Page 37 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Still looking. He’s been moving around, staying in different motels, which makes him harder to track. One of Nikolai’s men probably gave him some advice on ghosting.”

I clench my jaw. “Find him. Today.”

“Working on it, boss.” Anton’s voice carries a hint of amusement. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer directly. “She’s my wife. That makes her a target and my responsibility.”

“Right.” Anton doesn’t sound convinced. “Just your responsibility.”

“Focus on finding Casey,” I say, ignoring his inference. “I want to know what he’s planning.”

“Will do.” He hangs up, and I’m left alone with my thoughts again.

Elena agreed to lie to federal agents without hesitation. She’s keeping her end of our bargain, but will she still stand by me when she realizes just how dangerous my world really is?

I pour some vodka and swallow it. The drink doesn’t answer my questions, but it dulls the edge of my concern. I return to my desk and pull out the files again, spreading them across the surface. Photos of Casey meeting with Nikolai’s men. Bank statements showing the movement of Elena’s stolen money. Phone records documenting years of contact.

I study each piece of evidence methodically, looking for patterns, connections, or anything that might reveal Nikolai’s next move. Time passes, and I lose myself in the work, making notes, cross-referencing dates, and building a timeline of Casey’s involvement with Nikolai.

My phone buzzes with a text from Valeriya:“All clear at hospital. Elena finishing rounds. No sign of feds.”

I send back a simple acknowledgment and check the time. Three hours since I called Elena. Three more until she’s home. I gather the files and return them to the drawer, locking it securely.

For now, Elena is safe. The federal agents haven’t approached her yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I pick up the phone again and dial my lawyer. “Mikhail? I need your attention on the federal investigation. I suspect they’ll be approaching my wife any time.”

Mikhail’s voice is calm, professional. “I’ll have the team ready. What’s our approach?”

“Full cooperation on the legitimate businesses. No comment on anything else, and Elena is off-limits. She knows nothing about my other operations.”

“Understood. I’ll draft the necessary documents and have them ready by tomorrow. Call me if they approach her sooner, and I’ll handle it personally.”

“Good.” I hang up and settle back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

Elena agreed to lie to federal agents for me. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t question. She simply accepted it as part of our arrangement, but there’s a difference between agreeing to something in theory and actually doing it when the moment comes. Will she still stand by our deal when federal agents are questioning her, pressuring her, threatening her career? Will she maintain our cover story when they show her evidence of my connections to thebratva? Will she protect me when they tell her what I’ve done, who I’ve hurt, and of what I’m capable?

The rational part of my brain says no. She’s a doctor, dedicated to saving lives. She has a strong moral compass, a sense of right and wrong that doesn’t bend easily. When faced with the reality of who I am, she’ll do what any sensible person would do. She’ll run.

But another part of me, a part I’ve learned to trust over the years, says she might surprise me. Elena isn’t like other women I’ve known. She’s survived betrayal, loss, and hardship, and there’s something between us now that goes beyond our arrangement. I see it in the way she looks at me, the way she responds to my touch, and the way she lets down her guard when we’re alone. It’s not love—we’re both too practical for that—but it’s something real. Something worth protecting.

11

Elena

My hospital shift has barely ended when two men in dark suits approach me in the parking lot. I’m halfway to the SUV where Fydor waits, my mind already on a hot shower and dinner, when they step directly into my path.

“Elena Antonova,” says one of them, flashing a badge that catches the fading sunlight. “We need to talk.”

I stop short, my duffel bag that holds my purse, medical bag, and spare clothes, clutched against my side. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Special Agent Miller,” says the taller one, tucking away his badge. “This is Special Agent Torres. FBI.”

My stomach drops. Damir warned me this might happen, but the reality is still jarring. I glance toward Fydor, who’s now standing alert beside the SUV, his hand inside his jacket. “I need to let my security know?—”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts Agent Torres, placing a firm hand on my elbow. “This is just a conversation.”

“Do you have a warrant?” I ask, trying to pull away.

Miller smiles thinly. “We don’t need one for a voluntary interview.”

---