Page 53 of Married to the Mafia Devil

He nods, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth. “Your father’s crimes are forgiven,” he continues, setting his glass down with a soft clink against the wood. “If Vladimir were still around, your father would not have survived his beating. Incompetents I have working for me. Not that it matters now. You have brought me the decryption key for the blackmail file and for that recording your father made. You will be paid handsomely. That’s all that really matters in life, isn’t it? Money.”

“Absolutely,” I affirm, maintaining eye contact as I hold my glass near my lips, taking a slow sip. “Getting rich is all I ever cared about. I’m sick of poverty. I’ve had a taste of the good life and I want more, just without some Italian asshole involved.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Petrovitch laughs, a hollow sound that fills the room. Does he trust me or am I about to die? Stress builds in me but I breathe steadily, swallowing it back down. I drain my own glass in a single movement. It burns a fiery path to my stomach.

He eyes me closely before smiling, tipping back his drink in one swift motion. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“A while ago,” I begin as he coughs lightly. “I would have been terrified to be in a place like this with a man like you.”

He looks at me, saying nothing, his cheeks turning red as he coughs again. I straighten the pens on the edge of his desk as I continue talking.

“The idea of pouring untraceable poison into a Russian mob boss’s glass without him noticing? I’d have had no chance, my hands would have been shaking too much to even try it.”

His coughs grow louder, each one more violent than the last. “But I’m not the woman I was,” I say, a smile forming on my lips.

His face reddens, then pales, as he grasps at his throat, his flailing arm hitting the glass, sending it flying to the floor where it shatters.

“It looks like a heart attack,” I say calmly, my voice a well-rehearsed mask of concern as I stand and back away slightly, watching as he struggles to speak. “You died of a heart attack. No need for your men to seek revenge. Your empire crumbles. The decryption key is bullshit, of course. Not that you’ll be around to find out. And you know what? All of this is because a long time ago you tried to own a girl who didn’t want to be with you.”

He gasps, clawing at his throat, eyes bulging. I kneel beside him. “Some things are a lot more important than money, Igor. Punishment for all your crimes, for example. Justice for your victims. In a moment your men will come in here.”

He groans as I talk, spit forming in the corner of his mouth. He claws weakly up at me. “They’ll check the footage on those cameras but my father messed up the feed when he was here. Real shame when tech doesn’t work, isn’t it?”

I get to my feet. “Oh, and just so you know, my father had the skills to decrypt that file in the suitcase. You could have paid him peanuts, he was that desperate, and he’d have dealt with it in a heartbeat. But then he was just a drunk to you, wasn’t he?”

I walk out, leaving the door open. “I think he’s had a heart attack,” I say in a scared voice. “Help him.” Petrovitch’s men run into the study, their faces etched with panic as they surround their boss, who is unmoving on the floor. They shout orders, calling for doctors but it’s clear they’re out of their depth.

As they tend to him, I quietly slip away, my heart pounding not with fear, but with the adrenaline of having executed the plan flawlessly. This is the moment of victory, disguised under the veneer of a traitor's toast.

Stepping out of Petrovitch's mansion feels like leaving behind a suffocating darkness and stepping into hopeful light. I walk quickly, my heels clicking on the stone path, eager to leave the heavy, tainted air of the room behind me. The crisp evening air bites at my skin, but it feels cleansing after the thick atmosphere of conspiracy.

As I leave the sprawling estate, I see Matteo—standing beside an anonymous car, his posture tense as he scans the area. His men, subtle in their movements but unmistakably vigilant, are positioned strategically around the perimeter. They're ready to take control now that Petrovitch is out of the game.

He notices me and relief washes over his features, quickly replaced by concern as he strides towards me. “Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low and urgent, eyes scanning me for any sign of harm. “Did he fall for it?”

“It’s over,” I assure him, managing a small smile despite the residual adrenaline coursing through me. “It went as planned. Petrovitch won't be a problem anymore.”

He whistles and his men move in, guns ready. “Did it look like a heart attack?” he asks. “The seller promised me it would but I’ve never tried this mixture before.”

“That's what it looked like,” I confirm, feeling a sense of surreal pride in our success but also the gravity of what we've done. “Keep them confused long enough for your men to get inside.”

He reaches out, his hand brushing a stray hair from my face, his touch gentle. “I'm proud of you,” he says, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and something else—something like awe. “You kept your cool, controlled the situation perfectly.”

I lean into his touch, feeling grounded by his presence. “I just thought about you supporting me through it all. Helped keep my anxiety at bay.”

He smiles, a genuine expression that reaches his eyes. “I almost stopped you going in. Glad I didn’t.”

“I’m alive. He’s dead. If you’d gone in, you’d be dead. That was clear from the way he talked about you. Then who would I start a family with?”

He nods, pulling me close. “I heard Petrovitch confess on that tape. I will play it over and over for anyone who wonders if he deserved to die. Justice for my parents is finally achieved. You did that. I love you for what you’ve done.”

“You love me?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

I can’t help but smile. “Say it again.”

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