Page 17 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I follow him through the room, past the rows of chairs filled with his associates. No family on either side. No friends except for Liv, who trails behind us. The space is elegant, with dark wood paneling, crystal chandeliers creating a warm glow, and fresh flowers arranged tastefully on pedestals. It could be beautiful if it weren’t so suffocating.

Outside, a sleek black limousine waits. A driver opens the door, and Damir gestures for me to enter first. I slide across the leather seat, the silk dress riding up slightly. I tug it down, hyperaware of my every movement.

Liv climbs in after me, followed by Damir. The door closes with a solid thunk, sealing us in together.

“You did great,” says Liv, squeezing my hand again.

I manage a weak smile. “Thanks for being here.”

“Where else would I be?” She glances at Damir, who sits across from us, his long legs stretched out, taking up more than his share of space. “Though I have to say, when you told me you were getting married, this isn’t exactly what I pictured.”

“Me neither.”

Damir watches our exchange, his expression neutral. “The reception will be brief. Just a formality to introduce you to the necessary people.”

“Necessary people?” I ask.

“Business associates. Allies. Frenemies.” He straightens his already perfect tie. “It’s important they see this is legitimate.”

The federal investigation. Right. That’s why I’m here, wearing borrowed finery and a wedding band that feels like a shackle. I’m his alibi, his shield against prosecution. “And what exactly am I supposed to say to these people?” I ask.

“As little as possible. They know what they need to know.”

“Which is?”

“That we met at the hospital while I was visiting Anton. That we had an immediate connection, and we decided not to wait.”

A fairy tale romance, minus the romance. I wonder if anyone actually believes it. “And if they ask for details?”

His gaze meets mine. “You’re a smart woman, Elena. I’m sure you can manage.”

The drive to the hotel takes twenty minutes. No one speaks. Liv fidgets with her clutch purse, Damir stares out the window, and I try to remember how to breathe normally. When we arrive, more security men in dark suits flank our path from the car to a private elevator.

“Is all this really necessary?” I whisper to Damir as we step inside.

“Yes.” No explanation. Just absolute certainty.

The elevator opens directly into a ballroom. Unlike the intimate ceremony space, this room is bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Round tables draped in white linen dot the polished floor. A small orchestra plays classical music in one corner. Waiters circulate with champagneand hors d’oeuvres. It’s elegant. expensive, and completely overwhelming.

“Remember to smile,” murmurs Damir, his lips close to my ear. “These people respect power, not weakness.”

I paste on my best fake smile, the one I use with difficult patients. “Like this?”

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, perhaps. “Perfect.”

We’re immediately surrounded by well-wishers. Men in expensive suits and women dripping in jewels. They kiss my cheeks and offer congratulations in various accents. Russian, Italian, American, and something Eastern European I can’t place. I smile until my face hurts.

“Damir, you sly dog,” says a portly man with a thick mustache, clapping him on the shoulder, “Keeping such a beauty secret.”

“Some treasures are best kept private, Ivan,” says Damir smoothly.

Treasure. As if I’m a possession, a thing to be acquired and displayed. I swallow my irritation and accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“So, tell me,” says a woman with platinum blonde hair dyed to dark roots and crimson lips , eyeing me up and down, “How did you manage to capture our elusive Damir?”

I take a sip of champagne, buying time. “I guess I got lucky.”

She laughs, and the sound is like breaking glass. “Luck had nothing to do with it, I’m sure.”

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