Ruthless Saint

VII

MISCHA MALIKOV

My head was pounding from the festivities of today, the displayed violence that'd occurred and distaste for the secret activities of my new wife.

        My trigger finger was itching to do something, turn the car around and put a bullet in the Cassano boy.

        I'd never possessive over something or someone in my life. Everything in my life was taken by me. If I wanted something, I took it. No questions asked. Except her.

        I couldn't take her. She was mine—the ring on her finger said so yet her heart wasn't. She loved another man. A man I couldn't kill.

        I snuck a glance at my wife as we came to a red light. A bright red lollipop was in her mouth while dainty fingers moved furiously across her phone screen. We'd been driving for over an hour and she hadn't said anything or regarded me.

        She was quiet but then again, she was always quiet. Always so prim and proper. Please and thank you. Dot the I and T's. She never asked any questions or spoke unless she was spoken to.

        It made me wonder what kind of household she'd grown up in. Always silenced, never having an opinion of her own.

        She was playing some sort of word game, swiping and tapping with the ring glowing under the moonlight. I'd never thought of myself as someone who cared about shit like that but there was something about the ring on her finger.

        I had this maddening urge to grab her, drag her to my bedroom and fuck her senselessly.

        Something dark that'd crossed my mind briefly and I snuffed it just as quickly.

        I'd finished replying to my emails when Pavel pulled into the airport. Mikhail and Anatoly were riding in another car, following behind us in case trouble showed up.

        I didn't plan for another shootout, and I didn't think the Italian girl could handle another heart attack tonight.

        Fuck, she would probably faint if she saw a gun.

        I stepped out of the car, instructing Pavel to stay in the car with Mika. There was already a private jet across the runway just as I'd asked Vetrov.

        I waited until Mikhail and Anatoly searched the jet for anything—any fucking opportunities for the Italians to fuck me over.

        I didn't trust them even though I had married one of their own. I knew what this meant. They could hurt me through her. She grew up pampered and tended to.

        She didn't have a single bone of violence inside her, yet it only made me want to protect her even more. And somehow that fact irritated me.

        Her fucking softness was a weakness.

        Mikhail gave me a nod as he walked across the tarmac. The jet was clear.

        I opened the passenger door where Mika was, reached over and undid her seatbelt. When I pulled back to look at her, her cheeks were flushed.

        She was an expressive little thing. Cheeks tinted with pink whenever I drew a little too close. Wild brown eyes whenever another careless man fucked around and found out.

        Pavel and Anatoly were wheeling her various suitcases behind us as we walked down the runway. I took her hand in mine, tracing along the edges of her ring and the hidden calligraphy inscribed.