Page 71 of Beautifully Deranged

He sees me.

He’s buried so deep, I swear I feel him in my ribs. And when we finally break, when the world snaps and all that’s left is breath and blood and the echo of our ruin, he doesn’t pull away.

He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “You were made for me.”

I nod, smiling through the mess. “And you were made to handle me.”

He chuckles. “You stab the person who wronged you. I cut him. We fuck in his blood.”

“True love,” I whisper.

?Chapter Thirty three?

Lola

At twenty-two years old, I’ve become a millionaire. Not because of my talents. Well… that’s debatable. I guess the blade counts as a talent now. Not something I can put on a résumé, but it’s effective, sure.

My father didn’t leave me everything out of sentiment. It wasn’t love. It was just tradition. A habit passed down from his great-great-grandfather. The kind of generational wealth built on legacy and power, designed to keep everything in the bloodline—even if the bloodline hates you.

He was a traditional man. That’s all he was.

I sit in the front row of his funeral, wearing a pressed black dress. I force a tear out. Literally squeeze my eyes shut until one leaks down my cheek.

Mikhail’s hand is wrapped around mine. I give it a light squeeze. He tries not to look bored. His mouth is set in a straight line, respectful. He plays the part better than I do. My father’s colleagues are here. His connections. Some political, some legal, most not. Some distant relatives we haven’t spoken to in years are here too. I didn’t plan this funeral. Didn’t even lift a finger. His PA did everything, from the flowers to the speech to the framed black-and-white photo sitting above the closed casket. He looks so noble in it. So respectable.

It’s almost funny. No one here knows what really happened. Not a single soul. Well, except Mikhail. And Lara. And Sergei. And the Bratva.

Lara showed up not long after what I did. No questions, just gloves on and bleach in hand. She cleaned everything: walls,floor, between the tiles. Apparently, Lara has many skills. One of them is crime scene cleaning. Sergei helped Mikhail with the disposal. They drove hours away, dumped him in a ditch, and staged the whole thing. No suspects. No leads.

And now here I am, pretending to mourn the father I carved open like a holiday roast. That’s the perk of your man being wrapped in the mafia. They rewrite stories. They have access. Connections. Power. They can take your mess and make it disappear.

I glance around the room. People whisper and dab their eyes and talk about what a stern but respectable man he was. What a shame. What a loss.They offer their condolences like I’m some fragile thing in mourning.

I reach over and take Mikhail’s hand again, curling my fingers into his palm. His thumb brushes the back of my knuckles. I’ve never felt more free than when we stood to leave.

The assistant approaches me, her nose red, eyes swollen. She’s thirty years younger than my father, yet I know she was sleeping with him. His stench is still all over her.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, eyes darting nervously to the floor.

Her act is suffocating. The only thing she’s sad about is losing her cash cow, and possibly sad about not getting a penny from the inheritance too. What did she expect? That my father would write her the mansion and the company just because she spread her legs for him?

The thought of them sleeping together makes my nose scrunch like I just stepped in shit. I force a sad smile and let Mikhail steer me to the car.

When I finally slip into Mikhail’s Range Rover, I can breathe. The act is off. The second the door closes, the weight lifts. I slump back in the seat, eyes closing as I finally let myself relax.

Mikhail glances at me with a soft smile. “Where to?” His voice is smooth. Calm.

“The Bratva.”

He frowns, glancing at me. “Are you sure? We could go have ice cream. Or back to the apartment so you can rest.”

“No, Mikhail. I need this.”

His frown deepens. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—concern? No, not concern. Protectiveness.

I reach over, brushing my lips against his cheek. “I’m okay,” I assure him.

He nods once and pulls out onto the road, the car humming as we head toward Roman’s mansion. I walk in like I’ve earned the right to be here. Mikhail’s behind me, close enough that I can feel his tension even without looking.

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