Page 67 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

As I launch into a detailed medical conversation, I walk slowly down the aisle, gesturing animatedly with my free hand. Lev follows but keeps his distance to give me privacy for the “important” call.

When we reach the end of the aisle, I pivot and walk back, passing the pregnancy tests. In one smooth motion, I grab a box and slide it under the tampon package while continuing my fake conversation.

“Yes, I understand the elevated levels could indicate an infection or something more serious...”

At the checkout counter, I place both items on the belt, the pregnancy test hidden beneath the tampons. The cashier, abored-looking teenager, barely glances at my purchases as she scans them. Just as she’s about to scan the pregnancy test, I fumble with my wallet, dropping it on the floor. Coins scatter everywhere.

“Oh, no,” I exclaim, bending down to gather them. “I’m so clumsy.”

Lev steps forward to help, his attention on the floor as the cashier quickly scans the pregnancy test and places both items in a bag.

“That’ll be $18.47,” she says.

I hand her a twenty, trying to keep my hand from shaking. “Keep the change.”

Outside, Fydor is waiting by the car. “Everything okay?” he asks, opening the door for me.

“Fine,” I say, clutching the pharmacy bag. “Just a routine purchase.”

The ride back to the penthouse is silent, and my heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. When we arrive, I head straight for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I tear open the pregnancy test box with trembling fingers, reading the instructions twice to make sure I don’t mess this up. The plastic stick feels cold in my hand as I follow the directions, then place it on the counter.

Three minutes. The box says to wait three minutes.

I pace the bathroom, checking my watch every few seconds. The marble floor no longer feels cold, or maybe I’m just too numb to notice. My medical training tells me to be rational, toconsider all possibilities, but my mind races with scenarios I’m not prepared for.

What will Damir say? Our arrangement was supposed to be temporary—six months of marriage to provide him with an alibi. We’ve grown closer than either of us expected, but a baby? That’s permanent in a way neither of us signed up for.

I check my watch again. Two minutes left.

I think about my career. I’m so close to finishing medical school, to becoming the surgeon I’ve always dreamed of being. A baby would change everything.

One minute.

I think about Damir’s world—the danger, the violence, the enemies. What kind of life would a child have with us as parents?

Thirty seconds.

I stop pacing and stare at myself in the mirror. Whatever the result, I’ll handle it. I’ve survived worse.

Time’s up.

I pick up the test with shaking hands, staring at the little window. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

Pregnant.

The room spins around me as I sink to the floor, my back against the bathtub. Tears stream down my face—not from sadness, but from shock, from the overwhelming weight of this new reality.

I’m going to have a baby. Damir’s baby.

I stare at the pregnancy test in my hand, the two pink lines mocking me. This can’t be happening. Damir can’t know yet. My hands shake as I wrap the test in toilet paper and bury it deeply in the bathroom trash, covering it with more tissue to hide the evidence.

Four minutes ago, my life was complicated but manageable. Now? I press my palm against my still-flat stomach. Now everything has changed.

I splash cold water on my face and study my reflection in the mirror. Same dark circles under my eyes from hospital shifts. Same brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Nothing on the outside reveals the seismic shift happening inside me.

The bathroom door feels miles away as I cross to it, listening for any sounds in the penthouse. Silence. Damir left for a meeting with his lieutenants an hour ago. I should have time to think, to plan.

I slip into our bedroom and sit on the edge of the king-sized bed. My medical training kicks in, calculating dates in my head. I’m probably ten or eleven weeks along. Morning sickness is peaking right on schedule.

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