Page 95 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Dr. Clarke, glad I caught you. We need a consult in room twelve.”

I slide my phone into my pocket. “I was actually heading out early today.”

Her expression shifts to apologetic. “I know, but this patient has symptoms similar to the Ramirez case you handled last week. Your insight would be valuable.”

I nod, pushing aside my unease about the text. “Of course.”

The consult takes longer than expected, with thirty minutes spent examining the patient, reviewing lab results, and discussing treatment options with Dr. Patel. By the time we finish, I’m running behind schedule.

I hurry to the locker room, changing out of my scrubs into jeans and a sweater. My fingers brush against the emerald necklace Damir gave me, and I fasten it around my neck. Having it against my skin is reassuring and a constant reminder of his protection.

The pregnancy makes me move more deliberately these days. I’m not showing much yet, but I’m acutely aware of the precious cargo I’m carrying. I gather my belongings and exit through the emergency department—a habit I’ve developed since marrying Damir. The main entrance is too predictable and too exposed. The emergency exit offers more cover and escape routes if needed.

A black SUV idles at the curb, similar to the vehicles in Damir’s fleet but lacking something crucial—the second SUV that always accompanies my transportation. Damir’s security protocols are meticulous, never changing. Two vehicles, and a minimum of four guards, though I rarely interact with the team in the second SUV. Sometimes, I see Lev, but the fourth driver/guard often varies.

This is just one car and one driver.

The man steps out as I approach, dressed in the same style suit as Damir’s security team—black, tailored, and professional. He’s tall with short dark hair and a clean-shaven face. There’s nothing remarkable about him, which somehow makes me more suspicious. “Dr. Clarke,” he says with a slight nod. “I’m here to take you home.”

I stop several feet away. “Where are Valeriya and Fydor? Or Lev?”

“Reassigned by Mr. Antonovo for a special task.” His pronunciation of Damir’s surname is slightly off—Antonovo instead of Antonov. “I’m Ivan. I’ll be handling your security today.”

I don’t move closer. “I wasn’t informed of any changes.”

“Last-minute adjustment.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have my credentials if you’d like to see them.”

He reaches into his jacket and produces an ID card that looks authentic, containing the same security company logo, and the same formatting as the cards I’ve seen Valeriya and Fydor carry.

“You can call Mr. Antonovo if you’d like confirmation,” he offers, pulling out his phone. “I can dial him for you.”

My instincts are screaming at me that this is wrong, but I don’t want to reveal my suspicion too openly yet. “Actually, I just got a call from a colleague.” I hold up my phone, pretending to answer it. “Dr. Patel? Yes, I’m on my way back in.”

I step away from the car, turning slightly as if for privacy. My fingers move quickly across my phone screen, pulling up Damir’s contact. I type rapidly:Unknown driver at hospital. Says V & F reassigned. Something’s wrong.

Before I can hit send, a strong arm wraps around my waist from behind. The phone slips from my grasp as a cloth presses against my face. The smell is sickly sweet and brings a surge of nausea I haven’t experienced in several days.

I struggle, connecting my elbow with something solid. The man grunts but doesn’t loosen his grip. My lungs burn as I try not to breathe, but it’s impossible. My vision blurs at the edges. My phone clatters to the pavement. The last thing I see is the message to Damir, unsent, as darkness closes in around me.

The first sensationthat registers is the vibration, which is a steady rumble beneath me, and the unmistakable rhythm of tires on asphalt. My head throbs with each bump in the road in a dull ache that radiates from my temples. I keep my eyes closed, fighting the urge to open them as consciousness returns in waves.

I’m in a moving vehicle. The memory flashes back of the hospital parking lot, the fake security driver, and the cloth pressed against my face.

My hands won’t move. They’re secured to something solid—the door handle, I realize, as I carefully test my restraints without making obvious movements. Zip ties. The plastic bites into my wrists when I pull, so I stop immediately.

A voice breaks through my assessment. It’s male, speaking rapid Russian into a phone. I don’t understand the words, but the tone is clipped and professional. I crack my eyelids just enough to see through my lashes without being detected.

The driver is the same man from the hospital—Ivan if that’s even his real name. He’s holding a phone to his ear with one hand, while the other remains on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, I glimpse a highway sign for I-95 South.

I struggle to remain calm while doing a self-assessment of my condition. The sweet chemical smell from the cloth was trichloromethane, better known as chloroform. It metabolizes quickly, which explains why I’m regaining awareness faster than my captor likely anticipated. My mouth is dry, and my limbs are heavy but responsive. No signs of additional drugging.

The baby. My free hand instinctively tries to move to my abdomen, but the restraint stops it. Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I force it down. Stress hormones aren’t good for the baby. I need to stay calm, think clearly, and be alert. It’s unlikely one dose of chloroform will hurt my pregnancy.

I take inventory of the SUV from my location in the back seat. Standard issue, with leather seats and a black interior. My purse is nowhere in sight. The doors have child locks engaged. I can see the switch position from my angle. The windows are tinted, making it difficult for anyone outside to see in.

The driver’s voice rises slightly, a hint of frustration coloring his words. He checks the rearview mirror, and I close my eyelids completely, letting my head loll against the window as if still unconscious.

A few seconds pass before I hear him shift in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. Then he speaks again. “Da, ona yeshche bez soznaniya.” His words are followed by a pause. “Nikolaibudet dovolen.”

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