Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(3)

need to do it now.”

“In that case, the wife it is.” I slam the laptop closed. “Shit!”




I put my bag on the recliner and turn around in the living room. It’s been months since I’ve been here, but it looks like nothing has changed. The same white curtains and carpet, white and beige furniture, empty white walls. So much white—it looks sterile. I always despised it. No wonder that the first significant amount of money I earned, I used it to rent an apartment and get away from this bleakness.

“I’m home!” I shout.

A few seconds later there is a sound of clicking heels coming my way. My mom exits the kitchen and rushes toward me, her hands on her hips. Zara Grey is the complete opposite of me—tall and blonde, with full makeup on, and in a perfectly pressed dress. A white silky one. I want to groan.

“You are three hours late, I told you—” she stops in mid-sentence. “Dear God, what have you done with yourself?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“The metal thing on your nose.”

“It is called a piercing, Mom.”

“People get diseases through those, Nina. When your father sees you, he’ll have a heart attack.”

“I’m twenty-four. I can do whatever I please with my body. And I’ve had it for years, I just remove it when I come here to avoid you pestering me. I forgot today.”

“And why are you wearing all black? Did someone die?”

A few of my brain cells, for sure.

“I’m in a dark phase this month.” I shrug.

My mom loves the clichés. I think they make her feel more comfortable, especially around me. She still finds my choice of a career hard to process. Maybe it would be easier for her if I drew flower arrangements or baby deer. I wonder what she’d have to say about my latest piece. It’s still a work in progress, but there are no flowers or deer planned.

“Why do you have to be so strange all the time?”

“Works great with guys.” I grin. “Men love strange women.”

“I’m not so sure about that, honey.”

God, she can’t even get my sarcasm.

“When Dad called, he said it was urgent. Where is he?”

“In the study. He’s been acting out of character the last few days. I think it has something to do with work, but he won’t tell me anything. It seems . . . like he’s scared of something.”

My father is in a real-estate business. Not many things to be scared of. I enter the hallway on the left and knock on the door of my father’s study, without having even the faintest idea what a drastic change my life is going to take when I get inside.



*

Half an hour later, I’m sitting in a recliner occupying the corner of the office and staring at my father, openmouthed. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s not a joke.” He slumps his shoulders and passes a hand through his greying hair.

“Okay, let me get this straight. You stole money from the Russians and lost it, so now you’re asking me to marry a Russian mob boss.”

“I didn’t steal anything, Nina.” He throws his arms in the air, stands up, and starts pacing behind his desk. “I just borrowed it for a few days because I needed the funds for this deal. I never thought the guy was a fraud or that he’d take the money and vanish.”

“You took the money, and you can’t pay them back. How the fuck did you get involved with

Russian mafia? What the hell were you thinking, Dad?”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” He points an accusatory finger at me. “I’m your father!”

“You are asking me to marry a criminal to save your butt, for God’s sake. I think I can talk to you any way I want, all things considered.”

“Nina . . .”

“They expect me to marry their boss? Like, for real?”

“It’s just temporarily.” He waves his hand in the air like it’s not a big deal.

“But, why? Isn’t there a line of mafia daughters somewhere wanting to marry the guy? It would be a dream come true for any of them, right? Why me?”

“They didn’t say. These people don’t explain themselves. They tell you what to do, and if you don’t do it, you’re dead.”

“You really think they’ll kill you?”

“Yes. I’m surprised they haven’t already.” He pauses his pacing and turns to face me. “If you don’t do what they ask, I’m dead.”

I take a deep breath and bury my hands in my hair, squeezing my head like it’s going to help find a solution to this fuckup. Because I am not marrying anyone, fake marriage or not. “Okay, let’s think.

There must be some way to correct this. I have some savings, maybe fifty grand. I have my next exhibition in a month, and I should be able to get another twenty if I can manage to finish all fifteen pieces and they all sell. How much money can you get for the house?”

“Maybe eighty grand. Or ninety, if we sell the furniture as well. I can get ten more for the car.”

“Good. That places us at somewhere around one hundred and seventy thousand. Will that be

enough? How much do you owe them?”

“Three million.”