Ruthless Saint

XI

MISCHA MALIKOV

        Billie Jean was playing from the car speakers as we drove down the wide boulevards and busy streets of Moscow. I had a hand on the wheel while rolling a cigarette between my fingers.

I was tempted to light it, but I settled for the toothpick in my mouth.

        We came to a stop at a red light, and I took the opportunity to sneak a glance over at the Italian woman.

She was on her phone, tapping excessively with those manicured stilettos with a lollipop in her mouth.

        I'd been tempted to grab the candy from her mouth just to see her reaction.

        I was slowly starting to learn I didn't marry the so-called angel of a wife I was promised. My wife wasn't an angel. She was far from it.

        She had the face of one but the mouth of a vixen. Sharp mouth and a knack for attracting trouble.

        Trouble like driving men to do stupid shit when she was around. And now, as we drove down the road, I realized I'd killed one of my men with a gun.

        A fucking gun.

        I didn't use guns often. It was impulsive and the worst one--personal, and I didn't do that personal shit.

        My itchy trigger finger was getting out of control, and the culprit was the Italian girl.

        My gaze coasted over her face as I drove. With those deep brown eyes, cupid lips, and freckles, I would be a goddamn fool not to notice how beautiful she was. 

       She was a woman very few men could resist. 

        She looked so fucking perfect all the times with her neat hair and manicured white stilettos that I wanted to see the façade crumble. Burn it all down and wanted more of her witty mouth and that soft look.  

        She caught my gaze in the mirror, scowling at me in this petty way I was beginning to be used to.

        The corner of my lips tipped. "What's with the attitude?"

        She shrugged, murmuring softly under her breath. "Maybe I just don't like you."

        That amused me. I'd heard a lot of her smart mouth within the last week that I wasn't fazed with the bullshit that escaped her mouth occasionally. Anyone else would have earned a bullet between their eyes.

        "Thought we were friends."

        She took the red lollipop out of her mouth and faked a smile. I didn't know why but I hated that fake ass smile she gave to others. It irritated me and left me feeling unsettled.

        "I'm not friends with psychopaths."

        Psychopath. It felt too dull of a word for what others had called me. Amusement ran through me at the word. That was what my wife thought I was, but she had no idea.

        I'd opened my mouth to say something but settled for a shake of my head. She'd resumed on whatever the fuck she was doing on her phone—tapping and clicking with her sharp nails.

        I ran my gaze down her body in approval. She was wearing my dress shirt, and I was tempted to pull on the hem and take a look for myself if she was wearing shit underneath it.

        I didn't know why but my clothes on her made me want to tie her down to my bed and do all sorts of shit that would make those cheeks warm and tinted with blush.