Page 80 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

The compliment surprises and pleases me as I squeeze his hand in response. For a moment, we’re just two people creating a family, bound by something neither of us anticipated.

Dr. Reynolds continues her examination, pointing out various anatomical features on the screen. “The spine is developing beautifully here, and these are his hands. See how the fingers are already formed? At this stage, he’s about the size of a plum.”

“So small,” I murmur, trying to reconcile the tiny image on the screen with the enormous impact this child has already had on our lives.

“He’ll grow quickly from here,” she assures us. “By your next appointment, he’ll have nearly doubled in size.” She freezes the image on the screen and presses a button. A printer whirs to life nearby. “I’m printing several copies of the ultrasound for you to take home. Many parents like to share them with family.”

Family. The word resonates differently now. My family was always small once my father left, and I barely remember him at all. It was always just my mother and me until I lost her. Now, my family is expanding in ways I never imagined. A husband. A child. A future I didn’t plan but suddenly want desperately.

The technician wipes the gel from my stomach with a warm towel, and I pull down my shirt, sitting up slowly. Damir’s hand remains on my lower back, steadying me.

“I’d like to see you again in four weeks,” says Dr. Reynolds, making notes in my chart. “Everything looks perfect, but we’llhave monthly appointments until the third trimester. In the meantime, continue your prenatal vitamins, stay hydrated, and try to rest when you can.”

She hands me a folder containing information about pregnancy, nutrition guidelines, and the ultrasound images. “Do you have any questions for me?”

I have a thousand questions, but none for the doctor. My questions are for the man beside me, whose world I’ve entered, and whose child I now carry. How will we raise a son in the shadow of his father’s empire? How will we protect him from Nikolai and others who might use him as leverage? How will we explain to him who his father is and what he does?

“No questions right now,” I say instead. “Thank you, Dr. Reynolds.”

She smiles warmly. “Call my office anytime if you think of something. Day or night.”

Damir nods to her, a silent acknowledgment of the instruction. His hand rests on the small of my back as we exit the examination room, guiding me through the empty waiting area and out to where Viktor waits with the car.

Moments later, the car door closes behind us with a solid thunk, sealing us into the quiet luxury of Damir’s Mercedes. Viktor sits in the driver’s seat, waiting for instructions, but he says nothing. The silence stretches between us, unusual and heavy.

I watch his profile as he stares down at the ultrasound printout in his hands while he traces the outline of our son. The harsh lines of his face have softened, and his usual mask of control is momentarily set aside. I’ve never seen him like this before,so completely absorbed and so utterly vulnerable. So open and human.

The black and white image seems fragile in his large hands—hands I’ve seen handle weapons with deadly precision, hands that have built an empire through force and calculation. Now, those same hands cradle our child’s first picture with unexpected gentleness.

“He’s perfect,” I say, breaking the silence.

He doesn’t look up while moving his thumb over the image, pausing on the tiny hands Dr. Reynolds had pointed out. “Ten fingers,” he murmurs. “Ten toes.”

I smile. “All present and accounted for, I assume, or the doctor would have said something.”

Damir turns the picture slightly, studying it from different angles. “He’s so small.”

“He’ll grow quickly,” I say, repeating Dr. Reynolds’ words. “By the next appointment, he’ll be twice this size, remember?”

He nods, still not looking at me. His focus remains entirely on the image in his hands, as if memorizing every detail. Viktor shifts in the driver’s seat, clearly uncertain whether to wait or ask for directions.

Finally, Damir turns to me. The vulnerability I glimpsed earlier has been replaced by fierce determination that transforms his entire face. “I’ll protect you both,” he says simply.

Just four ordinary words, yet they carry such weight, such absolute certainty, that they seem to alter the very air between us. This isn’t a promise or a vow. It’s a statement of fact, as immutable as gravity.

The realization hits me with unexpected force. My child will never know the insecurity and abandonment I experienced. He’ll never wonder where his father is and never feel the sting of rejection that shaped so much of my life. Damir can be dangerous to the world, but to his family—to us—he represents absolute security.

“I know you will,” I whisper without a hint of doubt.

He reaches across the space between us to hold my hand. His palm is warm and solid against my skin. “You understand what this means?”

I nod, though I’m not entirely sure I do. “Tell me.”

“It means you are no longer just my wife on paper. You’re the mother of my son. My family.” His voice deepens on the word “family,” giving it weight and significance. “To me, family is sacred. It’s protected at all costs. I’ll never take it for granted.” He looks haunted for a moment, as though remembering his traumatic childhood of being sold to thebratva.

“I’ll protect both of you and any future children from what I do and from who I am to the rest of the world.” He squeezes my hand. “I’ve lived my life alone, Elena. I accepted that as the price of my position, but now...”

He trails off, looking back at the ultrasound. The silence stretches between us again, but it’s different now, becoming contemplative rather than tense. “I never planned to be a father,” he says finally. “I never thought I could be. My own father sold me to thebratvawhen I was a child. What example did I have to follow?”

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