Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(4)

I must have had a minor stroke because there is no way he said the words I just heard him say.

“Can you please repeat that?”

“I owe them three million dollars.”

I stare at him with my mouth wide open. “Dear God, Dad.”

I bend down and place my forehead on my knees, trying to control my breathing. I’m not marriage material, no one in their right mind would offer three million dollars in exchange for six months of marriage. There must be a catch.

“He’s ninety, isn’t he?” I mumble into my knees.

“I don’t know how old their pakhan is, but I don’t think he’s ninety.”

“Eighty then. I’m so relieved.” I’m going to be sick.

“They said it’ll be a marriage in name only. You won’t have to . . . you know.”

“Sleep with him? Well, if he’s eighty, then he probably can’t have sex. That’s good. Eighty is good.”

“Nina, I-I am so sorry. If you don’t want to go through with this, that’s okay. I’ll figure something out.”

I straighten up and look at my father who is now sitting slumped in his chair, his hair in disarray and his eyes bloodshot. He looks so old and frail all of a sudden.

“Unless you plan to go to the police, there is nothing else to be done, is there?” I ask.

“You know I can’t go tattle on the Russian mafia to the police. They would kill us all.”

Of course they would kill us. I close my eyes and sigh. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

My father watches me for a few seconds, then places his hands over his face and starts crying. I want to cry as well, but there is no point.

“I suppose they will set up a meeting, or something, where we’ll discuss the details.”

“They already did. We are meeting the Pakhan in an hour.”

I look at my father and bury my hands in my hair. “Perfect. I’m just going to the bathroom to puke up my lunch, and I’ll meet you at the front door in five.”





Chapter 2


A girl brings my drink, places it on the table in front of me, and without looking up, turns and runs back toward the kitchen. I look around, noting the drab tablecloths and mismatching chairs. The place is a dump. It closed last month, which is exactly why I picked it for this meeting. A sound of a phone ringing pierces the silence.

“They are here,” Maxim says from his spot behind me. “She came with her father.”

“Let the girl in. The father is to stay outside.”

I take a sip of whiskey and focus my eyes on the glass door on the other side of the room. There is a knock and my man who is standing by the door opens it, letting the girl inside.

For some reason, I expected her to be taller. She is a tiny thing, not much over five feet. Her long midnight-black hair is falling in two thick braids on either side of her face, and if you overlook her breasts, she could pass as a teenager. She’s even dressed like one—torn black jeans, a black hoodie, and those black boots I’ve seen emo kids wearing.

I close my eyes for a second and shake my head. This will never work. I’m planning to tell Maxim to send her away when her head turns toward me, and the words die on my lips. There are the same features I saw on that video, but her face has lost that childlike appearance with round cheeks. Instead of a cute teen girl, an unbelievingly beautiful woman stands there, watching me with something that looks very much like anger. Her eyes connect with mine and one perfect black eyebrow arches in question.

“Miss Grey,” I say and motion toward the empty chair on the other side of the table “Please, join us.”

I wait for her to cower, maybe flinch, but she doesn’t seem disturbed by the situation even a little.

She approaches, keeping her gaze connected with mine all the while. She doesn’t take the chair as instructed but comes to stand right in front of me and looks me over. I focus on her face, waiting to see her reaction when she notices the wheelchair. There isn’t any.

“You are not what I expected, Mr. Petrov,” she says, and I have to give it to her—the girl has balls.

“How so, Miss Grey?”

“I expected you to be eighty.” She purses her lips.

Is she actually that composed and unperturbed, or is this another of her acts, I wonder? If it’s an act, she’s really good.

“I’m thirty-five.” I take a sip from my glass. “Now that we cleared that up, let’s talk business. Your father explained what’s expected of you?”

“He did. And I have some questions.” She takes the end of one of her braids and starts winding it around her finger. Not so relaxed as she’s trying to present herself, after all. “And since we will be calling this a business transaction, I have one condition.”

“A condition? You are in no position to negotiate the terms, Miss Grey, but let’s hear it.”

“You’ll let my father go. This . . . transaction will stay between the two of us. He’s out of the picture.”

“I’ll think about it. Now, let’s hear the questions.”

“Why do you need a fake wife?”

“None of your concern. And, the marriage won’t be fake. Next question.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What happens after six months?”