Page 54 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“I’ve followed your advocacy for expanded surgical services regardless of insurance status. As someone training in surgery, I see firsthand how critical those procedures can be.”

Margaret takes my arm, leading me toward a quieter corner of the room. “We’re planning a major fundraiser for the fund next month. The ability to expand our services to everyone is contingent upon financing to cover the expenses, but we’re struggling to generate sufficient interest.”

For the next twenty minutes, I listen attentively as she outlines the challenges facing the fundraising efforts. Drawing on my medical knowledge, I offer suggestions about emphasizing specific equipment needs that resonate with donors and propose framing the campaign around patient success stories.

“You know,” Margaret says thoughtfully, “We need fresh perspectives on our hospital board. Someone with medical expertise who understands both the clinical and human aspects of care. Would you consider joining us?”

I blink in surprise. “I’d be honored, though I should warn you my schedule as a medical student is quite demanding.”

“We meet monthly, and much of the work can be done remotely. Think about it.” She presses a card into my hand. “Call me next week, and we’ll discuss the details.”

As she departs to rejoin her husband, I turn to find Damir standing nearby, a glass of champagne in each hand. “Making friends in high places?” he asks, offering me a glass.

“The governor’s wife just invited me to join the board of her charitable project.”

Something flashes in Damir’s eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, or genuine pleasure. “An excellent connection. The governor values Margaret’s judgment implicitly.”

“I didn’t do it for connections,” I clarify. “Healthcare for everyone, whether rich or poor, is important to me.”

“Of course.” His expression softens slightly. “Your compassion is one of your most valuable qualities, Elena.”

Before I can respond, a server announces dinner is being served. Damir guides me to our assigned table, where several couples are already seated. The conversation flows easily through the first course of a delicate seafood appetizer followed by a salad of mixed greens with candied walnuts.

As the main course is being served, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair approaches our table. “Excuse me,” he says, his gaze fixed on me. “You’re Elena Clarke, aren’t you? Catherine’s daughter?”

I look up in surprise. “Yes, I am.”

“I thought so. You have her eyes.” He extends his hand. “Senator James Brooks. I was a dear friend of your parents many years ago.”

I shake his hand, momentarily speechless. “I don’t recall my mother mentioning you.”

“We lost touch after your father left,” he says, his expression sympathetic. “May I join you for a moment?”

Damir nods, and a server quickly brings an additional chair. The senator settles beside me, his manner warm and grandfatherly. “Catherine and I attended undergrad university together. She was brilliant—top of our class in biochemistry. Your father came along in our final year and swept her off her feet. I heard she became a nurse instead of going on to medical school as she’d originally planned?”

“Yes.” I shift forward, hungry for details about my mother’s life before me. “She never talked much about her college days.”

“She was quite the activist.” Senator Brooks chuckles. “Organized protests against pharmaceutical testing practices and led study groups for struggling students. Your mother believed in fighting for what was right, even when it was difficult.”

A lump forms in my throat. “That sounds like her.”

“When she told me she was expecting you, she was radiant with joy. She said you were going to change the world someday.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Following in her healing footsteps, I see.”

“Medical school,” I confirm. “Surgery.”

“Perfect.” For the next fifteen minutes, Senator Brooks shares stories about my mother I’ve never heard while Damir drifts away, working the room. The stories give me details I didn’t know, including her passion for environmental causes, her talent for playing the piano, and her infamous chocolate chip cookies that sustained their study group through finals week. Each anecdote fills in pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know wasincomplete, connecting me to my mother in ways I haven’t experienced since her death.

“I have photos from those days. I’ll have my assistant send copies to you.”

“I’d like that very much,” I say, genuinely moved by his kindness.

Our conversation is interrupted when a man in an expensive but slightly ill-fitting tuxedo approaches, inserting himself between the senator and me. “Senator Brooks, always a pleasure,” says the man, his voice too loud for the setting. “And who is this lovely lady?”

“Christopher Morgan, this is Elena Antonova,” introduces the senator reluctantly. “Elena, Christopher is CEO of Meridian Pharmaceuticals.”

Morgan leans uncomfortably close, the scent of expensive cologne and whiskey surrounding him. “Antonova? Damir’s mysterious new bride, I presume? The gossip mill has been working overtime about you, my dear.”

I shift slightly away from him. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

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