Chapter 73

Nibs

I cock my head to the side and regard the big canvas in front of me. Too bright. Grabbing the palette, I use the brush to mix more black with the pale gray, and then start adding sharper shadows.

Four pieces are done and waiting to be sent to the gallery. Ten, when combined with the six I sent before my life took such a drastic turn. I have five more to finish by the end of next week to make my deadline for the exhibition. They would have to wait, though, because I decided to work on the big guy next. Usually, I finalize all the standard pieces first and work on the main piece last. Not this time. Looks like Roman not only managed to mess up my head but also my creative process.

I haven't seen him much the last two weeks-usually only in the mornings, before he goes downstairs to his office to do whatever mafia crime lords do, and in the evenings when he returns for dinner. I make sure to drop by his office at least twice a day, always at the most inconvenient times. Often, there has been someone else inside with him. On my way there and back, I wander around the house, rearranging potted plants and paintings or doing similar idiotic stuff. Other than that, I spend most of my time in the suite, which has left me a lot of time to paint.

Yesterday, Maxim came by to give me a quick newbie-friendly course on planting the bugs. I expected it to involve wires and sneaking around with a screwdriver, unscrewing vents, and placing small microphones inside. Instead, he gave me a few black plastic things that looked like phone chargers, only without the cables. All I had to do was get into a room and plug it into a socket not in plain sight. Scary. The moment he'd left, I walked through the whole suite twice, checking every socket.

Today, I'm still fighting a lingering urge to look at every outlet I pass.

Lowering the brush, I take a few steps back and regard my big baby with a huge grin on my face. Yup, that's perfect. Carefully, I turn the painting so it faces the wall instead of the door, in case Roman comes in. He never comes into my room, but it doesn't hurt to be extra careful. I don't want him to see the big guy before the exhibition, which is why I decided to work on it in my room instead of beside the big bookshelf where I work on my other pieces.

I check the clock on the nightstand, then look at my reflection in the mirror. I'm covered in black and red paint up to my elbows, and I have several gray and red splotches all over my shirt. Some on my face too. My delivery will be here shortly, I should probably change and wash my face and hands before going downstairs to wait for them.

Roman

I'm on the phone with Mikhail, who is giving me the report for the last shipment, when there is a knock on the door and Dimitri enters the office.

"I'll call you back," I tell Mikhail and cut the call.

"Some stuff arrived for Nina Petrova," Dimitri says and looks at me pointedly.

"So? Tell some of the men to take them to the east wing."

"What should we do with the lamps?"

"What lamps?" I ask, and then I remember.

Shit. I put my elbows onto the desk and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. "Big? Gold with black?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Fourteen," he deadpans.

"Fourteen lamps . . ." I sigh. "Put them into the library for now."

"Alright. What about the animal?" he asks, and my head snaps up.

"What . . . animal?"

"Small. Black. It's in a carrier so I'm not sure what it is. Looks like a dog, but it sounds strange."

I grab the phone and call Nina. "Did you seriously order an animal online?"

"Excuse me?"

"Dimitri says there's a dog that came with your decoration stuff."

"Oh, that's Brando. I'm coming right down."

I stare at the phone in my hand. Brando. I'm going to kill her.

* * *

At the front door, I park my wheelchair at the top of the stairs and regard a bunch of boxes in different sizes covering half of the driveway. On the side, fourteen transparent rectangular boxes are lined up in a row, each with a wide gold ribbon tied around it. All of them hold the same lamp, the ugliest things I've ever set my eyes on.

Nina runs out of the house, dashes down the steps, and stops at the dog carrier that has been placed on one of the boxes. She opens the carrier, takes out a scrawny dog the size of a small cat and starts cooing to him.

"What's that?" Dimitri asks.

"A Chihuahua."

We watch Nina rummage through a few boxes, keeping the dog in the crook of her left arm. She takes out a leash from one of the boxes, clasps it to the collar, and sets the dog down. It starts running around her legs, letting out strange hamster-like barks.

"Let Varya know about the dog. She'll be very . . . excited. Send someone to buy some dog food," I say and turn to head back to my office.

Nina

I spend an hour walking Brando through the house and garden, so he could get the feel of the space. He's a bit jumpy because of all the new people, but he finally settles down into his bed in the corner of my room and goes to sleep.

Passing the kitchen, I grab an apple from the bowl and head to my workspace by the library. There are still several more hours left of natural light, and I plan on using them to work on the remaining five pieces for my exhibition. I should probably call my manager, to tell him to send the courier for the finished paintings. Mark likes having as many of them as possible a few days before the event so he can organize the photographer and catalog printing.

I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and give Mark a call while I rearrange the finalized pieces along the big window.

When he answers, I chirp into the phone, "Hey, love."

"I know that tone," he groans. "You're behind schedule again."

"Of course, not. I would never do that to you."

"Damn it, Nina. How behind are you?"

"A few days. But the big guy is done. I have five left. Can you send someone for the others? I'll send you the address."

"You moved?"

"Yup. Long story."

"Will you be able to finish on time?"

"I'll try my best, babe."

There is some grumbling, and a sigh. "Send me a photo of the big guy."

"I'm not sending you a photo, you will have to wait and see for yourself, Mark. Bye." I put the phone back in my pocket and reach for one of the blank canvases.

"Who the fuck is Mark?"

I jump and spin around to find Roman glaring down at me.

"Why do you call him babe?" he demands. "And what kind of photo are you sending him?"

I blink at him and take a bite of my apple. "My pimp. All of us girls call him babe. And I'm sending a photo of my boobs."

He narrows his eyes on me but doesn't say anything.

"Oh, for God's sake, Roman. Mark is my manager and the owner of the gallery where I'm having my exhibition. He wanted photos of the paintings."

"Why do you call him babe?"

"Everybody calls him babe. Including his husband."

Roman's stance visibly relaxes, and his eyes lose their murderous gleam. Is he jealous?

"Can I see the paintings?" he asks.

So, it looks like we're just going to ignore his strange behavior. Works for me, because I don't want to dwell on the fact that I like the idea of him being jealous.

"Yes," I reply. "Just don't touch, some aren't dry yet."

Roman approaches the canvases and regards each one for a few moments until he stops in front of the newest one. "Is that . . . Igor?" He points the tip of the crutch toward the painting.

"Yes."

"Why does he have a megaphone instead of his head? And is that . . . a dead chicken under his arm?"

"You are extremely perceptive, Pakhan."

He looks at me over his shoulder and smirks. "And where is my painting? You promised me your self-portrait."

"Naked one. I remember. It'll have to wait; I need to finish the remaining exhibition pieces. Or I could do my self-portrait as one of those, I'm sure the critics will love it." I shrug. "We might need to add an "eighteen plus" label on the-"

"No."

"Then you'll have to wait."

"I'll wait." He turns and looks me over. "Are you hungry?"

His change of subject catches me unprepared. "A little."

"Let's go out for a lunch."

Roman

I take Nina to a posh restaurant downtown, and we spend almost two hours there. She describes what she has planned for the exhibition, and I let her talk while watching her-her smiling eyes, the way she waves her hands in front of her face when she's excited, or how she leans forward, whispering in a low voice when she gossips about her colleagues who share the gallery. She must be aware that no one could hear her, the place is only half full, and none of the tables close to us are taken. Still, she keeps her tiny hand over her mouth, chatting about walking in on one of the other artists as she was groping the guy from finance behind the gallery floor.

There have been a lot of women in my life, but with Nina in front of me, they all just fade away. We never even kissed properly, other than for the sake of the show, but I don't remember ever being this drawn to someone. It's like she bewitched me.

"What's the deal with the dog?"

"I borrowed him from my aunt." She grins and takes a sip of her wine.

"You borrowed a dog?" I stare at her.

"Technically, I offered to watch him for a few weeks. That should be enough time for him to do his part."

"And that would be?"

"Well, you know how dogs are always running around the house, getting into rooms, and hiding there. Brando loves that, so I guess I will be chasing him around the house quite a lot in the following days. Who knows where he'll end up?" She grins at me. "Maybe even in Leonid's room at some point."

I laugh and shake my head at her idea. "You are a dangerous woman, malysh."

"What does that mean?"

"Malysh? It's an endearment. It means little one."

She tilts her head to the side and the corners of her lips curl upward in a small smirk. "Well, as I already said, most people are little compared to you, Roman."

The waiter comes to fill our drinks. When Nina takes her glass, I notice that her wedding ring is rather loose, reach out, take her hand in mine, and inspect the ring. "We should get this resized."

"Don't bother. The engagement ring is keeping it in place. It's durable by the way. I spilled some paint over my hand the other day and had to scrub it, it didn't even get scratched."

"It's rather hard to scratch a diamond."

Nina looks at me, blinks, then looks down at the ring like it's going to bite her. "This thing is real?"

"Of course, it's real."

"Shit!" She flattens her hand and stares disbelievingly at the two-carat princess-cut diamond. Her mouth opens and closes without words. Then she covers the ring protectively with her other hand and leans toward me. "Can I swap it with one that has glass instead?"

"No."

"Please?"

"You are not wearing a glass ring. End of discussion."

She scrunches her nose and mumbles something that sounds like "add devil's horns," but I probably misheard because it doesn't make any sense.

"Let's go home," I say and reluctantly let go of her hand. "We can watch a movie."

"Don't you have work to do?"

"I'm done for today. You?"

"My pimp is going to kill me. I'm already behind, but a movie sounds nice."