Page 76 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

She pushes away from the wall, moving past me toward the living room. The distance she puts between us is calculated and clearly defensive. “I needed time to process it myself,” she says finally, her back to me. “This wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

“Our arrangement.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Is that what this is to you still? An arrangement?”

She turns to face me, her expression a complex mixture of emotions I can’t fully decipher. “What else would you call it?”

I approach her slowly, my steps measured. When I reach her, I place my hand on her still-flat stomach with a possessiveness that’s both threatening and protective. The warmth of her body radiates through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“Mine,” I say, the word a declaration and a promise.

Elena doesn’t pull away, but I feel the tension in her body.

“There will be new security measures effective immediately,” I tell her, my hand still resting on her stomach. “You will no longer work late shifts.”

“Damir—”

“Your hospital routes will change daily.”

“You can’t just?—”

“You’ll undergo defensive driving training in case you need to escape a threat.”

Elena steps back, breaking the contact between us. “This is ridiculous. I’m a doctor. I have responsibilities and patients who depend on me. You can’t dictate my entire life because of one incident.”

“One incident?” My voice remains calm, but ice creeps into my tone. “One incident that could have cost you your life. That kidnapper wouldn’t have cared if you were pregnant. You and he—or she—could be dead by now if they had succeeded.”

She flinches and goes paler. “I understand you’re concerned, but?—”

“Nikolai now has two targets instead of one.”

The words hang in the air between us. Elena’s protest dies on her lips as the reality of our situation crystallizes for her. Her pregnancy raises the stakes for everyone involved. She touches her stomach in a protective gesture she might not even be aware of making. “You think he knows?”

“It doesn’t matter if he knows now. He will eventually.” I move to the window, looking out at the city below. “And when he does, he’ll use it against me. Against us.” I turn back to Elena. “Now, tell me. Why didn’t you reveal the pregnancy when you first found out?”

She sinks onto the couch, her shoulders slumping. I watch as a litany of emotions cross her face—fear, uncertainty, and doubt—before she settles on what to say. “I was rattled. Processing it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were careful.”

“Not always. Not careful enough, it seems.”

She looks up at me, vulnerability in her eyes. “I needed to figure out what I wanted before I told you.”

I move to sit beside her, not touching her yet, giving her space. “And what do you want?”

“I want the baby,” she says without hesitation, surprising me with her certainty. “Do you?”

I study her face, searching for any sign of doubt or manipulation. Finding none, I reach out and place my hand on her stomach again. “Mine,” I say the word softer this time before cupping her cheek gently. “Mine.”

My tone is possessive but tender, a claim and a vow wrapped into one word. She searches my expression, clearly looking forsomething I’m not sure I know how to give. “Do you believe I don’t want it and you?”

She shakes her head slightly. “No, I don’t really believe that.”

The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, and she leans into my touch. The simple gesture of trust sends a surge of protectiveness through me that’s almost painful in its intensity.

“I should have told you sooner,” she admits. “I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of everything changing.” She looks down at her hands. “This makes it real, Damir. Permanent. No more pretending this is just an arrangement with an expiration date.”

I lift her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “It stopped being just an arrangement that first night in my bedroom.”

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