Painted Scars: 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?”

“You will get the divorce papers and be on your merry way.”

“How will we go about the wedding thing? Just go and sign the papers?”

I lean back in my chair and regard her. “We need to make some things clear, Miss Grey. I don’t need a wife just on paper. If anyone suspects we’re not crazy in love, and that this marriage is a sham, your father is dead. And you will be joining him.”

She blinks and looks at me with confusion clearly shown on her face. “You expect us to live together for six months?”

“Of course. How else would people believe the marriage?”

It looks like something finally managed to rattle her, because she just stands there staring at me with wide eyes, saying nothing. I have a feeling that there are not many things that can leave Nina Grey speechless.

“There will be a party on Saturday,” I continue. “You will attend with your father. We’ll meet and become besotted with each other. I’ll take you home with me that evening, and we won’t leave my room for two days.”

“Am I expected to have sex with you?”

She says it in an even voice as if asking about the weather, but I see it in her eyes—a restrained terror. I’m pretty sure no one else would notice it because she looks so perfectly composed on the outside. But inflicting fear in people is something I do on regular basis, and I see it as clearly as day. She’s horrified.

“No,” I say, then decide to try rattling her a little. “Unless you want to, of course.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Petrov, but I will have to decline.” She lets go of her braid and puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

Even though I expected her to say no, for some reason, her reply stings.

“And what will we be doing for two days in your room, Mr. Petrov?”

“As far as anyone else is concerned, we will be having lots and lots of sex. In reality, you can do whatever you please.” I motion with my hand through the air. “Watch Netflix. Solve crosswords. I don’t care. I will be working the whole time anyway.”

“Lovely. And what happens after those two days of marathon sex?”

“I lose my mind over you. We marry in a few weeks. After that, you will be playing your role of a crazy-in-love wife.” I shrug. “What you do with your free time is up to you, as long as you play your part along the way.”

“And? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you truly think that someone will believe in this . . . charade?”

“Well, it would be up to you, Miss Grey. Your father’s life is at stake.”

“And you? Can you pull off your part?”

“Which part?”

“That of a man who is mindlessly infatuated with his wife. You don’t seem like that kind.”

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see for yourself,” I say and smile. “Do we have a deal, Miss Grey?”

I can almost see the wheels turning in her head—weighing the options, pros and cons—looking for an out. But there isn’t one and we both know it. I catch the exact moment she accepts the situation—just a slight hardening around her jaw as she grinds her teeth.

“We have a deal, Mr. Petrov.”

The evening is unusually warm, but I still feel cold all over as I step out of the restaurant. My father grabs my arm and hastily ushers me toward the car, asking me questions along the way, but I can’t focus on his words. I open the passenger door and sit down. My legs are trembling. Looks like the adrenaline ran out and I’m feeling the aftereffects.

I’ve never been as scared as the moment I entered that restaurant, wondering if they had changed their minds and decided to kill us. Staying composed and cool in front of that shark of a man required tremendous self-control. I almost slipped a few times. But, if he thought, even for a moment, that I couldn’t play his game, my father and I were as good as dead. The wheelchair didn’t fool me, I knew who I was facing the moment our gazes met—a stone-cold killer.

Roman Petrov. I assumed he was some elderly guy with a beer belly and receding hairline. Why would he be blackmailing a woman into marriage otherwise? I couldn’t have been more wrong.

During our conversation, I tried my best to keep my eyes fixated on his, but I still managed to steal a few glances elsewhere. The man is incredibly handsome. That was evident even in the scarce light. I couldn’t pinpoint his height, but with him in a sitting position and me standing, our heads were at the same level. He surely had more than a foot on me. It’s not a nice thing to say, but I was relieved he was in a wheelchair. Being near tall men is a serious problem for me, and the idea of being stuck together with one for six months sent me into a shitstorm of panic.

“Nina!” my father yells. “Are you even hearing me? What the hell happened inside? I tried to go in but the goons wouldn’t let me.”

I take a deep breath and, watching the cars pass us on the driveway, start giving him the short version of the deal I made with the head of the Russian underworld. I share only the basics of the marriage agreement. The less he knows, the better.

“No word about any of this to Mom,” I say when we arrive in front of the house, “and make sure you act as if you never met Petrov on Saturday. He said if anything goes wrong, the deal is off.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that if anyone, Mom included, suspects I’m not crazy in love with that son of a bitch, we’re dead.”