Ruthless Saint

IX

MIKA MALIKOV

Russia felt like an odd place to be. I wasn't used to the customs here and I'd hardly stepped a foot outside. Pavel was lurking around the halls somewhere, attending to the whim of his psychopathic Boss and my husband.

I was still waiting for my tour, but I could hardly sit still. I'd heard voices downstairs, motivating me to escape the bondage of the Doberman and ponder downstairs.

        Men flitted back and forth the mansion with a dark look and an obsession for heavy metals. Every inch of the house was crawling with guards with black pants with black suit jacket.

        With each step I walked, I could see it in their stares. They watched me from the corner of their eyes in a way that made me feel like I was interrupting something important.

        My cheeks warmed when I made eye contact with one of the guards. I'd smiled but he didn't—nothing but a blank look filled with distaste.

        Right.

I was the Italian girl who married their Boss. I must have been seen as some sort of intruder in their eyes. I always felt like one in New York after the death of my sister, but I'd hoped that would change.

        I took a seat at the island, waiting for Pavel to appear. Roxanne was sitting by my stool on high alerts, sniffing around like she could smell danger lurking.

I hoped whatever it was, it didn't include another round of gunshots. I had my fair share of guns enough to last me a week. Preferably a lifetime.

        Roxanne barked loudly, causing me to nearly fall out of the stool. A middle-aged woman came up to me out of nowhere, speaking in Russian. "Ty na pereryve?"

        Shit.

        My brows furrowed as she spoke again in this animated way, pointing to the island and murmuring under her breath.

I'd tried to explain that I didn't speak Russian, but I was beginning to think she didn't speak English as well. We were both at a disadvantage with the language barrier.

        Pavel came up to us. He placed a hand on the older woman's shoulder and gestured to me. "Ona zhena Boss." He spoke in Russian.

        "Ah! The Italian." The woman's eyes widened, and she exclaimed loudly, grasping me by the arm and pulling me into a hug.

She pulled back to examine me for a second and smiled. "I am Olga. Housekeeper."

        I laughed, my heart warming at her affection. "Mika."

        "Ona krasivaja." She told me but I could tell she was speaking to Pavel.

        I glanced over at Pavel for the translation. He smiled tightly. "She says you're beautiful."

        Another smile found its way to my face at her comment. Olga was turning out to be my favorite person today.

        "Thank you." I said, looking back at Pavel to help me translate back to Russian.

        Apparently, I was going to need to learn a lot of Russian. I had a feeling my husband wasn't in the business of talking much to me after our last conversation or being in the same room.

It was really a gamble to think he could be kind to me. I must have been deluded for so long I couldn't see the way up or down.

        I greeted Olga goodbye before Pavel started with the tour.