Page 71 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I consider how much to tell her. Elena knows what I am and what I do, but I’ve tried to shield her from the uglier aspects of my business. Now, with the possibility of a child between us, that protective instinct is even stronger. “We’re adjusting security protocols. Moving some operations and reinforcing others.” I trace my thumb along her jawline. “Nothing that puts you at risk.”

She studies my face, searching for deception. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Always am.”

The doorbell rings, announcing our dinner. I rise to answer it, paying the delivery person and bringing the food back to the kitchen. Elena follows, retrieving plates from the cabinet.

“Hey,” she says, opening containers of pasta, “I’ve been thinking about our arrangement.”

My heart rate accelerates. Is this it? Is she about to tell me about the pregnancy? “What about it?”

“Our six-month agreement is almost up.” She keeps her gaze on the food, not looking at me. “We never really discussed what happens after.”

I set down the container I’m holding. “What do you want to happen?”

She shrugs, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. Things have changed between us.”

“They have.” I move closer, turning her to face me. “Elena, is there something you want to tell me?”

Her eyes widen slightly. Does she know that I know? “What do you mean?”

“About us. About our future.” I give her the opening, willing her to take it.

For a moment, I think she might. Her lips part, and she draws a breath. Then she shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m still...figuring things out.”

Disappointment and frustration surge through me, but I suppress them. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiles, relief evident in her expression. “Thank you.”

We plate our food and move to the dining table. Throughout dinner, I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s nervous and uncertain. I want to ease her fears, to tell her that a child—our child—is something I never knew I wanted until this moment.

Instead, I ask about her patients, letting her talk about her work while I observe the subtle changes in her. “How’s that elderly woman with the hip replacement? Mrs. Nielsen, wasn’t it?” I ask, cutting into my pasta.

Elena’s face brightens. “She’s doing remarkably well. Started physical therapy this week, ahead of schedule.” She gestures with her fork as she speaks, animated in a way she only gets when discussing medicine. “And there’s this seven-year-old boy, who came in with a ruptured appendix—you should see him now, racing down the hallways in his wheelchair.”

As she speaks, I catalog the differences my trained eye hasn’t missed. She absently rests her hand on her stomach while describing a particularly difficult trauma case, the gesture protective, instinctive. When I offered her wine earlier, she didn’t just decline. She physically moved the glass away from her place setting without offering any explanation.

“Dr. Patel is letting me take point on more procedures now,” she continues.

I nod, noticing the subtle fullness to her face, a softness that wasn’t there before. Her cheekbones, always defined, now have a gentle roundness that speaks of hormonal changes I instantly recognize as significant. “That’s excellent,” I say, my mind racing ahead while keeping my expression neutral. “You’ve always said she’s a demanding mentor.”

My wife is carrying my child, and she’s afraid to tell me. The realization stings more than I expected. I watch Elena now across our dinner table, studying the careful way she redirects our conversation toward work and away from herself. Away from us. “So, Dr. Patel thinks highly of your surgical technique,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

“Yes.” Elena’s eyes brighten at the professional topic.

My chest constricts with an unfamiliar pain. Not anger but something worse. Why doesn’t she trust me with this? What have I done to make my wife believe our child would be unwelcome news?

I want to reach across the table and take her hand. Tell her I already know. Ask her why she’s afraid. Instead, I remain silent, waiting for her to find the courage to share the secret that’s already reshaping both our lives.

After dinner, we move to the couch, Elena curling against my side as we watch a movie. Her breathing eventually deepens and slows, revealing she’s fallen asleep. I study her peaceful face, imagining how she’ll look with our child in her arms.

A fierce protectiveness surges through me. I will keep them safe, both of them, from Nikolai, from the feds, or from anyone who might threaten what’s mine. I place my hand gently over hers where it rests on her stomach.

“I know,” I whisper, too softly to wake her. “And when you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be here.”

21

Elena

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