Page 39 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I push away the photos, my stomach churning. “I have nothing to say.”

“You’re making a mistake,” warns Miller, gathering the photos. “When this all comes crashing down—and it will—you’ll go down with him.”

“Are you charging me with something?” I ask, pushing back from the table.

Before either agent can answer, the door opens. A tall man in an expensive suit enters, briefcase in hand. “This interview is over,” he announces. “I’m Mikhail Seaver, Mrs. Antonova’s attorney.”

Miller stands. “We’re not finished here.”

“Yes, you are,” says Mikhail firmly. “You’ve detained my client without a warrant, denied her right to counsel, and attempted to intimidate her. I’ll be filing a formal complaint.”

Torres and Miller exchange looks that tell me they’re not surprised by Mikhail’s appearance.

“Mrs. Antonova is free to go,” says Torres finally, “But this investigation is ongoing.”

Mikhail places a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go, Elena.”

I follow him out of the building, my legs shaky. Outside, a black SUV waits with Fydor and Valeriya standing beside it. Mikhail walks me to them.

“They knew,” he says quietly as we approach the vehicle. “They knew you were being watched and would have legal representation. This wasn’t about getting information from you so much as it was about rattling Damir.”

“How did you know where I was?” I ask. “I don’t even know you.”

“Fydor called Anton the moment they took you,” says Valeriya before the attorney can answer, opening the car door for me. “Anton sent Mr. Seaver.”

The ride home is tense and silent. I stare out the window, the crime scene photos flashing in my mind. Part of me wants to believe they were fake, staged to provoke a reaction, but another part knows better.

When we arrive at the penthouse, I thank Mikhail before he leaves. Fydor and Valeriya escort me upstairs, then take their positions outside the door. I storm into the penthouse, tossing my bag onto the couch. Damir is already waiting, sitting in his chair and watching security footage on multiple screens.

“They took me,” I snap. “FBI. Just grabbed me outside the hospital.”

Damir exhales slowly, setting down his glass of whiskey. “I know.”

I stiffen. “You knew?”

“Fydor alerted me. I told you they’d come,” he says simply. “I didn’t know when.”

My stomach tightens. “They showed me pictures. Surveillance. Told me I should run.”

He stands, crossing the room with measured steps. “And are you going to?”

I swallow and shake my head.

He stops in front of me, lifting my chin with two fingers. “Then listen to me carefully.” His voice drops, dark and firm. “If they take you again, you say nothing.”

My breath catches. “Damir?—”

“I mean it.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “No names. No details. You’re my wife. That’s all they need to know.”

I exhale sharply, hating how much I trust him. “And what happens if they don’t back off?”

He smirks. “They will.”

I want to believe him. I really do, but the images from those files are burned into my memory now. I pull away from him and walk to his desk. From my pocket, I withdraw one of the photos I managed to take when the agents weren’t looking. I throw it onto his desk. “Explain this.”

Damir picks up the photo and studies it carefully. It shows a man with a bullet hole in his forehead, sprawled on a warehouse floor. The man’s arms are covered in prison tattoos. “This man was trying to take over one of my territories. He killed three of my men before we dealt with him.”

His honesty stuns me. I expected denials, excuses, or maybe even anger that I’d confronted him. Instead, he’s calm and matter-of-fact. “So you admit it,” I say, my voice barely steady. “You killed him.”

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