Page 87 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Philadelphia is my city. I own the streets, the buildings, and the people who matter. There’s nowhere he can hide that I won’t find him, and when I do...

“Viktor,” I say, breaking the silence in the car.

“Yes, boss?”

“When we get back to the office, I want you to personally coordinate with the street teams. Focus on the areas near the waterfront and the train stations first.”

“You think he’ll try to leave the city?”

“If he has any sense, yes, but Nikolai might want to keep him close. Check his known properties too.”

He nods, his expression grim in the rearview mirror. “We’ll find him.”

“Yes, we will.” I lean back in my seat, mentally mapping out the city and dividing it into sectors to be searched. “When we do, I’m going to tear him apart piece by piece until he tells me everything he knows.” The rage I’ve been suppressing threatens to surface again. I push it down, transforming it into cold determination. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford right now when Elena and our son’s lives are at stake.

My phone buzzes with a text from Anton:“Lev is in place at the hospital. Elena is safe.”

I type back:“Good. Keep it that way.”

The car turns onto the street where my office building stands, a gleaming tower of glass and steel in the heart of the business district. It’s the legitimate face of my empire. Behind it lies the true source of my power—the network of loyal men and women who enforce my will throughout the city.

That network is now mobilizing, spreading through Philadelphia like a web, searching for one man. Casey Harris has no idea what’s coming for him. By the time we’re done, every inch of this city will have been turned over, every stone upturned, and every shadow examined. He can run, but there’s nowhere he can hide from me. Not in my city when he’s threatened what’s mine. I will find Casey Harris and end this threat once and for all.

No matter what it takes.

25

Elena

It’s a slow shift with no surgeries, so I’m filling in at the ER, trying not to think about what Damir told me a little while ago while I adjust the final angle of the marker on my adorable patient’s cast, adding the finishing touches to the cartoon dinosaur I’ve sketched. The six-year-old’s eyes light up as he examines my artwork.

“It’s a T-Rex,” Mateo exclaims, his earlier tears forgotten. “Look, Mama, he’s wearing a cast too!”

His mother smiles, softening the worry lines around her eyes slightly. “That’s very clever, Dr. Clarke.”

“I thought he might like having a buddy who’s going through the same thing,” I say, capping the marker. “Remember, Mateo, no getting the cast wet for six weeks. That means covering it with a plastic bag when you shower or bathe.”

I turn to his mother, Maria, who’s been clutching her purse strap throughout our entire appointment. “The cast needs tostay on for six weeks. If it gets damaged, or if Mateo complains of increased pain, numbness, or swelling, bring him back immediately.”

Maria nods. “And the pain?”

“Children’s acetaminophen as needed for discomfort. No more than four doses in twenty-four hours.” I demonstrate the dosage with my hands. “You can get the medication at any pharmacy. Do you have any questions?”

Maria shakes her head. “Thank you, Dr. Clarke. You’ve been so kind.”

“Just doing my job.” I smile at Mateo, who’s now making his dinosaur stomp across his lap with his good hand. “And Mateo, no more skateboarding until that cast comes off and you get clearance from your doctor, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, though his disappointed expression tells me he’s already plotting his return to the skate park.

As they leave the exam room, I rest my hand briefly on my lower abdomen, the slight swell barely noticeable under my scrubs. Fourteen weeks along now, and everything is changing. It’s not just my body, but how I see my patients too.

I gather my tablet and head to the dictation room near the ER’s nurses’ station to complete Mateo’s chart. Settling into a chair, I pull up Mateo’s file and begin speaking my notes. I pause as I imagine my own son with a broken arm someday. Will he be brave like Mateo? Will he cry? Will Damir pace the waiting room, threatening the entire hospital staff if they don’t treat our child immediately?

The thought brings an unexpected smile to my face. For all his dangerous edges, Damir would move mountains for our child. I’ve seen how protective he is of me, so I can only imagine how he’ll be with our son.

My smile fades as my thoughts drift to Casey and Nikolai. The idea that they’re planning to hurt me—to hurt us—while I’m carrying this child makes me tremble. Casey knows I’m pregnant. Somehow, he knows, and he’s still helping Nikolai coordinate a hit.

I return to dictating, documenting Mateo’s treatment plan. Six weeks in a cast. Six weeks of healing. Six weeks of protection.

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