Page 53 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

For several seconds, he simply stares, and I experience an unexpected rush of satisfaction at rendering this powerful man temporarily speechless.

“You look...” he finally says, his voice deeper than usual. “Extraordinary.”

I smooth my hands over the silky fabric of the gown. “Thank you. The dress is beautiful.”

“It’s not the dress.” Damir crosses the room, stopping just before me. “Though I’m pleased with my selection.”

He reaches out, lightly touching the diamond at my throat. “These suit you.”

The gentle brush of his fingers against my skin sends a shiver through me. This man who kills without remorse, who commands an empire built on violence and fear, is looking at me with something that resembles reverence.

“We should go,” he says, offering his arm. “The car is waiting.”

The drive to the governor’s mansion takes thirty minutes, during which Damir briefs me on key figures I should expect to meet. He speaks in low, measured tones, occasionally pointing out details about certain individuals that might prove useful in conversation.

“The governor’s wife, Margaret, is particularly interested in ensuring equitable access to healthcare for all, regardless of insurance status. Your medical background will give you common ground.”

I nod, mentally cataloging the information. “And the federal agents? Will they be there?”

“Possibly. Agent Donovan, who is in charge over the stooges you met the other day, attends these functions occasionally. If he approaches you, remember what we discussed.”

“I know nothing about your business dealings,” I recite. “I’m simply a medical student, who fell madly in love with a successful tech entrepreneur.”

Damir’s mouth curves into a slight smile. “Precisely.”

The governor’s mansion is ablaze with lights when we arrive, the circular driveway lined with luxury vehicles disgorging elegantly dressed guests. Damir’s hand rests at the small of my back while we ascend the marble steps, his touch both possessive and reassuring.

Inside, the grand foyer opens to a ballroom filled with Philly’s elite politicians, judges, business leaders, and their impeccably dressed spouses. Servers weave through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

“Damir?” A silver-haired man approaches, clapping Damir on the shoulder with familiar ease. “Glad you could make it, and this must be the new Mrs. Antonova I’ve been hearing about.”

“Judge Harrison,” Damir acknowledges with a nod. “Yes, this is my wife, Elena. Elena, Judge William Harrison of the Seventh Circuit Court.”

I extend my hand, smiling warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Judge Harrison.”

“The pleasure is mine, my dear. Damir here has been quite secretive about you. Now I see why. He’s been hiding a treasure.”

I laugh politely. “Hardly a treasure. Just a medical student trying to navigate this new world.”

“Medical student?” The judge’s eyebrows rise with interest. “What’s your specialty?”

“General surgery. I’m in my final year.”

“Fascinating field. My daughter is a pediatric surgeon at Chicago Memorial. The stories she tells makes my job seem positively mundane in comparison.”

The conversation flows easily as I discuss recent advances in emergency trauma procedures, drawing on my clinical rotations to provide insights that clearly impress the judge. When he eventually excuses himself to greet other guests, Damir guides me deeper into the room.

“Well done,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “Harrison sits on cases involving federal investigations frequently.”

Throughout the next hour, I navigate conversations with various influential figures, carefully balancing between appearing knowledgeable and avoiding any topics that might lead to questions about Damir’s businesses. I discuss healthcare policy with a state senator, debate the merits of different surgical approaches with a hospital administrator, and exchange pleasantries with the wives of several prominent businessmen.

Damir remains close, occasionally introducing me to new acquaintances before stepping back to allow me to establish my own connections. I catch him watching me several times, his expression unreadable to most but containing a hint of pride I’m learning to recognize.

“Mrs. Antonova.” A woman in her sixties approaches, elegant in a conservative black gown. “I’m Margaret Winters, the governor’s wife. I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

I smile, recalling Damir’s briefing. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Winters. Your work with healthcare initiatives is admirable.”

Her face brightens. “You’re familiar with our programs?”

---