Page 48 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

The homeless man looks up with a nod and a small smile. “Mr. Antonov. Good to see you, sir.”

“How’s the leg?” he asks.

“Better since the surgery. Doctor says I’ll be walking normal by winter.”

Damir nods, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a thick fold of cash and presses it into the man’s hand. “This should cover your medication for the month and some decent meals.”

“I can’t?—”

“You can,” he says firmly. “The shelter on Eighth has a bed for you. They’re expecting you.”

Thomas clutches the money. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“No need.” Damir replies firmly. “Just get better.”

He returns to my side, guiding me toward the waiting car as if nothing unusual has happened. I slide into the backseat, still processing all that. “You know him?” I ask as he settles beside me.

“Thomas was a janitor at one of my buildings and was injured on the job.”

“And you’re paying for his medical care?”

Damir looks out the window. “It happened under my roof.”

“That’s more than legal obligation.”

He turns to me, his blue eyes unreadable. “What do you want me to say, Elena? That I’m secretly a good man? I’m not. I’ve killed people. I will kill again if necessary.”

“Then why help him? Why fund scholarships? Why leave ridiculous tips?”

“Because I can.” His jaw tightens. “Because some things are within my power to fix.”

The car glides through the city streets, and I watch Damir’s profile in the passing lights. This man who orders executions also ensures a former employee has shelter and medication. This man who threatens and intimidates also remembers the names of waiters’ children.

I don’t know what to do with this information. It’s easier to categorize people as good or bad, to place them in neat boxes. Damir defies categorization.

We ride in silence until we reach his building. In the elevator, he stands close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle. The doors open directly into the penthouse foyer, and Damir steps aside to let me exit first.

I move past him into the hallway, my heels clicking on the marble floor. The penthouse is dark except for the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I pause, turning to face him.

Damir remains by the elevator, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. Something shifts in the air between us—a tension that’s been building all evening.

He moves toward me slowly, deliberately, until he towers over me. His proximity makes my breath catch.

“You know how this ends,” he murmurs.

I don’t back away. I don’t want to. Instead, I lift my chin, meeting his gaze.

He puts his hands on my waist, strong and sure. I slide my palms up his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. My fingers trace the contours of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders.

Damir lowers his head, brushing his lips against my throat. The contact sends electricity down my spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my skin.

I don’t. I can’t. My head falls back, giving him better access as his mouth explores the sensitive area below my ear. My hands grip his shoulders for support.

He finds the zipper of my dress, drawing it down with agonizing slowness. The fabric loosens around me, then slips to the floor in a pool of burgundy silk.

I stand before him in only my black lace underwear and heels. Damir steps back slightly, his gaze traveling over me with naked appreciation.

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