Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(51)

“Leave,” I choke out.

“Nina, I—”

“LEAVE!” I scream and then vomit again.



*

I’m sitting on the floor, next to the toilet, when footsteps approach and Varya’s voice calls for me from the other side of the door. It’s been an hour or so since I vomited the last time, so I stand up slowly and hunch over the sink. After splashing some cold water onto my face, I unlock the door.

“Dear child,” Varya says and reaches for me, but I take a step back.

“I need you to call me a taxi. Please.”

“Don’t leave. It’ll destroy him, Nina. Please, let him explain.”

“Taxi,” I rasp. “Or I’m going on foot.”

Varya looks at me sadly and nods. I see one tear escape and roll down her cheek before she

reaches for her phone.





There is a knock at the door, but I remain seated in the recliner facing the window and watch the yellow car idling in the driveway.

“Pakhan.”

“Yes, Dimitri?”

“There is a taxi waiting out front. Varya said that Nina Petrova is leaving.”

“She is.”

“Should I stop her?”

I think about it, then shake my head. “No. Send two men to follow her discreetly. Have them call me when she reaches her destination.”

“Do you want them to stay there, or come back here?”

“They will stay. I want two men on her constantly. Arrange the shifts. Tell them to make sure they are out of sight.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all for now.”

A few minutes later, Nina hurries down the steps and gets into the cab. She’s wearing jeans and her old hoodie, carrying a small suitcase. I watch her, waiting for her to turn around and come back inside. She doesn’t. The cab leaves.

I grab the crystal bottle of whiskey, pour myself three fingers, and then hurl the bottle across the room, where it shatters against the wall.





Chapter 17


It’s been four days since Nina left, and I am slowly losing my mind. The men who are working as her security detail have been checking in at the end of each shift, updating me on her. It doesn’t mean anything other than to let me know she’s okay. I want her here, damn it.

At first, I thought she would go to her parents, spend the night, and be back in the morning. But when the guys notified me that she went back to her place, I knew she wouldn’t be back the following day. I hoped she’d call—maybe in another day or two. She hasn’t called. I don’t want to call her myself until I know she is ready to talk.

I fucked up. I knew that the moment I saw her standing at the basement door, wearing a look of horror and shock on her face, but I didn’t expect her to leave.

I can’t take waiting anymore, so I grab the phone from my desk and call her. She cuts the call after the second ring without answering. I call again, but all I get back is a clipped response. "We're done, Roman."

She can’t do this. I will not allow it. I grab my crutches and head for the door.

“To Nina’s place,” I bark at Kolya and duck inside the car.

When we reach Nina’s building, I take the phone and message her.

I’m outside.

I stare at the phone in my hand, waiting for it to ring. It doesn’t. Instead, a message arrives.

WE.ARE.DONE.

LEAVE.

What the fuck am I supposed do with this? Should I go up, break down her door, and make her

listen to me? And what would I say? There is no way to take back what was done.

I stay in the car in front of her building. Well into the night, I finally tell Kolya to take me home. It’s too soon. I’ll give her a few more days to cool down. Then we’ll speak.



*

Two days later, a package arrives. It’s a big rectangular thing wrapped in brown paper, and it has my name written in Nina’s messy handwriting. I place it on my desk, trace the letters she wrote with my finger, and start tearing the paper.

It’s a painting.

A naked woman is kneeling in a middle of a field of debris and ashes, her back arched backward, arms slightly raised toward the stormy sky above. Her black hair is flowing in the wind, part of it covering her face. A long black spear is lodged in the middle of her chest, and a thick layer of red paint is trailing from the wound down her nude body. On the other end of the spear, a lone vulture is perched, as if waiting.

The self-portrait she promised me.

I get up and gaze at the lawn beyond the window until the sun sets, then go back to the desk.

Placing my elbows on the wooden surface I bury my hands in my hair and stare at the painting, noticing the small details I missed the first time. The way the veins in the woman’s neck are standing out like she is straining. Red tears falling down her cheeks. Black cracks on the skin of her chest where the spear pierced it—thicker around the wound and getting thinner as they radiate away, like her body itself started breaking apart.

She is not coming back.





Chapter 18


I sit down at the dining table, place the manila folder on the surface in front of me and just look at it.

Twenty minutes pass before I gather the courage to open the folder and take out the papers. I grab a pen from the cup, place its point at the begging of the dotted line in the bottom left corner and start signing my name. My vision blurs and tears pour from my eyes, falling onto the paper below and smearing the ink. Shit.