Page 68 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Shit,” I whisper to the empty room.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Liv.

“Did you take it?”Her text reads.

I type back:“Positive. I’m pregnant.”

Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then reappear. Finally:“Holy crap. What are you going to do?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What am I going to do? This wasn’t part of our arrangement. Six months of marriage to provide Damir an alibi for a federal investigation and my tuition to finish medical school. That was the deal. Not a baby. Not a permanent connection to a man who kills people for a living.

My phone buzzes again.“Elena? You still there?”

“I need time to think,”I text back.“Don’t tell ANYONE.”

“Obviously. Call me later?”

“Will try.”

I toss my phone onto the bed and pace the room. Four months ago, I was a broke medical student about to drop out because my ex stole my tuition money. Now I’m married to Damir Antonov, pregnant with his child, and living in a penthouse that costs more than most people make in a decade.

Life has a sick sense of humor.

I need air. I need to move. I grab a pair of leggings and a T-shirt from the dresser, changing quickly. In the kitchen, I find Fydor standing at attention near the elevator. His posture straightens even more when he sees me, if that’s possible. “Mrs. Antonova,” he says with a nod. “Do you need something?”

“I’m going for a run.” I grab a water bottle from the cabinet and moving to the fridge.

Fydor’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight twitch in his jaw. “Thepakhaninstructed that you remain in the penthouse today.”

“Thepakhanisn’t here,” I counter, filling my water bottle with the dispenser. “I need fresh air, Fydor. I’m going crazy cooped up in here.”

“I will accompany you.”

I screw the cap on my water bottle with more force than necessary. “Fine. Where’s Lev?”

“Downstairs securing the perimeter.”

“Perfect. Let me grab my shoes,” I say, returning to the bedroom.

I slip on my running shoes and grab my phone, tucking it into the pocket of my leggings after shoving my wallet into my desk, along with the loose change and receipt from the pharmacy that I didn’t bother to fully put away after my “accidental” droppage.

In the elevator, Fydor stands ramrod straight, gaze forward. I study him from the corner of my eye. He’s young, maybe early twenties, with close-cropped dark hair and the build of someone who spends serious time at the gym. Despite his intimidating appearance, I’ve grown to like him over the past few months. He takes his job protecting me seriously.

Too seriously, sometimes.

“How’s your mother doing?” I ask as the elevator descends. “Did the medication help her arthritis?”

Fydor’s expression softens slightly. “Yes. She says to thank you for the recommendation.”

“Tell her I’m glad it’s working.”

The elevator doors open to the lobby, where Lev waits near the entrance. He’s taller than Fydor but leaner, with sandy blond hair and a perpetual scowl. When he sees us, he straightens.

“Mrs. Antonova wants to go for a run,” says Fydor.

Lev nods once. “I’ll bring the car around.”

“No car. I want to run in the park. It’s only two blocks away.”

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