Page 18 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Before I can respond, another woman joins us. She’s older, maybe mid-forties, with dark hair swept into an elegant updo and sharp, intelligent eyes.

“Carletta.” Damir acknowledges her with a nod.

“Damir.” She turns to me. “So this is the bride. I’m Carletta Morento.”

I recognize the name from conversations I’ve overheard. She’s connected to one of the Italian families. “Elena,” I say, offering my hand.

She takes it, her grip firm. “How are you holding up? Being paraded among the families for the requisite gawking can’t be easy.”

I blink, surprised by her bluntness. “I’m...managing.”

“I’m sure you are.” She studies me with those shrewd eyes. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“The usual type. Beautiful but empty. Arm candy.” She sips her drink. “You have substance. Interesting choice, Damir.”

I’m not sure if I’ve been complimented or insulted. “Thank you?”

She smiles, and it transforms her face, softening the sharp edges. “It wasn’t a criticism. Just an observation.”

Damir’s hand rests on my waist again, a subtle reminder of his presence. “Elena is finishing medical school.”

“A doctor?” Carletta raises an eyebrow. “Now that is interesting.”

“Surgery,” I say, finding my voice. This, at least, is familiar territory. “I’m in my final year.”

“Brave and smart. You’ll need both in this world.” She glances at Damir. “I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, my dear.”

With that cryptic comment, she moves on, disappearing into the crowd.

“What did she mean by that?” I ask Damir.

“Carletta enjoys being mysterious.” He guides me toward another group. “Don’t let her get to you.”

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and small talk. I stick to the script—we met at the hospital, fell hard and fast, and decided not to wait. No one questions it openly, though I catch speculative glances and whispered conversations that stop when we approach.

Liv stays close, a buffer between me and this strange new world. When Damir is pulled away for a conversation with several stern-looking men, she tugs me toward the bar. “This is insane,” she says, ordering two more champagnes. “These people aren’t normal.”

“Tell me about it.” I accept the fresh glass gratefully. “What have I done, Liv?”

“You’ve survived.” She squeezes my arm. “And it’s only for six months, remember? Then you can divorce his scary ass and go back to being Dr. Clarke.”

Six months. It sounds like a lifetime.

“I don’t belong here,” I whisper.

“No one does. Look at them.” She nods toward the crowd. “They’re all playing parts. The tough guys, the trophy wives. It’s all an act.”

I’m not so sure. The danger in this room feels real enough.

“Mrs. Antonova.” A deep voice interrupts our conversation. I turn to find Anton. He looks better than the last time I saw him when Dr. Patel discharged him to home care four days ago, though he’s still pale. “The first dance is about to begin.”

My stomach drops. “Dance?”

“It’s tradition,” he says, not unkindly. “The bride and groom open the floor.”

I look to Liv in panic. She gives me an encouraging nod. “You’ve got this. Just don’t step on his toes.”

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