Page 46 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I nod. “Nikolai, Anton, and I grew up together. We were brothers in everything but blood. We fought our way up through the ranks together.”

“What happened?”

“Power. Money. The usual corruptions. Nikolai wanted more than his share. He convinced almost two-thirds of my men to join him, leaving me to rebuild from nothing.”

“And Anton?”

“Nikolai tried to turn him against me. When Anton refused, Nikolai shot him.”

Elena’s eyes widen. “The gunshot wound when I met him...”

“Yes. Nikolai’s work.”

She takes a deep breath. “And now he’s using Casey to get to you through me.”

“That’s my assessment.”

“Then we need to be smarter than both of them,” she says, her voice steady.

I smile and nod my approval. “We will be.”

Elena leans into my touch, surprising me. Our arrangement started as a business transaction, but something has shifted between us that neither of us anticipated. “I should warn you, the FBI might approach you again. They’ll try to use you against me.”

“Let them try. I know which side I’m on now.”

I pull her closer, my arm around her waist. “And which side is that?”

She looks up at me, her expression resolute. “Yours. Ours.”

13

Elena

The black town car pulls up to the curb, and Damir steps out first, extending his hand to help me from the vehicle. The restaurant before us gleams with understated elegance—all glass and polished stone, with a discreet sign that reads “Lumière” in simple script.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, resting his hand at the small of my back as he guides me toward the entrance.

I smooth down the front of my burgundy dress—a piece from my new wardrobe that Damir insisted on purchasing. “I’m starving, actually. Hospital cafeteria food doesn’t exactly satisfy.”

The maître d’ spots Damir before we even reach the door. His eyes widen slightly, and he hurries to greet us. “Mr. Antonov, what a pleasure to see you tonight.” The man practically bows, his smile wide and genuine. “Your table is ready, of course.”

I notice how the staff straightens as we pass, their gazes darting toward Damir before quickly looking away. It’s not the nervousdeference I’d expect people to show a known criminal. There’s something else in their demeanor—respect, certainly, but not purely born of fear.

The owner himself appears, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and an impeccable suit. “Damir! Too long since your last visit.” He clasps Damir’s hand in both of his own. “And who is this lovely lady?”

Damir’s hand returns to my back. “Elena. My wife.”

The word still sounds strange to my ears, even after our wedding and the nights we’ve spent together.

“Enchanted,” says the owner, taking my hand. “I am Marcel. Welcome to Lumière, Mrs. Antonova.”

“Thank you. Your restaurant is beautiful.”

“Only the finest for Damir’s bride.” Marcel gestures toward a secluded corner of the restaurant. “Your usual table awaits.”

We follow Marcel through the dining room. The space is intimate without being cramped, each table positioned to offer privacy. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over everything, and the soft murmur of conversation creates a pleasant backdrop. Our table sits in a corner alcove with a view of both the restaurant and the street outside. A bottle of champagne already waits in an ice bucket.

“Your favorite vintage,” says Marcel to Damir. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a special menu for you both this evening.”

---