Page 24 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

7

Elena

The hot water cascades over my skin, washing away the remnants of last night’s activities, but not the memories. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back as I recall Damir’s hands on my body, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, lower...

Three times. Weconnectedthree times throughout the night, and my body bears the sweet ache of it. The first time had been urgent, almost desperate—both of us caught in a storm of need that had built since our first meeting. The second time had been slower, more deliberate, with Damir taking his time to explore every inch of me. The third time had woken me from a deep sleep, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me against him in the darkness before dawn.

No wonder I’m exhausted. No wonder I’m starving.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel around my body. The bathroom is bigger than my entire previous apartment’s bathroom, with marble countertops and heatedfloors. Everything in Damir’s penthouse screams wealth and luxury, from the Egyptian cotton sheets we’d tangled ourselves in last night to the rainfall showerhead I’d just enjoyed.

After drying off, I dress quickly in scrubs and pull my damp hair into a practical bun. The smell of coffee draws me to the kitchen, where I find a pot already brewed. Damir is nowhere to be seen, but Valeriya, one of my new guards, stands near the counter, her posture military-straight, and her short blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour.

“Good morning,” I say, reaching for a mug from the cabinet.

“Morning, Mrs. Antonova.” Her voice is crisp and professional.

The name still sounds foreign to my ears. Mrs. Antonova. Elena Antonova. A name I never expected to have, attached to a man I barely know but whose body I now know intimately.

“Please, call me Elena,” I say, pouring coffee into my mug. “Is Damir around?”

“Thepakhanleft shortly after dawn. Business matters.” Valeriya’s expression gives nothing away.

I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. What did I expect? A goodbye kiss? A note? This is a business arrangement, not a romance, regardless of what happened in the bedroom.

I open the refrigerator, surprised to find it fully stocked. I grab eggs and vegetables, quickly preparing an omelet to satisfy my ravenous hunger. As I eat at the kitchen island, I glance at my watch. I need to leave soon for my shift.

“I’ll be heading to the hospital in twenty minutes,” I tell Valeriya, who hasn’t moved from her position.

“I’ll alert Fydor to bring the car around.”

I pause mid-bite. “That’s not necessary. I usually take the subway.”

Valeriya’s expression shifts slightly, showing the first crack in her professional mask. “That won’t be possible anymore, Mrs. Ant… Elena. Thepakhanhas arranged for secure transportation.”

I set down my fork. “I’ve been taking the subway for years. I know how to navigate the city.”

“It’s not a question of navigation,” she says. “It’s a matter of security.”

“I don’t need security to go to work.”

“You are thepakhan’swife now. That changes things.”

I finish my breakfast in silence, irritation building inside me. When I’m done, I rinse my plate and grab my bag, heading for the elevator. Valeriya follows, and when the doors open, Fydor is already inside—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a permanent scowl.

“I’m going to the hospital alone,” I announce, stepping into the elevator.

Valeriya and Fydor exchange glances.

“That’s not possible,” he says, his voice deep and accented.

“I don’t need babysitters.”

“Thepakhan’sorders are clear,” says Valeriya. “You are not to be left unprotected.”

“I’m going to a hospital, not a war zone.”

“You are now a target for Damir’s enemies,” says Fydor, his tone suggesting I’m being unreasonable. “The hospital has many entrances and many people. It is not secure.”

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