Page 72 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

The smell of antiseptic hits me as I push through the hospital doors, my stomach immediately protesting. I swallow hard against the wave of nausea that’s become my unwelcome morning companion. Four days of this, and I’m already tired of feeling like I might throw up at any moment.

I check my watch, and it’s still fifteen minutes before my shift starts. Plenty of time to collect myself in the locker room before rounds. The hallway stretches before me, seeming twice as long as usual. I pass the nurses’ station, offering a weak smile to the charge nurse, who waves at me. My hand instinctively moves to my abdomen, then drops away quickly. No need to broadcast what’s happening before I’ve even told the father.

The father. Damir. My husband.

The word still feels strange, even after four months of marriage. What had started as a business arrangement has evolved into something real. Something that terrifies me in its intensity.

The locker room is mercifully empty when I arrive, except for Liv, who’s changing into her scrubs. Her dark curls are pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she looks annoyingly fresh and alert. “You look like death warmed over,” she says, eyeing me as I slump onto the bench.

“Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.” I open my locker, the metal door creaking loudly in the quiet room.

“Morning sickness?” she asks, lowering her voice even though we’re alone.

I nod, pulling out my scrubs. “It’s getting worse. I nearly threw up in the car on the way here.”

“Did your security detail notice?”

“No. Fydor was too busy scanning for threats, and Lev was driving. Valeriya is off today, taking care of her sick mother again.” I change quickly, the familiar routine requiring little thought. “I can’t keep this secret much longer. Not from Damir, and not from work.”

“So you haven’t told him yet?” Liv sits beside me, looking concerned.

I shake my head, pulling my phone from my bag. “No. I keep trying to find the right moment, but...”

“But what? Elena, it’s been four days since you took the test.”

I unlock my phone and pull up the photos, handing it to her. “Look.”

Liv scrolls through the images of three different pregnancy tests, all positive. “Wow. No ambiguity there.”

“I know.” I take the phone back, staring at the evidence of my new reality. “I’m pregnant with abratva pakhan’sbaby, Liv. This wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

“Your ‘arrangement’ went out the window the first time you slept with him,” Liv points out. “Which, if I recall correctly, was the night of your wedding.”

My cheeks warm at the memory. “That was supposed to be a fringe benefit thing.”

“And yet...” Liv gestures vaguely at my midsection.

“I know, I know.” I close my eyes, leaning back against the lockers. “I’m just not sure how he’ll react. Will this be a complication for him? Or a blessing? Or will he see it as something that strengthens our cover story?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? That he’ll see your baby as a business asset?” Liv’s voice sharpens.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” I open my eyes, meeting her gaze. “Sometimes, I look at him and see this dangerous man, who orders executions and runs a criminal empire. Other times...” I trail off, remembering Damir cooking breakfast, telling me about his childhood, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m sleeping.

“Other times you see the man you’re falling in love with,” she finishes for me.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Liv stands, straightening her scrubs. “The fact that you’re so afraid to tell him might mean you care more about his reaction than you want to admit.”

I start to protest, but the locker room door swings open as more staff arrive for the morning shift. I close my mouth, tucking away my phone.

“Think about it,” whispers Liv, squeezing my shoulder before heading out. “And eat something bland. Crackers helped my sister with morning sickness.”

I nod, promising to meet her for lunch if our schedules align. As I finish getting ready, Liv’s words echo in my mind. Am I falling in love with Damir? The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

“Clarke,what’s the patient’s potassium level?” asks Dr. Patel, her gaze fixed on the chart in her hands.

I blink, trying to focus on the numbers in front of me. We’re halfway through rounds, and my concentration keeps slipping. “Um, 3.8,” I answer, scanning the lab values.

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