Ruthless Saint

XII

MIKA MALIKOV

        The smell of vodka and tobacco smoke surrounded me, giving me a heady feeling combined with lust and a love for bad decisions. Buckets of coins, black-jack tables and clinks of coins falling into machines.

        I'd read the sign when we first walked in. Lucky Strike. From the looks of it, I assumed it was one of Mischa's casinos.

        He'd left me alone with Mikhail with nothing but a heavy look that told me everything I needed to know. I wasn't planning on doing anything to warrant another person to earn a gunshot or worse.

        I was starting to learn Mischa didn't bluff. He might have joked a lot, but he did exactly what he said he would.

        I shivered underneath the cool air-conditioned air in Mischa's dress shirt, and my jean shorts underneath.

        After we left the shopping center, we grabbed a couple of greasy burgers at a diner, and it was then I came to realize that Mischa was a fan of greasy burgers and strawberry milkshakes.

        He didn't talk the whole ride there or didn't say a word to me as we ate. I didn't talk to him either, soaking up the momentary peace and silent I could get.

        He seemed to have a habit for silence whenever he was pissed off about something or someone.

        It was downright childish, but I'd come to appreciate the silence.

        After a few minutes, I decided I wanted a drink. Mikhail was hot on my tail, following me as I was headed to the bar. I couldn't blame him.

        I'd watched Mischa shoot a man because he was supposed to be watching me. I didn't have it in me to watch someone else die today because of my recklessness.

        "You want a drink too?" I asked Mikhail. He was quiet, his jaw tightened like he couldn't speak to me. I twisted my lips with a smile. "It's free. I'm buying."

        Well, technically Mischa's Amex was buying but it didn't make the least bit difference.

        He shook his head.

        "Are you not allowed to speak to me?"

        He grumbled under his breath quietly. "Not without the Boss present."

        Oh.

        A flash of disappointment ran through me. I'd gotten married to what I thought was a typical made man, but he was truly a psychopath.

        We would have to talk about rules when it came to this marriage. It was a marriage of convenience but that didn't mean he could control who I spoke to and what I did.

        I ordered a glass of vodka, muttering and spewing under my breath on how I would approach the conversation the next time we spoke.

        "Didn't know Malikov's wife would be drinking vodka midday." A feminine voice spoke. Thick Russian accent.

        I raised my gaze to meet the stranger who had spoken. It was a woman. Bright red hair and red lips. She flashed a smile as she placed the tumbler in front of me. "You are different than I expected."

        My cheeks warmed. Right. They were expecting my cousin, Greta. Blonde hair and the signature Costello brown eyes.

        "Katya." Mikhail's voice was hard as he looked at the bartender.