Page 20 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it’s already past three. “Thank you, Anton. I think I’m ready now.”

He nods. “I’ll let him know.”

As Anton walks away, Liv gives me a significant look. “So, what happens now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s your wedding night.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Stop it.” I swat her arm. “It’s not that kind of marriage, remember?”

“Right, right.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Just be careful, okay? This whole situation is weird.”

“Trust me, I know.” I spot Damir making his way toward us. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You better.” She hugs me tightly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Damir reaches us as Liv steps back. “Ready?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He offers his arm, and I take it, playing the part of the adoring bride one last time. We make our way through the crowd, accepting final congratulations and well-wishes. At the elevator, he presses the button for the lobby.

Outside, two identical black SUVs wait. Damir guides me to the first one, opening the door. “Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.”

I pause before getting in, and he follows me a second later. “Thank you for the tuition and for keeping your word.”

Something flickers in his eyes. It might be surprise, but I don’t want to assume anything. “I always keep my word,” he mutters.

As the door closes and the vehicle pulls away from the curb, I say, “That will be a new experience,” under my breath. My thoughts turn to Casey as rage roils through me for a few seconds. It’s the brush of his hand against my thigh that scatters the thoughts, but he’s just shifting to get his phone.

My husband. For the next six months.

I twist the simple platinum band on my finger, already feeling its unfamiliar weight. Six months. I can do this. I have to.

The SUV merges into traffic, carrying us back to his penthouse. Six months suddenly feels like a very long time.

6

Damir

The elevator ride to my penthouse is silent. Elena stands beside me, her body rigid with tension. The wedding reception had been a success. My associates are convinced of our union, and the federal agents are watching from a distance. Now comes the real test of living together.

I unlock the door and hold it open for her. She steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the space. Huge windows showcase the city skyline. The penthouse is minimalist, with clean lines, neutral colors, and expensive furniture. It’s a space designed to impress, not to comfort. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say, moving toward the bar. “Would you like a drink?”

Elena nods, following me. “Please.”

I select a bottle of vodka, Stolichnaya, imported directly from Russia. The good stuff, not the watered-down version Americans drink. I pour two glasses, neat, and slide one across the marble countertop toward her.

Elena eyes the glass warily, her fingers hovering over the crystal before finally wrapping around it. She needs this. She takes a slow sip, wincing slightly as the warmth burns down her throat.

“Tell me about the loser who put you in this position,” I say abruptly. “Casey Harris.”

She seems briefly surprised I know his name but doesn’t ask how. “I was with him for two years,” she mutters. “Casey. Med school dropout. As you said, a loser.”

I watch her, keeping my expression neutral despite the surge of anger I experience at the mention of the man who hurt her.

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