Page 27 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I straighten my posture. “I’m fine, Dr. Patel. Just a bit tired.”

She studies my face for a moment. “I heard about Justin’s request to transfer to Dr. Lewis’s service. Did something happen between you two?”

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. “We had a... disagreement outside of work. It’s better this way.”

Dr. Patel nods slowly. “As long as it doesn’t affect your performance. You’re one of my best students. I’d hate to see personal matters interfere with your education.”

“They won’t. My focus is still on becoming the best surgeon I can be.”

“Good.” She hands me a chart. “Mrs. Rodriguez in room 304 needs her dressings changed. After that, I want you to assist me with Mr. Candry’s aortal procedure.”

“Yes, Dr. Patel.”

As she walks away, I catch sight of Valeriya again, now standing near the water fountain, and give her a small nod of acknowledgment. This is my new reality—being watched, protected, and followed, all because I married a man whose world is so different from mine.

I head toward room 304, pushing aside thoughts of Damir, Justin, and my complicated new life. For the next few hours, I’ll focus on what I know best—medicine. The rest can wait.

8

Damir

The quarterly reports blur before my eyes. Numbers that should command my attention drift away like smoke. I tap my pen against the mahogany desk, my mind wandering to Elena again.

Two weeks. Two weeks of marriage, and she’s infiltrated every corner of my thoughts.

I close my eyes, attempting to focus, but all I see is Elena’s face, her lips parted, eyes half-closed as she comes apart beneath me. The memory of her soft moans replays in my mind, distracting me from the work that should be my priority.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from my desk.

This wasn’t part of the arrangement. Sex, yes—we’d established that early on. The physical attraction between us was undeniable. What I hadn’t anticipated was how often I’d think about her when she wasn’t around. How I’d find myself checking my watch, calculating when she’d return from her hospital shift.

My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. Valeriya’s name flashes on the screen.

“What is it?” I answer, already standing.

“Sir, we have a situation.” Valeriya’s voice is tight, controlled. “Elena is gone.”

My blood turns to ice. “What do you mean, gone?”

“We were at Westfield Mall. She was shopping, and then—” Valeriya pauses. “She disappeared in the crowd. Fydor is searching the east wing. I’ve alerted mall security.”

“How long?” I demand, already moving toward the door, signaling to my driver.

“Seven minutes, sir.”

Seven minutes. An eternity. Enough time for her to be taken, hurt, and killed.

“I’m on my way. Send me the security feed.”

I end the call and slide into the back of my waiting car. “Westfield Mall. Now.”

The driver nods, pulling into traffic. My phone pings with an incoming video file. I open it immediately, scanning the footage from the mall’s security cameras.

There is Elena in a blue sweater and jeans, browsing a display of books. Valeriya stands a respectful distance away, constantly scanning for danger. Then, commotion. An elderly man collapses near Elena. Without hesitation, she drops her shopping bag and rushes to him, kneeling beside his prone form.

I watch as she checks for a pulse then begins chest compressions. Her movements are precise and professional. People gather around, forming a circle. Paramedics arrive minutes later. Elena speaks to them, gesturing to the man. Then she follows them as they wheel him away on a gurney.

She never looks back and never signals to Valeriya or Fydor. She simply... leaves.

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