Page 116 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Good,” says Anton, “Because Damir needs you more than he’s ever needed anyone.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence. I watch the city blur past, thinking about the interrogation room, about Damir recovering at home, about the baby growing inside me. My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat but harboring our future. Whatever comes next, I’ve made my decision. I’m in this, all of it, for better or worse.

32

Damir (Two Months Later)

The penthouse is silent, save for the soft glow of city lights streaming through the windows. I lean against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, texting Anton. I see his latest message.

Anton:“It’s done. Feds are backing off. They’ve got nothing.”

A second text follows.

Anton:“Your lawyer confirmed it. Case officially dropped.”

I exhale, the tension I’ve carried for months finally uncoiling. For too long, I’ve known the feds were watching and waiting for me to slip. Waiting for my alibi to crack. Now? They have nothing. It’s over. My marriage to Elena has served its purpose.

Anton:“You nervous?”

I type back quickly.

“This will be easier last time. It was just a contract.”

“You’re not the same man anymore.”

I shove my phone away, exhaling sharply. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life. Not when I was eight and thrown into the bratva. Not when I took over at twenty-five. Not even when Nikolai put a knife in my gut.

I smile, thinking about Justin Kehlan. I wasn’t afraid when I confronted him after figuring out he’d been selling information about us to Nikolai. He’d been so terrified I thought he might pee himself. I haven’t done anything else to him and probably won’t, but his standing in class is down to the fifth instead of second, and Elena tells me he’s doing it to himself with stress and worry.

All the other things I’ve done flash through my mind, and I can’t think of one that really, truly frightened me.

This? This is different.

The sound of footsteps makes me look up. Elena walks into the room, already dressed for dinner. The deep burgundy dress hugs her curves, highlighting the small swell of her pregnancy. At twenty-two weeks, she’s finally starting to show. Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and the necklace I gave her rests against her delicate collarbone.

“I know you’re up to something,” she teases, slipping on her heels. Her eyes narrow playfully. “You’ve been secretive all day.”

I smirk, saying nothing. She’ll see soon enough. “Are you ready to go?” I ask, straightening my tie. “The reservation is for eight.”

She studies me, tilting her head slightly. “You’re wearing the suit I bought you.”

“It’s a special occasion.”

“Our six-month anniversary was two weeks ago, and we already celebrated.”

I step forward, placing my hand on the small of her back. “Maybe I just want to take my wife to dinner.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t believe me, but she allows me to guide her toward the door.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet. Elena rests her hand on my thigh, occasionally glancing at me with suspicious eyes. I keep my expression neutral, though my mind races with every possibility of how tonight might unfold.

The restaurant is empty when we arrive, since I booked the entire place. Elena raises an eyebrow as we step inside. The hostess, a young woman in a crisp black uniform, greets us with a practiced smile.

“Mr., and Mrs. Antonov, welcome to Lumière.”

“Private dinner?” she asks, turning to me.

With a nod, I guide her to a table in the center of the room, pulling out her chair. “Only the best.”

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