Page 109 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“The penthouse has a terrace.” His words are slightly slurred with approaching sleep.

“Not the same. I want grass and trees. Definitely a dog. Maybe two or three.”

“A dog?” Damir’s lips quirk up at the corners. “What kind?”

“Something big and loyal,” I say, picturing it. “A German Shepherd or a Husky.”

“I like Huskies,” he says, surprising me. “Had one as a boy, before...” He trails off, not needing to finish the sentence.

I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue. “What was its name?”

“Sasha,” he says, a rare smile crossing his face. “She was white with blue eyes. Used to sleep at the foot of my bed.”

“What happened to her?” I ask gently.

Damir’s smile fades. “My father sold her too, for vodka money.”

My heart aches for the boy he was, losing everything he loved to a father who saw him only as a commodity. “We’ll get a Husky then,” I decide. “For you and for our son.”

Damir nods, his eyes drifting closed. “I’d like that.”

I watch as he falls back asleep, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see when he’s awake. The hard lines of thebratvaleader softened in slumber, revealing the man beneath the armor—theman I fell in love with, despite every instinct warning me against it. The man who is now my husband, the father of my child, my future.

I lean back in the chair, one hand still holding his, the other resting on my stomach, where our son grows. For the first time since this all began, I allow myself to truly believe in the possibility of a normal life. A happy life with Damir.

The morning sunstreams through the hospital window, so I adjust the blinds to keep the light from hitting his face directly. Three days since the surgery, and his color is better, with his breathing more regular. The doctors are pleased with his progress, but he’s still not strong enough for the journey back to Philadelphia.

I check my watch. It’s nearly nine. I’ve been here all night, just like the previous days and nights, with everyone turning a blind eye. My medical credentials help, though I suspect it’s more the emerald necklace and the Antonov name that open doors around here.

Damir stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. Even groggy with medication, he finds me immediately.

“Morning,” I say, moving to his side. “How’s the pain?”

He reaches for my hand. “Manageable.”

I pour him water from the plastic pitcher, helping him take small sips. He brushes his fingers against mine, warm and possessive even in his weakened state.

“The doctor will be by soon.” I set down the cup when he’s finished with it for now. “If everything looks good, they might remove the drainage tube today.”

Damir nods, never looking away from me. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.” I smooth his dark hair back from his forehead. “Our son and I are perfectly fine.”

His hand moves to my stomach, a gesture that’s become familiar over the past few days. There’s nothing to feel yet—I’m barely showing—but the protective instinct is already there for both of us.

A commotion in the hallway interrupts our moment. I straighten, instantly alert.

“What is it?” Damir tries to sit up, wincing at the movement.

“Stay still.” I press him gently back against the pillows. “I’ll check.”

I open the door just enough to peer into the corridor. Two men in dark suits are arguing with the floor nurse, their voices carrying down the hallway. My stomach drops as I recognize Agents Torres and Miller, the FBI agents who interrogated me in Philadelphia.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Antonova immediately,” demands Miller, his voice sharp with authority.

The nurse, a sturdy woman in her fifties named Martha, stands her ground. “As I’ve told you twice now, sir, this is a hospital, not a police station. If you want to speak with any of our patients or their families, you’ll need to go through proper channels.”

“This is a federal investigation,” adds Torres, his tone more measured but equally insistent. “We have reason to believe Mrs. Antonova’s husband is involved in serious criminal activity.”

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