Ruthless Saint

VI

MIKA MALIKOV

        I was on my second glass of wine, the tumbler heavy in my hand and my face flushed from the excitement of it all. I'd danced with a dozen people, all friends and family and could hardly keep track of my husband.

        The conversation remained in the back of my mind like fresh gossip, causing to wince every time I thought about his expression. 

        I was regretting every single conversation I had with Alessio and hoped Mischa wouldn't change his mind about the wedding or worse... tell my parents.

        It was one thing to be a huge disappointment but to be called known as one... that was different.

        Placing the tumbler on the table, I glanced around the backyard for my husband. It was now getting dark; the sun had gone down a couple of minutes ago and the after-wedding festivities were beginning. 

        With Italians, they meant a lot of drinking and yelling coupled with a few injuries here and there.

        I didn't know when I'd lost track of Mischa, but I couldn't find him. I looked around for the man that followed him around for most of today, feeling a little anxious when I found him.

        "Mrs. Malikov." He greeted with a nod.

        I flushed. Right. I wasn't a Costello anymore. I was now Mika Malikov. It felt as foreign as the word on my tongue as I murmured it to myself.

        "Hi—" I realized I didn't know his name. "I'm sorry I don't know your name."

        "Pavel." He answered, the thick accent beneath the bass of his voice.

        I smiled. "Pavel. Nice to meet you. Please just call me Mika."

        His face twisted into one of horror and confusion, but he nodded regardless. I had a feeling he wouldn't be calling me that anytime soon.

        "Do you know where Mischa is?"

        His expression changed into a dark look. And that look. I knew what that look was. I'd seen it countless times whenever my papá came home from meetings, his shirt stained and a dark look. It was the same one. The look that said it all.

        For some reason, I glanced around the crowd in search of Alessio but to avail. Then all the dots and clues connected, and a lightbulb went off in my head.

        Oh god. No. No.

        I grabbed a fistful of my dress, careful to not trip over as I ran towards the backdoor into the foyer. I could see Pavel hot on my tail, saying things I could hear but couldn't comprehend but I didn't make an effort to stop.

        Shit. Shit. I slammed the guest room closed when I realized it was empty except for Rocco and a woman I'd never seen before messing around. 

        My face flushed as I murmured a high-pitched sorry and continued downstairs. I heard it before I saw anything.   

        The sound of fist colliding with skin and heavy deep grunts. My feet led me to the kitchen where I stood, frozen to the spot and horrified as I watched. There was blood everywhere, staining my mamma's favorite white tiles.

        Christ. I was going to be sick.

        My head felt woozy, but I forced myself to walk in a few steps, glancing around for Alessio before I found him. I let out a gasp as I examined him from head to toe. He was sitting against the dishwasher, face bloody and fresh bruises covered his face.