Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(48)

Nodding toward the crowd, she asks, “What happened to him?”

“I think Rory mentioned he had an accident a few months back,” Sandra whispers and turns to her friend. “I heard he got married.”

“No! Where is his wife? What does she look like? Is she Russian?”

I raise the glass to my lips to hide my grin and continue listening.

“I haven’t seen her. Probably tall and platinum blonde. That’s his type,” Sandra says.

“Well, she must be some harpy if she had the balls to marry him.”

“Oh, she is a harpy, believe me,” I throw in.

Both women turn to stare at me with wide eyes.

“You know Petrov’s wife?” Sandra leans over the table, basically pushing her face into mine.

“Yup.” I nod and take a sip of my drink. “She is a little whacky in the head.”

“Well, she must be if she married him. No one in their right mind would marry the Russian Mafia’s pakhan.” She tosses another look at Roman. “I heard Dushku say he almost sliced Tanush’s neck during dinner last month.”

I’m quite enjoying the situation when Roman ruins my fun. He turns his head and looks directly at me, a barely visible tilt on his lips. I raise my hand and blow him a kiss. Roman sends me one really heated look, and then goes back to his conversation. I turn back to find both women watching me with horror on their faces.

“That one is mine.” I grin. “I’m Nina Petrova. The harpy.”

They both smile, quickly excuse themselves, and are gone in seconds. I reach for my glass, take another sip of the wine, and resume people watching.

A woman approaches Roman’s group and joins the conversation. I don’t pay much attention to her at first, but a few minutes later I notice her discreetly move to stand closer to Roman and asks him something, a smile on her face. She’s classically beautiful, brunette hair twisted in a bun at her nape.

A long beige dress is plastered to her body. Her head reaches Roman’s shoulders, which puts her at least a head taller than me. She laughs at something and bats her eyelashes. I don’t like the way she looks at Roman. He doesn’t pay attention to her at all, but still . . . I wonder if I should go over there and send her packing. Maybe not.

I cross my legs, making sure the slit on my dress reveals them, and sit more comfortably in the chair. Roman looks in my direction, and I send him the secret little smile I like giving him before I drag him into bed. His eyes narrow. The woman is saying something to him, but I hold his gaze and lift my hand to run a finger across my lips. I cock my head to the side a little, let my finger slide down my chin and neck slowly, and stop at the neckline of my low-cut dress. Roman is following my finger’s path, and when his eyes snap back to mine, I smile widely.

He says something to the people around him and starts in my direction, never once breaking his gaze from mine.

“You called, Mrs. Petrov?” His lips lift at the corners.

I stand up, put my hand on his chest and look up at him. “You are not the only one who is territorial in this relationship, Pakhan.”

“Jealous? Of whom, malysh? You know there is only one woman my eyes see.”

“Is that so?” I hook my finger into his shirt between the two buttons, and pull on it until he bends his head and our noses touch.

“Staking your claim, Nina?”

“Of course, I am, Roman,” I say and kiss him.





“Home,” he whispers into my lips. “Now.”




“I made you something.”

I look up from my desk and find Nina’s head peeking around the door. “Did you burn it?”

“It’s morozhenoe.” She beams, comes to stand between my legs, and fills a spoon with the ice cream from the bowl she’s holding.

I watch her raise the spoon to my mouth, then lean in and let her feed it to me.

“Igor has been teaching me some Russian,” she declares.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear what you’ve learned.”

“We covered govno, chort vozmi, and skotina so far. Those are his favorites.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I reach for my phone and dial Varya, who answers after the second ring. “Igor has been teaching Nina to curse. Does he have a death wish again?”

“Roman!” Nina grabs my shirt and reaches for the phone, but I move my hand away and kiss her instead.

“No one will be teaching you Russian, but me. Got that?”

“Got it, kotik.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “You do not call a Russian pakhan “kitten”, Nina. I have an image to uphold here.”

She narrows her eyes at me, schools her features to embody seriousness, and touches my nose with her finger.

“My deadly kotik. Better?”

“Nope.”

“You are no fun.” She winds her hands around my neck. “Let’s go somewhere for dinner, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, malysh, I have some business crap to deal with tonight. We leave in twenty minutes, and I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I should probably be back by ten or eleven.”

“Be careful, Roman.”

I watch her leave, and think how strange it is to have someone waiting for me to come back from work or worry about my wellbeing.