Page 72 of Beautifully Deranged

Roman’s sitting in the lounge, some papers in hand, legs spread. His expression flickers with something between amusement and caution.

“I heard about your father,” he says, pushing his reading glasses up his nose with his middle finger. “Tragic. You must be… gutted.”

“Devastated,” I say. “Really. I almost smudged my eyeliner crying.”

Sergei, half-shadowed near the wall, lets out a low whistle. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Mikhail shoots him a look that could silence a riot. “She doesn’t have a bad side.”

I walk past them, heels echoing against the marble. I head to Roman’s bar, grab a bottle, and pour myself a drink. I sit, legs crossed, spine straight, eyes locked on his.

“I’m here for a reason,” I say. “I want in.”

Roman raises a brow. “You’re already in. You forged for us. Hell of a job. We’d be happy to keep you on full-time.”

“No,” I say, sipping my wine. “I want higher. Something permanent. A seat. I now have a hundred million in liquid funds. A marketing firm that practically runs the PR for half of New York’s underground scene. Half a dozen properties, all clean, with history that checks out. And I’ve already killed a person with my bare hands.”

“Jesus. You think this is a startup pitch?”

But it’s not him I look at.

It’s Mikhail.

He’s standing rigid, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a coiled storm.

Roman blinks once. “You’re serious.”

“She’s not,” Mikhail snaps from behind me.

“I am,” I say.

“No, you’re not,” Mikhail growls. “You’re talking out of adrenaline. This isn’t a fucking game, Lola.”

“You think this is sudden? You think I haven’t thought this through?”

“I know you haven’t,” he snaps. “You’re not built for this world.”

“I killed my father with a steak knife,” I bite. “Don’t talk to me about what I’m built for.”

He slams his hand on the arm of my chair. “That was survival. Revenge. Not a lifestyle.”

“And this is yours.”

His mouth opens, then shuts.

I keep going. “This is where you belong. You move like it. Breathe like it. Your blood runs with it. And I can’t stand watching from the side while you walk into fire.”

I know what this life takes, and I’m not afraid of it. I’ve studied every angle, and this is my best bet. I’ve already made myself known in the underworld, so I might as well own it.Standing in the shadows doesn’t make me safer; it just makes me an easier target. I want control. I want power. I want in.

He’s hyperventilating. “So your answer is to walk in with me? To what? Be a target? Have your name in rooms filled with killers?”

“My name is already in those rooms,” I say quietly. “I’m just done pretending it isn’t.”

Roman is clearly enjoying the show. “I have to admit, watching you two fight is entertaining.”

“Shut up, Roman,” Mikhail snaps, eyes still locked on me.

“I’m not letting you in,” he hisses.

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