Page 38 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“This doesn’t feel voluntary,” I say, looking around for Valeriya. She should be nearby, but I don’t see her.

“Please, Mrs. Antonova,” says Torres, guiding me toward an unmarked black sedan. “It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

Before I can protest further, they’ve maneuvered me into the back seat. The doors lock with an ominous click, and we pull away from the hospital. Through the rear window, I see Fydor speaking urgently into his phone. “This is kidnapping,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No one said you did,” says Miller from the driver’s seat. “We just have some questions about your husband.”

I press my lips together and say nothing more. Instead, I watch the route they’re taking, noting street names and landmarks. We drive for what seems like forever, taking unnecessary turns and doubling back several times. They’re trying to disorient me and make it harder for me to know where we’re going.

After forty minutes of this circuitous journey, we arrive at a nondescript federal building downtown. They escort me inside, through security checkpoints and down sterile hallways until we reach a small, windowless room with a metal table and three chairs.

“Wait here,” says Torres, and they both leave, closing the door behind them.

The room is freezing, and I dig a sweatshirt from my duffel bag, which they didn’t try to take. After slipping it on, I fold my arms over my chest, both for warmth and to stop my hands from shaking. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking each minute of the hour they leave me sitting alone.

When the door finally opens, both agents enter with files and laptops. Miller sits across from me while Torres takes the chair to my right. “Your husband,” Miller begins without preamble, “Is a very dangerous man.”

I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “He’s an investor.”

Miller laughs, the sound harsh in the small room. “Is that what he told you?”

“That’s what he is,” I insist. “He owns tech companies, real estate?—”

“He’s a killer, Elena,” interrupts Miller, leaning forward. “You know that, don’t you?”

My pulse accelerates, but I maintain eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Torres opens a laptop and turns it toward me. On the screen is a timeline with dates, locations, and photographs. I recognize Damir in several of them, entering various buildings.

“These were taken over the past six months,” says Torres, his voice gentler than Miller’s. “Notice anything interesting about the dates?”

I shrug. “My husband has business meetings. So what?”

Miller taps the screen. “Each of these locations had a body turn up within twenty-four hours of his visit.”

My mouth goes dry, but I keep my face impassive. “That’s circumstantial at best.”

“Where were you last Thursday night?” asks Miller.

“With my husband,” I say evenly.

“All night?”

“Yes.”

Miller tosses a thick file onto the table, and it lands with a heavy thud. “These are the men he’s killed,” he says, spreading out surveillance photos, documents, and names. “All members of rival organizations. All with distinctive prison tattoos.”

I glance at the photos but quickly look away. “You’re wasting your time.”

Torres slides his chair closer to mine. “Elena, we can help you. Witness protection, new identity, and a fresh start. You don’t have to be part of this.”

“Part of what?” I ask, feigning confusion.

“Your husband’s organization,” Torres says. “Thebratva.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Miller slams his hand on the table, making me jump. He pulls out more photos—crime scene images this time. Bodies with execution-style wounds and blood pooling on concrete floors. He spreads them in front of me like a macabre deck of cards. “Your husband did this,” he insists, jabbing his finger at the gruesome images. “These men were all rivals to his organization.”

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