♞Chapter Twenty eight♞
Mikhail
Lola said yes to breakfast at Roman’s. Don’t ask me why; hell if I know what goes through her head sometimes. It’s early. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. She’s across from Roman, legs crossed, cup in hand like she’s done this since birth.
She fits too well. It pisses me off a little.
I’m sitting beside her, pretending I’m not watching her like she’s the center of my universe.
“So,” Roman says, cutting into his omelet, “when’d you start painting?”
She stirs her tea. “Seven.”
“Shit. That young?”
She gives a little nod. “My mom got me an easel. Birthday gift.”
There’s a look on her face I don’t like—too soft. Too far away. She misses her mother.
“And you stuck with it?”
“When you love something, you don’t drop it just because someone says it’s a waste.”
Roman scowls. “Someone told you that?”
“A few someones.”
I grip my mugs tighter. Don’t ask who, or I’ll find them. Don’t care how long ago it was.
“Whoever it was,” Roman says, mouth full, “they were fucking morons.”
She laughs, quiet and sweet.She’s relaxed with him. Comfortable. Smiling. And I can’t decide if I want to drag her out of this room or just sit here and watch her laugh again.
“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.”
Galkin’s eyes widen. “I never told you to bring it here.”
“I don’t take orders.”
His fingers twitch as he glances at the guards around him. “How did you get into my fucking car?”
“I can get into anything you own, Leonid. Your car. Your home. Your life. You should worry less about me touching your property and more about me deciding you’re not worth keeping alive.”
He swallows, masking his fear with a forced chuckle. “No need for threats, Mikhail.”
“I don’t threaten. I make promises.”
His mask cracks. I slap my hand over his shoulder, more aggressive this time.
“One more thing. If that stunt with the Turks happens again—if you think for even a second you can double-cross us and come out alive—” I lean in, close enough that he can hear the quiet rage in my voice. “I will rip you apart, piece by piece.”
His breath is shaky, fingers clenching around the armrest of his chair. He’s finally realizing that he’s not dealing with a politician’s world anymore. He’s in mine.
“Enjoy your new art, Governor.”
He nods stiffly, face pale as I turn away.
Women’s eyes follow me as I go, but every single one is plain, like a blank sheet of paper compared to my Lola.
One of them licks her lips. Another whispers something to her friend, giggling as she trails her eyes down my frame.
I don’t look twice. Why would I, when I have the most beautiful woman in the world waiting for me back home?
Speaking of which—
Wait. Hold on.
Is that—?
I stop dead in my tracks. For a moment, I question reality. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe the stress is finally getting to me.
But no. That’s her. That’s definitely her.
She’s sitting on a barstool, wearing that dress, the one I specifically told her not to wear unless she wanted to start a city-wide riot. Legs crossed, sipping some fruity bullshit cocktail.
I told her, clear as day. Don’t come . What part of that sounded like follow me?
She sees me and fucking smiles. And then—oh, for the love of God—she lifts her glass and gives me a little wave.
A slow, wiggly-fingered, pageant queen meets Bond villain wave.
I stride toward her, jaw clenched so tight I might need dental surgery, hands flexing because I’m about to wring the neck of the next man who so much as breathes in her direction.
She’s calm. Serene.
I thought, for once, she was obeying me.
But Lola never obeys.
And later tonight, I’ll enjoy spanking that streak out of her. She looks like sin. Every man in this fucking room knows it.
“Misha.” She purrs my name.
Fuck, she hasn’t called me that nickname in so long. But if she thinks she’ll soften me, no matter how cute, she’s sorely mistaken.
I plant a hand on the bar beside her. “Lola.” I warn.
“You look like you’re about to start a war.”
“I don’t start wars, Lola. I finish them.”
She laughs, breathy and sweet. “So dramatic.”
“What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I think,” she murmurs, “you’re dying to get me home, throw me on the bed, and fuck this little attitude out of me.”
My hand grips her hair. “You think you can wear this dress, defy me, sit here all pretty, and not expect consequences?”
“And what consequences would those be?” she teases.
“You’ll be screaming my name so loud, they’ll think I’m fucking killing you.”
Her pupils dilate. Good girl.
“What the fuck is this little stunt, Lola?”
“Stunt? That’s where you still don’t understand, Misha.”
I narrow my eyes. “What the fuck don’t I understand?”
She sets her glass down. “If you want me—really want me—then you take all of me. I don’t hide. I don’t shrink. I fucking shine.”
“And you don’t give a fuck who gets drawn to that light?”
“No.”
“You’re a magnet for trouble.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re the one stuck to me. And yet,” she breathes, eyes locked on mine, “you think you can keep me in a cage. That’s not how this works, Misha. If you want me, you have to stand beside me, not behind me, trying to pull me into the shadows.”
Blood rushes to my ears. I’m hot all over. “And if the shadows are the only damn thing keeping you safe?”
“Maybe I was never meant to live safe.”
“Don’t say that,” I growl
“What? The truth making your chest tight?”
I could kiss her. Or slam her against this wall. I honestly don’t know which. Probably both. Definitely both. “You’re mine,” I snarl. “And if you think I’m just gonna stand by while you set yourself on fire—”
“Then burn with me.”
God must’ve stitched her together just to wreck me. I’m about to respond when my eyes snag on movement. No. Not movement. A man. Blond. Tall. That fake charm bullshit smeared all over his face. I know that fucker. I’ve seen him.
In her sketchbook.
Everything in me short-circuits. I’m moving before I realize. Only one thought screaming through my skull: tear him apart. Lola’s in front of me before I can reach him, hands on my chest, trying to anchor me.
“Mikhail? What the hell is going on?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. I’m not looking at her. I’m staring straight through her. She turns. Follows my gaze. And fucking beams.
“Misha,” she sings, casual as hell, brushing her dress smooth. “Try not to murder anyone while I’m gone, okay?” She walks off toward him, and I’m three seconds away from losing my fucking mind.
Something inside me combusts. I grab her by the back of the neck and haul her out to the balcony. She stumbles, but she doesn’t resist. Of course she doesn’t. She knows what she’s doing. She’s playing with fire and she likes it.
The night air hits us. Cold, sharp. It doesn’t help. I’m still a furnace. I press her against the railing, my chest flush against her back.
“Who the fuck is he?” My voice isn’t even mine anymore.
She laughs. That soft, wicked laugh that says she knows exactly how far she’s pushing me.
“Oh, Misha...”
“Don’t. Who the fuck is he? Don’t play with me. I saw the sketch.”
She stiffens. Mask goes up. That fake cool she pulls on when she feels control slipping through her fingers.“Maybe he saw me back when you didn’t.”
And everything goes black. I grip the railing so hard I might rip it off the wall. Just to stop myself from putting my hands on her. From shaking the smug off her.
She opens her mouth again. Probably to throw another spark. But she stops because she finally notices the storm behind my eyes. If it wasn’t for that murder simmering there, she’d have made sure to choke me on my own jealousy.
“Misha.” Her hands grab my forearm. “He’s a friend. That’s it. Don’t—please don’t hurt him.”
“Did he touch you? Did he fuck you, Lola? Did he put his hands on something that belongs to me?”
“No!” she bites out, eyes blazing. “He didn’t—I wouldn’t—god, look at me.”
So I do.
Because I always do.
Even when I’m losing it. Especially when I’m losing it. And fuck me, she’s beautiful. Even now. Especially now.
“You don’t get to sketch him,” I snap. “You don’t get to pour that energy into another man.
You have any idea what that felt like? Seeing his face in your sketchbook?
Knowing your hands traced him the way they used to trace me?
I’ve been scanning every goddamn face in every goddamn room since that day.
Waiting for the moment life throws him in front of me.
” My hand slides up to her throat. Just a touch.
Not choking. Just claiming. “And now he’s here. ”
“Misha, if you’d asked me about the sketch when you found it, I would have—”
“I should snap his fucking neck.” I cut her off.
“No! No, don’t. Only you,” she breathes. “He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even try. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”
And I believe her. Because words can lie. But her body? It’s clinging to me like it knows what’s coming if it doesn’t.
“If I ever catch you making art out of another man again... you won’t be holding a pencil when I’m done with you.”
She lets out a breath. One of those breathless, hot, fucked-up sounds that go straight to my spine.
“Promises, promises.”