Page 47 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Perfect. Thank you, Marcel.”

The owner nods and retreats, leaving us alone. Damir pulls out my chair, and I sit as he takes his seat across from me. In thesoft lighting, his features seem less harsh, the angles of his face softened. He looks almost approachable.

“You come here often?” I ask as a waiter appears to pour our champagne.

“When business allows.” Damir lifts his glass. “To new beginnings.”

I clink my glass against his. “To survival.”

His lips quirk up at that. “Always practical, Elena.”

The first course arrives, delicate scallops with a citrus glaze that melts on my tongue. I close my eyes, savoring the flavor.

“Good?” asks Damir, watching me.

“Incredible.” I take another bite. “I’ve never eaten anywhere this fancy.”

“There are many things I want to show you.”

The intensity in his gaze makes me look away. I focus on my food instead, asking, “How do you know Marcel?”

“I invested in Lumière when it was struggling. Marcel had talent but needed capital.” He cuts into his scallop with precision. “Now, it’s one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.”

“So, you’re a restaurateur as well as a tech CEO and... everything else?”

“I have diverse interests.” His shrugs. “I find value where others might not look.”

The meal progresses through course after exquisite course. Damir seems different here. He’s more relaxed and almostcharming. He tells me about the wines paired with each dish, the chef’s background, and the architecture of the building. It’s the most he’s spoken to me outside of explaining the rules of our arrangement or during our intimate moments.

I watch him interact with the staff. He’s always polite, remembering names, and asking about families. One waiter mentions his son’s college graduation, and Damir nods with genuine interest. “Your son… Michael, right? Pre-med at Columbia?”

The waiter beams. “Yes, sir. He’s thriving, thanks to that scholarship.”

After the waiter leaves, I raise an eyebrow. “Scholarship?”

Damir shrugs. “I fund a few educational programs.”

“For the children of restaurant staff?”

“For promising students who lack resources.” He sips his wine. “Michael shows potential.”

I study him across the table. “That’s...unexpectedly philanthropic.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Even monsters have causes they support.”

“Is that how you see yourself? A monster?”

His expression darkens. “It’s how others see me. How you should see me.”

“I’m not sure what to think anymore.” I push away my mostly cleared dessert plate. “Every time I think I understand you, you do something that contradicts everything I thought I knew.”

Damir signals for the check. When it arrives, he glances at it briefly before placing several large bills inside the leather folder, which is far more than necessary, even for our extravagant meal. “Ready?” he asks, standing and offering his hand.

Outside, the night air is cool against my skin. His driver, Viktor, waits at the curb, but Damir makes no move toward the car. Instead, his attention fixes on something—someone—nearby.

A man sits huddled against the building, wrapped in a threadbare jacket despite the mild evening. His weathered face speaks of years on the street, and a small cardboard sign rests at his feet.

Without hesitation, Damir approaches him. I follow, curious. He crouches down to the man’s level. “Evening, Thomas.”

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