Page 115 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“I’m telling you,” I say coolly, “My husband is an investor and philanthropist. If you have a crime to charge him with, I suggest you do it. Otherwise, I’m done.”

Mikhail slides a folder across the table. “I suggest you stop harassing my client. Mr. Antonov has an airtight alibi for every incident under investigation, and you might want to check with Assistant Director Donovan. I know his ex-wife’s attorney.”

The room goes silent. Torres’ eyes widen slightly, and Miller’s face flushes red.

Mikhail smirks. “It’s amazing what influence an ex-wife wanting more alimony can wield.”

Torres’ jaw tightens, but Miller clearly knows it’s over. The mention of their superior has changed the atmosphere in the room completely.

I stand, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. Without another word, I walk toward the door, not looking back at either agent. Mikhail follows closely behind me as we navigate the maze of hallways in silence until we reach the elevator.

Once the doors close, I let out a long breath. “That was unpleasant.”

“You did well,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie. “They were fishing. If they had anything substantial, they would have led with it.”

“What was that about Donovan’s ex-wife?”

A small smile plays at the corner of Mikhail’s mouth. “Assistant Director Donovan is going through a messy divorce. His wife hired one of the most aggressive divorce attorneys in the city, who happens to play poker with me twice a month.”

“Is that true?”

“The part about the poker games? Yes. The rest is...strategic implication.”

The elevator doors open to the lobby, and we step out. The security guard at the front desk nods to us as we pass.

“Will they leave us alone now?” I ask when we push through the glass doors into the bright afternoon sunlight.

Mikhail adjusts his sunglasses. “For a while. They’ll regroup and try to find another angle, but it’s over.”

A black SUV idles at the curb with Anton behind the wheel. He nods when he sees us, and I feel a wave of relief. The familiar vehicle represents safety, a barrier between me and the world of federal investigations and interrogation rooms.

“How’s Damir?” he asks as we approach the car.

“Restless. He’s called three times asking for updates.” Anton smiles.

I smile too despite my fatigue. “I told him to rest.”

“Since when does thepakhantake orders?” says Anton, his voice light but his eyes serious while scanning the street around us.

“Since his doctor wife told him to,” I say, sliding into the back seat.

Mikhail joins me while Anton pulls away from the curb. The tinted windows shield us from view, and I finally allow my shoulders to relax.

“They mentioned Boris Orlov,” I say quietly. “Said he was found in the Delaware River.”

Mikhail and Anton exchange a glance in the rearview mirror.

“That happened before you and Damir met,” says Mikhail carefully. “It’s not connected to the current situation.”

“Was Damir involved?”

Anton shakes his head. “No. I was. Boris refused my refusal to betray Nikolai, and it escalated. What was done had to be done.”

I stare out the window at the Philadelphia skyline. The city looks more dangerous. Or maybe it’s just my perception that’s changed.

“You’re having second thoughts,” says Mikhail.

“No.” I turn back to him. “I made my choice when I stayed after learning the truth. I’m not running away now.”

---