Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(41)
“You are sure that your uncle is the one who tried to kill you?” I ask and his fingers go still on my neck. “It wasn’t so hard to guess, Roman.”
“Yes. Which is why I don’t want you anywhere near him unless I’m with you.”
“What would he do with me? I’m . . . nobody.”
What I meant to say was, “I will be gone in a few months anyway,” but I couldn’t make myself say the words. It hurts too damn much to think about it, so I don’t. I’m exceptionally good at ignoring the things I don’t find pleasant.
“You are my wife. Hurting you would mean hurting me.”
Yeah. I guess having the pakhan’s wife killed under his nose wouldn’t paint a nice picture in the eyes of his partners and subordinates.
“I’ll be cautious.”
“Good.” He kisses my shoulder again. “Leave that thing in the fridge. Get changed. I’m taking you to Ural.”
“The mountain?”
“One of my clubs.”
“One of . . .?” I stare at him and laugh. “Man, I did good. I’m such a gold digger. My mom will be really happy when she hears.”
“Why?”
“She always advised me to marry well, among other things. I guess I can cross that one off the list.”
“And what are the other things.”
“Get a degree in economics. Not to bite my nails. Die my hair blonde.”
“You are not touching your hair.”
“Not a fan of blondes?”
“Not anymore.” He bends until his nose touches mine. “Go get changed.”
“The black dress?”
“Not if you have any intention of leaving this wing, Nina.”
*
No more than thirty minutes to get ready is my usual MO. However, I decided to take it up a notch tonight, and spent fifteen more minutes applying makeup. I want to look my best in case we run into one of Roman’s exes. It’s vain, I know, but I don’t care.
I find Roman in the kitchen. He’s leaning on the counter, supporting himself with a crutch in his left hand and holding a tumbler of whiskey in the other.
His leg is getting better. He hasn’t been using the wheelchair at all while he’s in the suite for quite some time. Although, I still haven’t seen him use the cane. I know he’s practicing, but when I asked to see, he said he won’t have me seeing him wobbling around. It’s stupid, but I don’t press.
I look him up and down, loving how hot he is in black dress pants and a black dress shirt that molds to his body in the most sinful way.
“My oh my, someone is looking sexy tonight.” I put my hands on his chest and straighten his shirt.
“Where is your wheelchair?”
“No wheelchair tonight.”
My eyes widen at his words. This is big. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I squeak with delight and kiss him.
“I’m so happy for you, baby.” I remove a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “The guys are going to lose it when they see you!”
*
Olga sees Roman first and the expression on her face is priceless. She’s on the other end of the hallway in front of Ivan’s door when she hears us coming. Her eyes bulge, and the pile of pressed towels she’s carrying in her arms falls to the floor.
I stifle a smile, trying to keep my face casual, and follow Roman into the elevator. His walking has improved immensely since he switched to his new crutches. It’s almost normal. Maybe a bit slower than it was before the accident, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen what his knee looks like. It’s a miracle he’s come this far.
When we exit the elevator, Ivan and one of the security guys are coming from the direction of the kitchen. I guess they are going with us tonight. They see Roman and freeze in mid-step. Ivan gathers himself first and approaches us.
“Pakhan. Nina Petrova.” He nods and precedes to open the door.
With a side glance, I notice Valentina peeking around the corner on the other side of the hall; her mouth hanging open. There is no doubt that by the time we come back everyone will know the news.
*
The club is bigger than I expected, spanning the whole ground floor of a three-story glass building.
It seems as if we arrived too early because there are only a few people waiting outside; however, when the bouncers open the double glass doors for us and we enter, I’m surprised to find a significant crowd inside. Most of the people are gathered around tall tables along the sides of the space. I expect
us to stop at one ourselves, but we cross the huge room to another set of doors. Two men are standing on either side and they open them as soon as we get closer. We are greeted the same way we were at the entrance.
“Pakhan,” they say nodding to Roman and then me. “Mrs. Petrov.”
I’m slightly confused by their behavior, because I didn’t expect anyone to know about my
existence.
This second space is smaller, but it is much more lavish. Instead of tall tables, five semi-circular booths are located around the room; two smaller ones on each side and a huge one, that could probably seat ten people, in the center of a small, raised platform. Ivan, who’s been walking in front of us the whole time, walks toward the big booth and stands on the right side, his hands clasped behind his back. For a second, I worry about Roman taking the two steps onto the platform, but he manages without a problem. He turns and offers me his hand, and I step up after him. The security guy joins us on the left side of the booth, assuming the same position as Ivan.