Page 55 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Christopher, please.” His hand lands on the back of my chair, brushing his fingers against my bare shoulder. “What brings such a beautiful woman into Damir’s world? You seem far too delicate for his usual...enterprises.”

The implication in his tone is unmistakable, and I notice Senator Brooks stiffening beside me. “I’m a medical student,” I say coolly. “And my husband’s business interests are quite diverse.”

“Medical student? Fascinating.” Morgan leans even closer. “Perhaps you could give me a private consultation sometime. I have some...symptoms that require expert attention.”

I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response when Damir materializes beside me, his expression glacial. His hand settles possessively on my lower back, firm but not aggressive.

“Morgan,” Damir acknowledges, his voice deceptively calm. “I see you’ve met my wife.”

Morgan straightens, though he doesn’t step back. “Just getting acquainted. You’ve been hiding this gem from us, Antonov.”

“Not hiding,” Damir corrects smoothly. “Protecting.”

The tension between the men is obvious, though nothing in Damir’s demeanor suggests open hostility. He simply stands there, his presence commanding and unmistakably dangerous.

“Senator,” Damir turns to Brooks, “A pleasure as always. I apologize, but Elena and I must depart. She has an early shift tomorrow.”

Senator Brooks rises, understanding the situation perfectly. “Of course. Elena, it was wonderful reconnecting. I’ll be in touch about those photographs.”

“Thank you, Senator,” I say sincerely. “I look forward to it.”

Damir’s hand remains firmly at my back as he guides me away from the table. Viktor is already waiting by the entrance, having been summoned without my awareness. Within minutes, we’re seated in the back of the sleek black car, pulling away from the governor’s mansion.

The silence between us is heavy while we drive through the night-shrouded streets. I study Damir’s profile in the dim light. His strong jaw is visibly tight, and he’s balled his fingers into a fist on his thigh. The controlled fury emanating from him is almost visible.

I should be annoyed at being whisked away without consultation and at having my evening decided for me. Instead, I’m oddly affected by his reaction. Casey’s jealousy had always been petty and controlling—designed to isolate me from friends and colleagues, to diminish me. It came from insecurity and weakness.

Damir’s possessiveness feels entirely different. There’s nothing insecure about it. He doesn’t doubt his claim to me or my loyalty. His reaction stems from something more primal—a powerful man protecting what he considers his.

The realization sends an unexpected thrill through me. For the first time in my life, I feel genuinely valued not as a convenience or a resource to be exploited, but as something precious to be guarded.

16

Damir

Isit at my desk, flipping through the fifty-page dossier Anton’s team compiled on Casey Harris. The leather of my chair creaks as I lean back, scanning the juvenile records that should have remained sealed. Nothing stays hidden from me when I want information.

“Petty theft at fourteen,” I mutter, tracing my finger down the page. “Shoplifting electronics. Stealing from classmates.”

The pattern is clear even in his youth. Casey takes what doesn’t belong to him. I trace my finger over a particularly telling incident, where he stole a laptop from the school computer lab. He served three months in juvie for that one. My people managed to acquire the sealed records confirming it.

I turn to the next section, spreading the academic records across my mahogany desk. The paper feels crisp beneath my fingertips as I examine his college transcript. Red ink highlights a sea of poor grades.

“Mediocrity at best,” I say, scanning the columns. “C-minus in organic chemistry, D in calculus, barely passing his core classes.”

His medical school performance makes me shake my head in disbelief. The contrast between him and Elena couldn’t be starker. “Failed anatomy,” I read aloud, tapping the damning F on his transcript. The corner of my mouth curls into a sneer. “Barely passed biochemistry with a D-plus.”

The final note catches my attention. It’s a withdrawal form dated halfway through his first semester, with a single line explaining he “wasn’t meeting academic standards.” I can almost picture him, shoulders slumped, slinking away from the challenge rather than fighting harder.

I close the file with a decisive snap. The man Elena once loved wasn’t just a thief. He was a fraud, who couldn’t even maintain the illusion of competence.

Anton strides into the office, shoulders relaxed beneath his fitted black Henley, two steaming cups balanced in his grip. The sling is gone now, and he’s well on the mend. The aroma of dark-roast coffee precedes him, cutting through the musty scent of old paperwork. He sets one cup on my desk, careful to avoid the scattered files.

“Anything interesting?” He nods at Casey’s transcript, the hint of a knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Everything is interesting.” I tap my finger against the damning file, the paper crackling beneath my touch. “He’s a parasite. Always has been.”

Anton settles into the chair across from me with a nod. His eyes narrow with predatory focus, like a wolf who’s caught a scent. “Wait until you get to the financial section.”

---