Page 113 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“I’m fine,” Damir insists, though his pallor suggests otherwise.

“You’re not, and pushing yourself will only delay your recovery.” I look at our attorney. “He’ll strategize with you when he’s discharged.”

Damir starts to argue, but Mikhail just nods. “The lady has spoken.”

Anton moves toward the door. “I’ll check the perimeter to make sure our friends have actually left.”

Once he’s gone, Mikhail turns to me. “I’ve been staying at the Harborview Hotel, just ten minutes from here. I’ll be available whenever you need me.”

“You knew they’d come,” I say again, not a question this time.

“I anticipated it,” he corrects. “The FBI has been building a case against Damir for years. They’re not going to let an opportunity like this pass.”

“An opportunity like what?” I ask. “My husband being stabbed?”

“A direct connection to Nikolai Sokolov. They’ve suspected Damir’s involvement with theBratvafor some time, but they’ve never been able to prove it. Now, they have a violent incident involving knownBratvamembers, multiple casualties, and your husband at the center of it.”

I protest. “I was kidnapped.”

“And that will be central to our defense, but the FBI sees patterns, not isolated incidents. They’ll try to connect this to other events, other suspicions.”

Damir’s expression remains impassive, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. “What’s your recommendation?”

“For now? Rest and recover. Let me handle the legal maneuvering. Once you’re stronger, we’ll discuss your long-term strategy.”

Damir nods, his eyelids growing heavy. The morning’s excitement has clearly drained what little energy he had.

“I’ll leave you to rest.” Mikhail picks up his briefcase. “Elena, I’ll be in touch about the interview preparations.”

“Thank you again,” I say, walking him to the door.

Once Mikhail is gone, I return to Damir’s side. His eyes are closed, and his breathing evens out.

“You should sleep,” I whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“Stay,” he murmurs, not opening his eyelids.

“Always,” I promise, settling into the chair beside his bed.

As Damir drifts off, I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, grateful for each breath. The FBI, theBratva, the uncertain future—all of it fades against the simple fact of his survival.

For now, that’s enough.

I sit stifflyin the interrogation room, my back straight against the uncomfortable metal chair. The Philadelphia field office is exactly as I remember, being sterile and cold, with a distinct smell of industrial cleaner and nervous sweat. The fluorescent lights overhead create harsh shadows across Agent Miller’s face as he stares at me from across the table.

My arms are crossed over my chest, partly as a defensive posture and partly to hide the slight tremor in my hands. I’m not afraid so much as just angry and exhausted. The past week has been a blur of hospital rooms, medication schedules, and hushed conversations with Mikhail about what to expect today.

“Let’s go through this again,” says Miller, tapping his pen against his notepad. “You’re claiming you have no knowledge of your husband’s business dealings with Nikolai Sokolov?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “We’ve been over this three times already.”

“Humor me.” Miller leans forward, his tie dangling dangerously close to the coffee cup between us.

Mikhail shifts beside me, his expensive suit rustling softly. He places a hand on the table—not touching me, but close enough to remind me he’s there. His presence is reassuring, like having a shield between me and Miller’s aggressive questioning.

“My husband is an investor and philanthropist,” I say, keeping my voice level. “His legitimate businesses are well-documented. I’m a medical student. I don’t have time to review financial statements or attend business meetings.”

“Yet you married him after knowing him for what, a few weeks?” Miller’s eyebrows rise. “That doesn’t strike you as unusual?”

---