Ruthless Saint

XIX

MIKA MALIKOV

We flew back to Russia the next day after Rocco's wedding. My papá had apparently been shot in the foot during the festivities.

He refused to speak about the matters, and I'd caught Mischa's mysterious behavior after the wedding leading me to believe there was something more that happened.

Mischa had been acting different during the last week.

He was quiet, a bit reserved than he used to be and detached. He didn't regard me or tease me like he usually did. I chalked it up to business.

He'd been going out each night and didn't sleep in the mansion.

I wondered if he was spending his nights with some women before shoving the thought away deep down.

My first thought was to ask if he was okay, but he'd barely lasted a second in the same room as me during the last week.

It'd made things difficult and almost made me believe he was giving me some sort of silent treatment.

I was cooking dinner with Olga when I caught a glimpse of my husband in the late night.

He'd slipped into the kitchen with a blank expression, talking with Pavel in Russian and completely ignoring my presence.

I swallowed hard, glanced towards the stairs and dropped my gaze back to the onions I was cutting.

A flash of guilt ran through me as I thought about my papá, and I desperately wished I never said anything to him about Mischa's business, but it was done.

I'd hoped Mischa didn't find out, but it was nothing but hopeless desperation.

Geez, what if he knew?

He would have said something though if he did. Right?

"Dobrota!" Olga exclaimed as she tore the onions from my hands. I jumped at the sudden bass in her voice then glanced down at my hand. Blood.

I'd accidentally cut myself while deep in thought. I hadn't felt anything but a small throb.

I dropped the knife and ran towards the sink. I flicked the tap on, running my finger under water and watching as the clear liquid suddenly became tainted with red.

Olga had panicked when she saw blood, dragging me over to sit and pulling out a first aid kit. I'd insisted it wasn't a deep cut, but she couldn't stop worrying.

She finished cooking dinner while I sat on the stool, watching the telenovela that played in the background.

My gaze, fixed on the television, but my mind was somewhere else. On my husband's odd behavior.

I'd almost convinced myself to confront him about his behavior, but I couldn't find enough courage to even look him in the eye.

By the time dinner came around, I'd convinced myself to engage in a causal conversation with him over the food.

I'd been prepared—had a whole conversation with myself in my mind but there'd been a small hitch.

Mischa always sat next to me during dinner but this time, Pavel was sitting to my right and Mikhail to my left and Mischa was across from me. Chewing slowly and typing on his phone.

There was loud chatter of Russian soliders, laughing and passing stories of the day amongst themselves.

I often joined in listening and quip when needed but today I was focused on Mischa.