Page 50 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“For now.” His expression darkens. “Until you see too much. Until I destroy this too.”

I don’t know how to respond to the raw honesty in his voice. Instead, I lower my head to kiss him, a soft press of lips that deepens when he pulls me closer. This time, our lovemaking is slower and more deliberate. He takes his time exploring my body, rediscovering what makes me gasp and moan. I do the same, relearning the planes and angles of him as I have on many other nights, tracing the scars that tell stories he won’t share.

When he enters me again, it feels different and more intimate somehow. His gaze never leaves mine as we move together, building toward a shared crescendo. When release comes, it washes over us both in a wave that leaves me trembling in his arms.

Afterward, he holds me close, his breathing evening out as he drifts toward sleep. I remain awake, watching the play of city lights across his features.

This dangerous, complicated man has shown me glimpses of something unexpected tonight. Not goodness exactly, but a capacity for compassion I hadn’t anticipated. It unsettles me more than his violence ever could.

Because now I have to reconcile the man who orders executions with the man who ensures a former employee has shelter.The man who threatens and intimidates with the man who remembers the names of waiters’ children. The man who married me for convenience with the man who holds me as if I’m precious.

I don’t know what to do with these contradictions. I don’t know what it means for our arrangement, for my heart that I promised wouldn’t get involved. All I know is that tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be.

14

Damir

Iwake at 5 a.m., my internal clock precise as always. The first thing I register is the unfamiliar weight against my chest. Elena’s warm body is curled against me, her breathing deep and even. Her dark hair spills across my pillow, one arm draped over my torso.

I never allow this. Not with anyone. Even with her, she’s always returned to her own bed, or I’ve left for mine after the coupling ended. Women don’t stay the night in my bed. They certainly don’t sleep with their bodies intertwined with mine, vulnerable and trusting. Yet here she is, and I’ve slept through the night without waking once—something that hasn’t happened since I was a child.

I study her face for a moment. In sleep, the wariness that usually tightens her features is gone. She looks younger and peaceful. Something constricts my chest at the sight.

With precision, I extract myself from her embrace, careful not to disturb her. She makes a small noise of protest but settles backinto sleep, pulling my pillow closer to her body as a replacement. I stand beside the bed for a moment, watching her. This is dangerous territory. I’m becoming attached to a woman who’s only here because of our arrangement.

I pull on a pair of sweatpants and head to the kitchen. The marble countertops gleam in the early morning light filtering through the windows. The city stretches out below, already stirring despite the early hour.

Cooking has always been therapeutic for me. I gather ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs, milk, flour, and fresh berries I had delivered yesterday. I measure precisely, whisking the batter until it’s perfectly smooth. The familiar motions center me, push away thoughts of Elena sleeping in my bed, of how right it had felt to wake with her beside me.

I heat the pan, testing the temperature with a drop of water that dances across the surface. The first crepe is always sacrificed, which is a rule of cooking I learned long ago. I pour the batter, swirling the pan to create a thin, perfect circle. The smell of butter and vanilla fills the kitchen as I flip it with a practiced flick of my wrist.

By the time I hear movement from the bedroom, I’ve created a stack of paper-thin crepes, prepared a bowl of macerated berries with just a hint of sugar, and brewed a pot of the specialty coffee I import directly from Colombia. The orange juice is freshly squeezed, pulp strained out the way I prefer it.

Elena appears in the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep, wrapped in my black silk robe. It’s too large for her, with the sleeves rolled up several times, and the hem dragging on the floor. Something primitive and possessive stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothing.

She stops short when she sees me at the stove, her eyes widening as she takes in the spread on the counter. “You cook?” Her voice is still husky from sleep.

I pour batter for another crepe. “I do many things people wouldn’t expect.”

She approaches cautiously, as if afraid of breaking the spell of domesticity that’s settled over my usually sterile kitchen. “This looks amazing.”

“Coffee?” I nod toward the pot.

“Please.” She slides onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, watching me with curious eyes while I pour her a cup, adding a splash of cream the way I’ve noticed she takes it.

“I didn’t know you could cook like this.” She accepts the coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug. “I mean, I figured you had a personal chef or something.”

“I do, but sometimes, I prefer to do things myself.” I plate the crepes, layering them with the berries and a light dusting of powdered sugar. “Food preparation is one of them.”

Her first bite draws a small moan of appreciation that sends heat through my body. “This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

I hesitate, then decide there’s no harm in telling her. She already knows what I am. “The housekeeper at the compound where I grew up. Irina was the only one who showed me any kindness.”

Elena sets down her fork with a soft clink against the China plate. Her eyes widen, and she leans forward, breakfast momentarily forgotten. “Compound?” she asks, the single word carrying weight and curiosity.

I take a seat across from her, the wooden chair creaking slightly beneath me. My own plate of crepes sits untouched, steam still rising from the berries. I run my thumb absently over a small scar on my wrist—a souvenir from those early days. “My parents sold me to thebratvawhen I was eight years old,” I say, keeping my voice steady, factual. “My father had gambling debts he couldn’t pay. I was the currency.”

There’s shock in her expression. Her face pales, the freckles across her nose suddenly more pronounced against her skin. “Eight? That’s—” she starts, her voice breaking.

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