Page 50 of Beautifully Deranged

Roman doesn’t waste time. “The deadline passed.”

“Who’s pissed?”

“The fucking governor.”

A slow, dark smile stretches across my face. “A politician? And he’s foolish enough to think he can dictate terms to us?”

Roman slams his palm against the table, rattling the glasses of vodka in front of the men. “Don’t fucking start, Mikhail. We took his money, gave our word, and now we don’t have the product.”

“The product” being a forgery. The one Petrov was supposed to finish before his accident.

“There’s another problem,” Roman says, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “The doctor said Petrov won’t be able to use his hand with high precision ever again.”

Shit.

“Have you not found someone else yet?” I ask.

“I have,” Roman growls. “But someone has his head so far up his own ass, he won’t let me use her.”

The room goes silent.

“Lola is off the table.”

Roman’s nostrils flare. “Right now, we need a fucking miracle. She’s our only option.”

“I don’t care who I have to fight. I don’t care if the governor himself puts a bullet in my head. This won’t touch her.”

We stand toe to toe. Violence thrums in the air. My blood hums with the urge to break his nose.

The other men shift uncomfortably, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

“I already tried with three other artists. One pissed his pants before he could even pick up a brush. The other two were so fucking bad, a three-year-old with crayons would’ve done a better job,” Roman hisses.

“Then find another.”

“There is no other,” he snaps. “You’re fucking blind, Mikhail. You’d rather let this deal go to shit than use what’s right in front of you?”

My patience wears thin from exhaustion and the sheer audacity of him thinking I’d risk her for some filthy politician’s money. “I’d rather burn this whole fucking deal to the ground than pull her into this.”

Roman opens his mouth again, no doubt to argue. But bullets rip through the warehouse, cutting him off. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. The room erupts into chaos.

“Ambush!”

The men scatter, returning fire. The scent of blood spills into the air, mixing with smoke and gunpowder. Roman and I lock eyes for a single, charged second. Then we start shooting. We move like fucking shadows, muscle memory guiding usbefore our minds can catch up. The gun in my hand is like an extension of my body.

A shot cracks through the air, and fire explodes through my shoulder. The force jerks me back, but I don’t fall. I grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the gun. Roman moves like a predator, shoving one of the Turks against a concrete pillar, his gun jammed beneath the man’s chin. The bastard spits blood onto the floor, smiling through split lips.

“You were too slow, Volkov,” he sneers. “The governor grew impatient. Paid us well for this message.”

Roman chuckles, but we all know there’s no humor in this situation. "And you took the job, knowing exactly who you were dealing with?" He clicks his tongue. "Either you're stupid or desperate."

The Turk’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t speak. Roman presses the muzzle deeper against his throat. "Let me guess. He told you he was being generous, didn’t he? One week to deliver his precious painting. No more delays. That was his offer?"

The Turk stays silent.

"Fine. He’ll get his painting." His eyes flick to mine, and I nod. I understand why he’s playing along.

"But listen closely," Roman murmurs. "If he ever orders from us again, I’ll flay him alive. Inch by inch. And I’ll make sure his wife, his children, and every pathetic little bodyguard he hides behind watch as I peel the flesh from his bones. Deliver that message to him."

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