Page 105 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Take prisoners when possible,” I order, stepping over the fallen guard. “We need information.”

The first guard appears from a side hallway, weapon already raised. I don’t hesitate. Two shots center mass, and he drops. Another guard emerges from the kitchen, shouting into his radio. Anton takes him down before he can finish his transmission, but the damage is done.

“They know we’re here,” I say, moving deeper into the house. “We need to move faster.”

We clear the ground floor methodically, room by room. Four more of Nikolai’s men try to stop us. None succeed. The tracker leads us toward the grand staircase in the center of the house. The signal grows stronger as we ascend.

“Second floor, east wing,” I tell my team. “That’s where they’re keeping her.”

Gunfire erupts from the top of the stairs. My men return fire, providing cover as we advance. I spot one of Nikolai’s lieutenants, Sergei, I think his name is, trying to reach for his phone. I put a bullet through his hand then his head when he screams.

“Reinforcements incoming,” warns Viktor through the comm. “ETA eight minutes.”

“We’ll be gone in five. If not, shoot them as they pile out of their vehicles.” The tracker leads us down a long hallway lined with modern art pieces that probably cost more than most people make in a year. The signal grows stronger with each step. We’re close now. So close.

A guard appears at the end of the hallway, firing wildly. My men take cover, but I keep moving forward, using the momentum to my advantage. The guard’s eyes widen when he realizes I’m not stopping. His aim falters, but I don’t miss.

The tracker is pulsing rapidly now, and the signal is almost solid. We reach a set of double doors at the end of the hall. I can hear voices inside, and one of them is Elena’s. My mouth gets dry at hearing proof of life.

I position myself in front of the door, my men flanking me. I count down silently—three, two, one—and kick the door open with enough force to splinter the frame.

The scene inside freezes like a tableau. Nikolai stands in the center of the room, gun pointed at Casey, who stands partially in front of Elena. Is he trying to shield her? It looks that way even though that doesn’t fit with the Casey I know.

Elena is pressed against the far wall, eyes wide with fear and relief when she sees me. She’s disheveled but appears unharmed. The sight of her sends a surge of rage through me.

Nikolai turns at our entrance, swinging his gun toward us. I’m already moving, crossing the distance between us in three long strides. I slam into him before he can fire, grabbing his wrist and forcing the gun away from my direction and Elena’s. It discharges into the wall, sending drywall dust into the air around us.

“Damir,” Elena cries out.

“Get her out,” I shout to Anton, not taking my gaze off Nikolai.

He and I grapple for control of the weapon. He’s strong—he always was—but I’m fueled by something more powerful than mere strength. I twist his wrist sharply, hearing the crack of bone. He howls in pain but doesn’t release the gun. It fires again during our struggle, and I hear a man cry out behind me. It’s not Elena or Anton, so I don’t turn to see who got shot.

We crash into an expensive-looking table, sending it splintering to the floor. The gun finally comes loose, skittering across the hardwood. I drive my fist into Nikolai’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking under my knuckles. “You should have stayed away.” I land another blow to his ribs.

Nikolai laughs through bloodied teeth. “And miss all this? Your wife is quite beautiful, Damir. I can see why you’re so whipped.”

I slam him against the wall, pressing my forearm against his throat. “You don’t speak about her.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Casey on the floor, clutching his bleeding torso while trying to crawl toward the door. The stray bullet must have hit him. My men are securing the room, and Anton is moving toward Elena.

Nikolai uses my momentary distraction to drive his knee into my stomach. I stagger back, and he follows with a punch that catches me across the jaw. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“You’ve gone soft, brother,” he taunts, circling me. “The Damir I knew wouldn’t let a woman distract him. Wouldn’t let a child weaken him.”

I spit blood onto the floor. “The Damir you knew died the day you betrayed him.”

We clash again, trading blows in the brutal, efficient style we both learned in the same training grounds. For every hit I land, he returns one. My ribs ache from a particularly vicious strike, but I push through the pain.

“Your parents were smart,” says Nikolai as we separate, both breathing hard. “They knew what you were worth, exactly the price of their freedom. Nothing more.”

The words cut deeper than they should. More than twenty years later, and the wound still feels fresh.

“They saw what you were,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. “A monster in the making. Just like me.”

I lunge at him, rage making me careless. He sidesteps, using my momentum against me, and drives his elbow into my back. I stumble forward but recover quickly, spinning to face him.

“And now you think you can be a father?” Nikolai laughs, the sound sharp and cruel. “What will you teach your son, Damir? How to kill efficiently? How to make a man beg for death?”

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