Page 120 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

She stares at me, speechless. Then she throws her arms around my neck, the keys still clutched in her hand. “Thank you,” she whispers against my ear.

I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her hair. “For what?”

“For giving us a future.”

I pull back, looking into her eyes. “We’ve always had a future. From the moment you agreed to marry me the first time.”

She smiles, tears shining in her eyes. “I love you, Damir.”

“And I love you, Elena.”

She kisses me then, soft and sweet. When she pulls away, she’s smiling. “So, Tuscany,” she says, twirling the keys in her hand. “Do I get to see pictures of this villa?”

“Better,” I say, leading her to my office. “I’ll show you everything and give you the grand tour in person next week, when we arrive there.”

33

Elena

The ceremony is grand and opulent, the kind of wedding only a man like Damir could give me. The ballroom of the Four Seasons glows with thousands of white roses and crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic light across the marble floors. I stand at the entrance, resting my hand on my rounded belly, watching the scene unfold before me.

Men in tailored suits stand at attention, their vigilant gazes scanning the crowd. I recognize most of them—Damir’s security team, now Anton’s men, except Valeriya and Fydor, who remain our personal bodyguards. We’re no longer at risk from thebratva, but Damir is still a billionaire. Guards are stationed at every door, their presence both reassuring and a reminder of the world my husband inhabits.

“Ready?” whispers Liv, adjusting the train of my dress.

I nod, unable to form words. Eight months ago, I married Damir in a courthouse—a business arrangement that evolvedinto something neither of us expected. Today, we marry again, this time for real.

“You look stunning,” says Liv, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She stands before me in a floor-length burgundy gown that complements her warm skin tone. “Damir won’t know what hit him.”

The white silk of my dress drapes over my seven-month pregnant belly, the empire waist accentuating rather than hiding my condition. The dress is simple but exquisite—handmade Italian lace adorns the bodice, trailing down into a modest train.

The string quartet begins playing, and the guests rise. I inhale and exhale before stepping step forward. I scan the crowd as I walk, seeing faces I recognize from hospital fundraisers, business associates whose names I’ve memorized from Damir’s files, and in the front row, Dr. Patel, my mentor, who smiles with genuine warmth.

I look at Damir at the altar. He stands tall and imposing in a black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, and his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. Anton stands at his side, his gray eyes watchful even in this moment of celebration. The transition of power is complete. Anton now heads the syndicate while Damir prepares for our new life in Tuscany.

Damir doesn’t smile. Not yet. His face remains impassive, controlled, as I make my way toward him. Only I can see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth and the softening around his eyes that betray his emotion.

When I reach him, he takes my hand. His palm is warm against mine, strong and steady. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, so only I can hear.

The ceremony passes in a blur of words and promises. We exchange platinum bands inscribed with our initials and the date. When the officiant pronounces us husband and wife, Damir’s control finally breaks.

His lips curve into a smirk, and he seems possessive and satisfied. “My wife,” he murmurs before pulling me into a kiss that leaves me breathless.

The reception is a whirlwind of congratulations and champagne I can’t drink. Liv stays close and leans in during a quiet moment.

“I never thought I’d say this, but you two are perfect together,” she says, watching Damir across the room. “The way he looks at you... It’s like you’re the only person in the world.”

I follow her gaze. Damir stands with Anton, deep in conversation, but he looks at me immediately, as if he can sense my attention.

“I love him. I never expected to, but I do.”

“I know.” Liv squeezes my hand. “Just promise me one thing—don’t forget who you are. Doctor Elena Clarke, soon-to-be surgeon extraordinaire.”

“Never,” I promise. “Damir wouldn’t let me, even if I wanted to.”

The night winds down, and Damir appears at my side, his hand finding the small of my back. “Ready to leave, Mrs. Antonova?”

The name still sends a thrill through me. “Yes.”

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