Ruthless Saint

XVIII

MISCHA MALIKOV

I was going to kill someone tonight. Perhaps it would be before we got to the exchanging of the rings or the actual reception, but I knew I would do it.

And the reason was walking around here with soft brown eyes and a sage dress that I should have burned the minute I saw it, but I'd been thrown off—a rare occasion—to stand my ground.  

        And now, she floated through the room with that sweet smile like the perfect angel.

        She was so perfect that it pissed me off so fucking much. And those damn heels. Christ.

        I couldn't stand those heels she wore around at times with little bows at the back.

        It clawed inside of me until I wanted to burn it and reduce them to a pile of ashes.

        She caught my stare and stuck her tongue at me. I fought the urge to smile, running a hand down my jaw.

        Angel, my ass.

        A deep voice. "Didn't know you would show." A tumbler filled with scotch.

        He slid into the seat beside me, his gaze fixed on his wife who seemed to be sporting a round stomach—at least rounder than I remembered.

        "Yeah." I muttered. "Me too."

        I had too much fucking work to do, too much fucking people to kill and an accomplice from the last shootout in my basement to torture yet here I was.

        In fucking New York throwing careless glances over at my wife and checking out her ass like a pathetic son of a bitch.

        "It's not the Italians." Vetrov told me.

        He was still watching his wife, but he'd shifted his gaze to me for a second. "You think it's the Irish?"

        I tensed. "They wouldn't be able to get into Russia without me knowing."

        Vetrov nodded.

        Russia was mine. I owned it. No one did shit without running it through me and the fact that someone could enter without my knowledge was impossible. Especially a member of the Irish mafia.

        They'd held a grudge after I killed one of their Capos for entering my territory.

        It was the rule—he'd been nothing but a young man, but I couldn't find it in myself to care much. The rules were the rules. Any hesitation meant weakness.

        "When were you going to tell me about the kid on the way?" I asked him.

        He stiffened beside me then raised a brow. "How did you know?"

        "Not an idiot, Sin."

        That and Elena Vetrov always drank wine but today, it was all sparkling water and lime.

        "It's still early." He muttered. "She wanted to keep it a secret."

        "Boy or girl." I needed to start buying toys for my future nephew or niece.

        Sin and I weren't brothers by blood, but we were brothers by the bound of our words. He was as close to family I had.

        He took a sip of his scotch with a faint smile. "Girl."

        Shit. Ruslan Vetrov was going to be a father. I'd remembered when he was still following the Italian woman around staying in New York longer than I needed because of a simple obsession.