Page 114 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“My personal life isn’t relevant to your investigation.”

“It is when your personal life involves marrying a suspected criminal.”

I uncross my arms and place my palms flat on the table. “Suspected by whom? You’ve been investigating my husband for years and have yet to charge him with anything.”

Agent Torres, who has been silently observing from the corner, steps forward. “Mrs. Antonova, we’re trying to understand what happened at Sokolov’s property. Eight men are dead. Your husband was stabbed. You were kidnapped. These aren’t normal occurrences for most people.”

“They aren’t normal for us either,” I snap. “I was taken against my will by men working for Nikolai Sokolov. My husband came to rescue me. He nearly died in the process. We’re the victims here, not the perpetrators.”

Miller scoffs. “Victims don’t typically have the resources to mount private rescue operations.”

“My husband has security personnel. When I was taken, they tracked me and came to get me. What would you have had him do? Wait for the police while I was held captive by a madman?”

“A madman you claim you’d never met before,” Torres interjects.

“I hadn’t.” I meet his gaze directly. “I’d never seen Nikolai Sokolov before that day.”

Miller flips through his notes. “Yet your ex-boyfriend, Casey Harris, who is dead, worked for him. Are we supposed to believe that’s a coincidence?”

My stomach twists at Casey’s name. “Casey betrayed me long before I met Damir. I had no idea who he was working for or in what he was involved.”

“So you maintain that your husband had no prior relationship with Sokolov?” Torres asks.

“I didn’t say that.” I choose my words carefully, just as Mikhail instructed. “I said I had never met him. My husband knew him years ago, before I came into the picture. They had a falling out. That’s all I know.”

“A falling out that resulted in eight dead bodies,” Miller mutters.

Mikhail clears his throat. “Agent Miller, if you have evidence connecting my client’s husband to any crime, I suggest you present it now. Otherwise, this line of questioning borders on harassment.”

Miller ignores him, focusing on me. “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Antonova. Top of your class at medical school. Are you really asking us to believe you had no idea what your husband does for a living?”

“I know exactly what my husband does,” I say coolly. “He runs several technology companies, invests in real estate, and funds medical research, including a grant program at my hospital that supports residents working in underserved communities.”

“And the other businesses?” presses Miller. “The ones that don’t appear in annual reports?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Miller slides a photograph across the table. It shows Damir with Anton and several other men I don’t recognize, standing outside what looks like a warehouse. “This was taken three months ago. Care to explain what your husband was doing there?”

I glance at the photo without touching it. “I have no idea. I don’t track my husband’s movements.”

“Convenient.”

“No, Agent Miller, it’s called trust. I trust my husband.”

Torres pulls out another photo. This one shows Damir shaking hands with a heavyset man in an expensive suit. “Do you recognize this man?”

I study the image. “No.”

“That’s Boris Orlov. He was found dead in the Delaware River two months after this photo was taken.”

I keep my expression neutral, though my heart rate picks up. “That’s tragic, but I don’t see what it has to do with my husband.”

“They were business associates.”

“My husband has hundreds of business associates. I don’t know them all.”

Miller slams his hand on the table, making me jump despite my determination to remain calm. “You’re telling us you don’t know anything?”

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