Ruthless Saint

XXI

MISCHA MALIKOV

        I was losing pieces of my sanity these days. She was fucking with my head in ways I couldn't understand, and I'd been tempted to call it a day and follow her to wherever the fuck she was going.

        When I found out she'd been feeding information to the Italians, I was fucking pissed—pissed at her for doing so but pissed at myself that I couldn't bring myself to touch a hair on her head.

        We had a rule in Russia. Never turn your back on the Bratva.

        It extended to traitors and thieves and the Italian woman fell under the category of a traitor. Traitor in the Bratva were caught and killed.

        That was the rule.

A rule I'd broken for her because when I thought about hurting even a fucking hair on her head, it felt like someone took a knife and cruelly twisted it in my insides.

        My phone buzzed in my pocket, distracting me from soft brown eyes and dimpled smile.

        I glanced at the caller ID and rolled my eyes. "Malikov." I answered. "Thought you weren't supposed to calling me."

        "Heard about your Irish problem." It was Moretti.

        "What about it?" I asked, a bit irritated. Vetrov had confirmed it was indeed the Irish before the accomplice we'd captured squealed.

        I'd once thought I wasn't a man terrified of anything and didn't stand to lose anything but now, my worst fear was walking around out there with a beating heart and a ridiculous bow in her hair.

        His cool voice reached my ear as I stepped away for a drink. "I have information I think you'll want, Malikov."

        Even though he didn't say it, I could hear his insinuation.

        He needed something. Dante Moretti always did. He was a damn thief and a spy.

        He worked for the government and fucking betrayed them when it benefitted him. He'd earned a reputation in Russia and all over the world, but I didn't trust the man.

        I couldn't deny I needed to know whatever he fucking had on the Irish.

        "Name your price, Moretti." I drawled.

        "I need you to confirm something."

        "What?"

        "Heard the Costello girl went missing." He said, his voice was cool but there was a hint of amusement behind it. Almost rough.

        He was referring to Mika's cousin—Greta. I was supposed to wed her when Don Agosto had called with a change in plans.

        I didn't mind because Greta was never what I wanted. And so, the amusement lingering beneath Dante's voice was a cause for concern and I'd filed it somewhere under blackmail in my brain but as of right now, I was worried about other things.

        "Da."

        He was quiet for a second. "What's the color of her hair?"

        What?

        "Blonde." The other half of the Costello family all shared the blonde color and their signature deep brown eyes.

        "I see." He murmured. "I'll send the documents over shortly."