Page 79 of Beautifully Deranged

The words echo through my skull like church bells during a funeral. I laugh, but it’s a broken, guttural thing that claws its way out of my chest and tangles with my sobs. I try to stand, but my legs betray me. Useless. Numb.

I pitch forward, but Roman catches me, keeping me from collapsing completely. I can’t stop hearing it.

Missed the organs.

No major vessels.

Lucky.

He’s alive.

My legs aren’t legs anymore, they’re hollow bone. Roman wraps one arm around my waist, lets me fold into him, and carries nearly all of my weight down the corridor. I think I’mwalking, technically. My feet skim the floor. But I’m not doing anything. He’s moving me where I need to go.

IVs snake from both of Mikhail’s arms. There’s a monitor to his right, with lines rising and falling in hypnotic patterns. His torso is wrapped tight in thick white gauze, stained faintly pink.

Roman sets a small stool beside the bed and eases me down gently. I lean forward until my forehead rests against Mikhail’s arm.

“There are still so many portraits I want to paint of you,” I say through the tears, brushing my fingers down his hand. “So many stupid arguments I want to start, just to see that look on your face. So many nights we haven’t had. I want to watch you glare at people in restaurants when they stare at me too long. I want to hear you grumble about my makeup taking too long and then sneak behind me just to stare at me through the mirror. We have so much left. You’re not allowed to leave me yet.”

I don’t know how long I talk. I lose time, lose sense. I talk like if I stop, his heart might too. And when I finally look up, I notice Roman is gone.

I didn’t hear him leave, and I frankly don’t care.

My mouth is so dry it hurts to speak. But I force it out anyway. “And there’s still so much love for me to give you,” I croak. “I love you so much, Mikhail.”

A groggy, slurred rasp: “I’d bleed like this a thousand times if it meant hearing that from you.”

My head snaps up. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, but they’re open. On me.

“Mikhail?” I gasp, hand flying to his cheek.

A lazy, drugged smile pulls at his lips. “You’re sweet, angel.”

I laugh, but it breaks apart into another sob. I’m already fussing, brushing hair off his forehead, checking his IV like Ihave any medical training.

“You idiot. You absolute fucking idiot.” I screech.

I press my lips to his knuckles. “Don’t ever do that again.”

His lids open just a crack. “I’d do it again every goddamn time. Bullet, blade, fire, whatever the fuck it is. I’ll take it. For you.”

Just before he drifts again, he whispers, hoarse but so clear it roots into my ribs—

“If you think your love’s endless, sweetheart, you should see mine.”

?Epilogue?

Lola

My paintings hang on every wall of this gallery. It’s surreal. There’s something different about my art now. Some pieces are darker, shaped by my time with the Bratva. Others feel softer, because somewhere along the way, I learned how to love.

This exhibition isn’t like the last one. Back then, the room was full of people from my father’s world. Now, the people here belong to me. My world. My choice.

And Mikhail ... he’s different too. He’s not hiding anymore. He walks through the gallery like a canvas himself, covered in tattoos—my tattoos. Pieces of my art he begged me to ink onto his skin. I’m no tattoo artist, so some of them look rough, imperfect. But he worships every single one. We’re running out of places to put them. He swears he’ll start tattooing his thighs next.

A few of the Bratva men asked me to ink them too. I shut that down fast. Mikhailwould probably have an aneurysm, or worse, shoot them on the spot. I say no, firmly, every single time.

The gallery is full of people I’ve worked with. Some are Mikhailand Roman’s connections. A few are Bratva friends I never expected to make. The exhibition is also a subtle little marketing trick for my forgery work. I still do it. I like the challenge.

---