Page 60 of Beautifully Deranged

“The replica was nearly identical,” Roman says. “Impressive.”

“Nearly?” She lifts a brow.

“You know what I meant.”

She does. But she still messes with him. That’s her thing.

She's mine. And yeah, I heard what she told me last night. It just made me want her more. She’s brutal when she needs to be. She doesn’t half-love. She’ll burn for you or she’ll leave you bleeding. There’s no middle. I get that. I live that. She protects what’s hers. So do I.

Roman’s back on the job. “We need to get the painting to the governor.”

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. “I’ll handle it.”

“It’s at some party. Carrion Hotel. Late.”

Fucking great. I hate those circles. Slimy men in tailored suits pretending to matter. Their hands stink of cologne and lies.

“I’ll come with,” Lola says.

My head snaps toward her. “No.”

She tilts her head. “No?”

“You’re not going.”

She shrugs. “Alright.”

...Excuse me?

I wait. Wait for the fight, the sarcasm, the sideways jab she always throws when I try to pull rank. Nothing. She just sips her tea.

Roman chuckles. “Holy shit, she actually listened.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s it? Alright?”

She shrugs again.Something’s off.

Roman grins as he stands. “You’re in deep, brother.”

Maybe I am. But I’m not about to complain if she’s finally not clawing my throat for once. We finish up. Lola’s the first to leave. She puts her cup down, then stretches slow, all long limbs and quiet confidence. I get up and follow her out.

The car ride’s quiet. She’s staring out the window, probably lost in some thought she won’t share. My hand rests on her thigh.We get to the company. She goes left to the art studio. I head toward the mess of calls, meetings, the usual parade.

Time blurs.

And then it’s time to take her home.

***

The Carrion Hotel’s rooftop bar is a glittering illusion of class and power, filled with criminals in tailored suits and women dripping in wealth as stolen as their husbands' elections. The air is thick with expensive cigars and the clinking of whiskey glasses, but beneath all the fakeness, the real business happens behind closed doors.

Politicians, oligarchs, and syndicate leaders gather under the pretense of charity or business mergers, but every man in this room has blood on his hands. They shake hands in public while hiring men like us in private.

One of them is Leonid Galkin, a governor with ties to half the illegal arms trade funneling through the east. Officially, he’s a respected public servant. Unofficially, he launders money through offshore accounts and brokers deals with foreign interests.

To add, he pays well for forged paintings, not for profit, but to impress his multiple girlfriends. A rare Monet here, a stolen Rembrandt there, all hanging in penthouses across the city. Each woman believes she owns something priceless. In reality, they’re nothing more than beautiful lies, just like the promises he whispers in their ears.

I find him in a private lounge, surrounded by men too weak to be considered threats and women who are only there because they like expensive things. I slide into the leather seat across from him. “Your painting is in your car.”

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