Page 54 of Beautifully Deranged

“…No shit, Sherlock. What exactly?”

Before he can answer, another voice cuts in.

“A Monet original.”

I stiffen as Roman takes a seat beside me. “Think you can manage that, Lola?”

A Monet. Jesus. That’s not just some backroom scam. That’s elite-level art forgery.

“How much time do I have?”

“A week.”

“That’s not enough time. Do you have any idea how intricate—”

"Make it work." His tone is final, cutting off any argument before it can form.

"And what if I say no?" I’m not planning to back out, but I want to see what happens if I do.

"Then we have a problem." He bites back.

Fuck.

"Does my brother know you're here?"

I hold his gaze. "Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm wondering if he knows you’re defying him."

"I’m not a dog. I don’t take orders from him."

Roman chuckles, shaking his head. "Sure, Lola. Keep telling yourself that."

My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans. I’m in deep, and there’s no getting out clean. A crash, a barked order, and the sharp crack of a gun being cocked pull me away from my thoughts. Sergei tenses, his hand ghosting over his own weapon. Roman exhales, like he's already tired of whatever is about to walk through that door.

Mikhail storms in, a force of nature, a beast let loose from its cage. His gun is raised, his injured hand barely an afterthought, and his eyes are absolutely wild. The shot rings out before anyone can speak. The bullet doesn’t miss its mark, slicing past Roman’s head and grazing his ear. Blood drips onto his collar.

Roman’s chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes up, hand flying to his ear. "What the fuck has gotten into you, brother?"

But Mikhail isn’t listening.

He’s growling. A deep, guttural sound, more animal than man. He looks feral. "What did you do to get my woman here? In this shithole?"

Roman wipes the blood from his ear, unimpressed. "Nothing. She walked in here on her own two feet. You need to control your woman better."

I roll my eyes. "I’m my own person. No one is controlling me."

Mikhail’s head snaps toward me. The room crackles with his rage. I step between them, pressing a hand against his chest, and pushing his arm with the gun down.

"Mikhail—"

He hisses, the sound sharp between his teeth. "Is what he said true?"

I nod. Before I can react, he yanks me to his uninjured side. His arms lock around my thighs, and suddenly, the world tilts. He throws me over his uninjured shoulder.

"Mikhail!" I smack his back, but he’s already heading to his car.

"Enough." His voice is final.

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