Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(54)

Leave it to the Italians to burn an empty warehouse. Idiots. “Make sure you double the men on the ones holding product.”

“Already done.”

I thank the doc, stand up, and go toward the window overlooking the patio. “What has she been doing?”

“She changed her hair again. It’s blue now.”

“Any . . . men?”

“No one, as far as we could see.”

“When a man enters the picture, and it will happen eventually, make sure I never find out, Maxim.”





Chapter 21


One month later




“Ivan called.” I hear Maxim’s voice in my earpiece. “Two cars just passed them, and they are coming your way. Get the fuck out of there.”

I curse. “Sergei is still inside,” I say, check my gun, and focus my gaze on the back side of the Italians’ warehouse.

“They will be there in less than five minutes, Roman.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“I told you to take more men with you! Damn it, Roman, you never listen.”

“There should have been only two security guys. Maybe someone tipped them off. We’re leaving as soon as Sergei is out.”

I turn to Anton, who is sitting in the driver’s seat, and nod toward the back door on the far side of the warehouse, fifty or so feet away. “The moment you see Sergei, floor it. We are going to have company.”

Two minutes later, I hear the cars approaching from the right, and the next moment, the door at the back of the warehouse opens and Sergei runs out.

“Go!” I bark.

Anton starts the car, speeding toward Sergei. I open the window, aim at one of the vehicles

approaching from the side road and start shooting. The first car swerves, the driver probably losing control after a bullet hit a tire, and smashes into a tree. The second car passes it and speeds toward us. I shoot twice more, and Anton suddenly hits the break. There is a sound of a door opening, and Sergei jumps in.

“You two are partying without me,” he says and laughs. Maniac.

“Drive!” I shout to Anton, change the magazine, and resume shooting at the Italians who have just stopped twenty feet from us and are trying to get out of their vehicle. I manage to hit both front tires before our car lurches forward.

“Blast them,” I call over my shoulder, my eyes still on the Italians’ car.

“Sure.” I hear Sergei say from behind me. A second later, I hear the explosion.

I look at the rearview mirror and see the west part of the warehouse collapsing.

“Let Maxim know we are out,” I tell Anton, the turn to Sergei. “Were there any problems?”

“Other than you taking away most of my stuff, no.”

“I wanted only their building destroyed. You brought enough explosive to blow up half a

continent.” I shake my head. Maxim was right. He is completely unstable.





I open the door and stare at my mother. “What are you doing here?”

“You haven’t been answering your phone for weeks. I was worried.”

I move to the side to let her come in, close the door, and head into my living room. “I messaged you yesterday.”

“Yeah, your ‘I’m okay, stop calling’ didn’t convince me. How are you feeling?”

“Like a train wreck.” I shrug, take the brush, and resume working on my painting.

“You look awful, Nina.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

From a corner of my eye, I see her come into the room and slowly turn around, looking at the paintings I lined along the walls.

“You usually add some bright color. All of those are plain gray and black,” she says.

“How would you know that? You were never interested in my art.”

She doesn’t reply but comes to stand next to me and watches me paint for a few moments. “I got the one with the girl in a green dress. We hung it in the living room.”

My brush on the canvas goes still. “I thought that one was sold with the others, to an anonymous buyer. Did they return them?”

“No. He let me have it.”

I look up at her. “He?”

“Your husband. He’s the one who bought the paintings.”

I take a deep breath and turn back toward my canvas. “He is not my husband anymore.”

I try to resume my work, but my hand holding the brush is trembling, so I place the brush down, and stare at the unfinished black shape in front of me. My mother takes me by the shoulder and turns me toward her.

“What happened between you two, honey? I thought you would be staying together.”

“I walked in on him gutting Brian,” I say. “After he cut off most of his fingers.”

“He killed him?”

“Yes.”

She is silent for a moment, and then she shakes her head. “He loves you.”

I feel the tears start gathering in my eyes. “Yes, he does. But sometimes love is not enough.”

“You knew who he was, Nina, and still, you fell in love with him. Can’t you forgive him?”

“He would do it again, Mom. I can’t live with another death on my conscience. This one is already too much. Does that make me a hypocrite? That it never bothered me what he did or who he killed before?”