Ruthless Saint

II

MIKA COSTELLO

        Diamond cufflinks. Silver Breitling watch. Empty gray eyes and silky black hair.

        He was tall, incredibly so all while standing by the foyer. I was an average height so perhaps anything over six-foot was considered tall to me.

        Dust of chest hair left to imagination with red and black ink swirled together from the first two buttons unbuttoned.

        Neatly clipped black strands of hair that were wildly different from the last time I saw him. Short trimmed facial stubble with peeks of grey.

        I was frozen where I stood, couldn't move or tear my gaze from his. My mamma was still talking to him in a hesitant voice, and I couldn't exactly make out the words, but I could tell from her tone that she was a bit nervous. Shit, I was too.

        There was something dangerous lurking beneath the surface of his suit that I couldn't exactly put my finger on.

        He wasn't smiling or talking but nodded in response to whatever my papá said. I could tell he was barely listening. His attention was on me.

        He watched me quietly, but his gaze was the loudest in the room. Peering. Knowing. He wasn't watching me like he was seeing me for the first time. He gazed at me without hesitation like I belonged to me as clear as day.

        His gray eyes held mine, so damn dark and calm and filled with darkness caressing me softly and undressing every inch of my common sense.

        A twist of his silver watch as he adjusted the heavy steel. He ran a thumb across his jaw and tilted his head slightly as if he was trying to figure me out.

        Warmth rushed to my cheeks and my stomach fluttered. I took the opportunity to tear my gaze away, taking a step back and wanting nothing but the ground to swallow me in half.

        Before I could make it back to my seat, mamma snapped her
gaze towards me and mouthed my name, calling me over.

        His eyes were dark as he murmured something to my mamma. My chest throbbed with a turmoil of emotions as he stalked towards me.

        The slow, long drag of his Berluti's and the chatter of my mamma and papá serving as a background noise. He stopped a few feet in front of me, his presence loomed over me like a dark storm cloud while I burned under the intensity of his gaze—his attention.

        His hand found my wrist, scarred and rough. My stomach lit, my breath shaky as he pulled my hand down to his side and turned my fist over.

        "Should fit." The indifference in his voice washed over me, suffocating my lungs with each brush of his thumb against my knuckle.

        I swallowed hard, glancing down as I watched his thumb pad brush over my skin softly. "What is your name?" He rasped, the thick accent beneath his voice.

       "Mika."

        His voice was deep as he murmured, "Mika." I didn't know what but there was something about the way he murmured my name, so sinfully rough but held a tone of softness.

        I held his gaze, my lips twitching as I fought the urge to ask his name. Was that allowed? I snuck a glance at my mamma and papá who was still watching me, scrutinizing every single interaction between us.

        Right. I needed to be perfect—live up to the name the Cosa Nostra had given me—and bring honor to our family name.

        The Russian held my gaze hostage for a second, then turned away to my parents. I could hear him speaking but I couldn't quite make out the words or read his lips. My parents slipped out of the dining room, disappearing along with the last bits of my common sense.