Page 43 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I nod and walk out, my mind already shifting to the problem of Casey Harris. What game is he playing?

Three hours later, I stand in my study, swirling a glass of vodka as I wait. I take a sip, savoring the burn. The door opens, and two of my men escort Casey inside, positioning themselves at the door after pushing him forward. He stumbles slightly, clutching a manila envelope to his chest like a shield.

He looks like he’s walked straight into hell. His face is pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His sandy blond hair is disheveled, and his hazel gaze darts around the room, taking in the expensive furnishings, the bookshelves, and the desk where I’ve laid out several files.

“Mr. Harris,” I say, my voice cool. “What an unexpected visit.”

He swallows hard. “I want to make a deal,” he says, voice trembling.

I take another sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably.

“Her inheritance for her freedom,” he continues, holding up the envelope.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “That’s cute.”

I set down my glass on the desk, studying Casey’s pathetic attempt at bravado. The manila envelope he clutches is probably empty—a prop for his little performance. His hands tremble slightly, betraying his fear.

“Her inheritance?” I repeat, my voice laced with amusement. “You mean the inheritance you already spent?”

His face drains of color, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers.

I walk to my desk and open the top drawer, pulling out a thick folder. “Let’s not waste time with denials, Mr. Harris. I know exactly what happened to Elena’s money.”

I flip open the folder and turn it toward him. Inside are bank statements, transaction records, and photographs of Casey at various casinos, at strip clubs, and meeting with known associates of Nikolai.

“Almost two hundred thousand dollars,” I say, tapping my finger on a particular statement. “Elena’s inheritance from her mother. Money meant to fund her medical education.” I flip to another page. “Transferred to your personal account in stages, then systematically withdrawn over a period of three weeks and funneled into outside accounts, minus the ten thousand you paid back at my casino.”

Casey takes an involuntary step backward. “That’s private information. You can’t?—”

“I can do whatever I want,” I interrupt, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Including tracking exactly where that money went.” I pull out another document, this one showing a series of transactions through shell companies. “Interesting how the money moved through three different businesses before landing in accounts controlled by Nikolai Sokolov.” I look up at him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Or did you think Iwouldn’t care that you were funneling my wife’s money to my enemy?”

Casey’s gaze dart to the door where my men stand guard. There’s nowhere for him to run. “She wasn’t your wife then.”

“And that makes it okay?” I ask with a harsh laugh.

He flinches. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know who Nikolai was when I started gambling at his club.”

“And yet you continued after you found out.” I close the folder with deliberate slowness. “You stole from Elena, laundered her money through Nikolai’s businesses, and now, you have the audacity to come here offering me what? Nothing?”

Casey straightens his shoulders, attempting to regain some dignity. “I came to make things right.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and cold in the quiet room. “Make things right? You abandoned her. Left her destitute, with no way to finish her degree. The degree she worked for years to earn.”

“I made mistakes,” he says, his voice cracking. “I know that. I was weak. I got in over my head with gambling debts.”

“To Nikolai.”

“Yes.” He nods miserably. “To Nikolai. He threatened me. Said he’d break my legs if I didn’t pay. I panicked.”

“So you stole from the woman who loved you.”

Casey flinches at my words. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“Yet you did.” I walk around the desk, moving closer to him. “You hurt her deeply, and now what? You think you can waltz in here and take her back?”

“She doesn’t belong with someone like you,” he says, finding a spark of courage. “Elena is good. Pure. She deserves better than a criminal.”

My hand moves before I can stop it, grabbing his throat and pushing him against the wall. His eyes widen in terror when I move closer.

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