of the stairs and regard a bunch of boxes in different sizes covering half of the driveway. On the side, fourteen transparent rectangular boxes are lined up in a row, each with a wide gold ribbon tied around it. All of them hold the same lamp, the ugliest things I’ve ever set my eyes on.

Nina runs out of the house, dashes down the steps, and stops at the dog carrier that has been placed on one of the boxes. She opens the carrier, takes out a scrawny dog the size of a small cat and starts cooing to him.

“What’s that?” Dimitri asks.

“A Chihuahua.”

We watch Nina rummage through a few boxes, keeping the dog in the crook of her left arm. She takes out a leash from one of the boxes, clasps it to the collar, and sets the dog down. It starts running around her legs, letting out strange hamster-like barks.

“Let Varya know about the dog. She’ll be very . . . excited. Send someone to buy some dog food,” I say and turn to head back to my office.




I spend an hour walking Brando through the house and garden, so he could get the feel of the space.

He’s a bit jumpy because of all the new people, but he finally settles down into his bed in the corner of my room and goes to sleep.

Passing the kitchen, I grab an apple from the bowl and head to my workspace by the library. There are still several more hours left of natural light, and I plan on using them to work on the remaining five pieces for my exhibition. I should probably call my manager, to tell him to send the courier for the finished paintings. Mark likes having as many of them as possible a few days before the event so he can organize the photographer and catalog printing.