Ruthless Saint

XVI

MIKA MALIKOV

Mischa Malikov was a lover of fat greasy burgers and strawberry milkshakes. I found it hard to believe because I'd seen what was beneath his black dress shirt and pants and I couldn't believe he was able to look like that.

We'd stopped by a diner on the way back from the Casino when we realized it was late. Later than Olga's kitchen was open for dinner.

She served dinner at nine on the dot and we entered the car at a quarter past nine. I couldn't blame her—she was feeding almost forty men.

        Dirty Diana was playing from the overhead speakers, acting as a soft background sound to the quiet chatter around us.

        He'd dragged us to the booth in the back and sat me facing the window while Mischa faced the crowd.

        Pavel and Mikhail sat a booth down from us, looking less causal in their black suits and earpieces but I knew Mischa had abandoned causal after the latest shootout.

        It'd been over a month ago, but he still wasn't budging from the amount of security I had just going shopping.

        My phone buzzed silently on the table. I made a quick move to silence it before Mischa could ask questions.

        I didn't have to look at the caller ID to know who was calling. It was my papá calling for this month's dirty information.

        Something I wouldn't be giving him.

        I decided I would rather be a traitor to the Cosa Nostra than break the tiny trust Mischa had given me these few months.

        Another buzz came from my phone. Mischa's gaze slowly traveled to the phone with a wary glance.

        He slung his arm around the seat. A toothpick was in his mouth, tapping his fingers along the table to the beat of Dirty Diana.

        Another thing I was learning. My husband was a fan of old rock and soul music.

        He drawled, twisting the toothpick in mouth. "Someone seems to miss you." 

        "Telemarketers." I responded cooly.

        Inside I was a cocktail of emotions. I hoped my papá would stop calling because the last thing I needed was for Mischa to answer.

        We were approaching a middle ground with our relationship where we teased each other, and I pretended he wasn't the king of Russia.

        Another buzz. A ping this time. My papá had resorted to text messages.

        I picked the phone quickly but casually not to attract Mischa's attention.

        He watched me carefully as I turned off the phone and slipped it into my purse. He was still watching me as I glanced around the diner.

        "Telemarketers, huh?"

        I smiled sheephisly. "They're relentless."

        "Hm."

        I knew he didn't believe a single shit that left my mouth, but I didn't care. As long as my papá didn't call again tonight, Mischa would forget all about it and move on to another target.

        Preferably one who knew how to lie to his face and not break a sweat.

        I sucked on a red lollipop while we waited for the food.