Ruthless Saint

X

MIKA MALIKOV

        I was beginning to learn that my curiosity would someday infect me to do something I would regret. Something involving my husband.

        It'd been a week since we had dinner together and that was the last time I saw him. I didn't care much about his location because it meant I didn't have to talk to the man, but I wondered if another woman was entertaining him.

        Pavel couldn't give me an answer for my husband's whereabouts at night and I'd stopped asking after the first few days. I wasn't a jealous woman—and I couldn't exactly be jealous over a man that was never mine in the first place.

        I concluded I wanted to know about his whereabouts because I could. I was his wife and that alone entitled me to his location.

        I'd decided early that morning I didn't want to wait for Mischa to come for me. Roxanne was lying beside me on the couch, cuddled into my side while the television was playing some baking show I'd put on randomly. I'd never baked a day in my life, but I decided I was going to start.

        Russia was warm around this time. It was mid-July, and the warm weather inspired flowers, bees and all types of bugs I didn't take a liking to.

        My papá had called me twice within the last week and I knew what he wanted. He wanted something he could use against the Russians. Anything.

        The Italians were desperate and untrustworthy. He married his own daughter off, yet he was still looking for a way to fuck with the Russians.

        I'd been ignoring his messages and calls because I couldn't do it.

        One, I didn't know anything. My husband barely tolerated me enough to let me get close to him. And two, I didn't feel comfortable giving information to my papá.

        Either way, I knew I would have to give him something soon and the thought scared me. I'd never gone against my papá ever.

        I glanced over at the clock. It was mid-afternoon. I was starving and I knew I'd missed my time for lunch. In the house, food times were non-negotiable.

        Olga fed everyone at the same time, and lunch was about an hour ago which I'd missed, ransacking through my closet for something to wear.

        I'd stumbled my way into Mischa's room—or something that resembled his outfits. The tell-tale signs were there. Leather Berluti's and Breitling watch.

        I stole one of his dress shirts with nothing but shorts underneath and my expensive Jimmy Choo's.

        It was downright pathetic, but I couldn't help myself. I was running out of clothes to wear, and Mischa's bland closet was my last resort.

        And now, I'd found my way into his garage. My gaze coasted over the various types of expensive cars he owned before I settled for his black Mercedes.

        I didn't have a license—I never learned to drive because my papá didn't think it was something a well-brought up Italian woman needed to learn.

        Roxanne whimpered as she climbed into the seat, and I sighed. I was waiting for someone to show up—Pavel or Mikhail but there was no one around.

        The only person left to guard me was Roxanne and besides, how else was I supposed to cause enough trouble to get the attention of my husband?

        I turned on the car and smiled widely for the act itself. I placed my foot on the brake cautiously and Roxanne whimpered again.

        I'd watched my cousins drive enough time to understand the basic art to driving. I was practically a pro at it without the practice.