Page 63 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I continue eating, though my appetite has diminished. Something is wrong. Elena normally devours good food with enthusiasm, especially after hospital shifts. Tonight, she’s barely touched anything. “How was your day?” I try again.

“Fine.” She takes a small bite of risotto, then sets down her fork. “Busy.”

“Elena.” I set down my own utensils. “What’s wrong?”

She looks up. “Casey tried to see me today.”

My hand tightens around my wine glass. “Where?”

“Outside the hospital. He was waiting in the parking lot.”

“What did he want?” My voice remains calm, though inside I’m calculating how quickly I could have Casey Harris removed from Earth.

“The usual. Trying to convince me you’re manipulating me. That I should come back to him.” She shakes her head. “As if that would ever happen.”

“Did Valeriya intervene?”

“No need. I handled it.” She finally takes a sip of water. “What are you doing about him, Damir? Why is it taking so long?”

I lean back in my chair, considering how much to tell her. Elena knows what I am now, but I still try to shield her from the uglier aspects of my business. “Casey’s finances are destroyed. His credit is ruined. I’ve helpfully given his location to his creditors, who are calling him day and night. He’s been evicted from his apartment and is staying in a motel that charges by the hour or the week. His car was repossessed last week.”

Elena listens, her expression unreadable.

“The strip clubs and gambling establishments where he spent most of your money now have him barred at the door. Tiffany has been informed he’s a scumbag and dropped him. Every potential employer in the city has received an anonymous tipabout his history of theft. His school applications have all been rejected due to ‘character concerns.’” I take a sip of wine. “He’s also being investigated for tax fraud. The evidence was quite compelling.”

“That’s it?” she asks.

“For now. You asked me not to kill him.”

She nods slowly, then stands abruptly. I watch as she walks around the table toward me, her movements suddenly purposeful. She stops directly in front of my chair.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She reaches for my face, cupping my jaw. “Showing my appreciation...and happy anniversary.”

The shift in her demeanor is immediate. Her eyes darken to obsidian pools, and her breathing quickens to shallow gasps that brush against my face. She leans down and presses her lips to mine with an urgency that surprises me, her mouth warm and insistent. This isn’t our usual careful dance of desire but something raw and desperate, born from what, I can’t quite name.

I remain still, allowing her to take control, curious about this sudden transformation. She climbs onto my lap, straddling me in the dining chair, her skirt riding up her thighs until I feel the heat of her skin against mine. She tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling slightly as she deepens the kiss, her tongue seeking entrance.

“Elena,” I murmur against her lips, drawing back just enough to see her expression. “What’s this about?”

Her weight settles more firmly against me, the dining chair creaking beneath us. She hovers, her lips a whisper from mine. “I want you,” she whispers. “Now.” Her voice is raw, trembling with something primal that sets fire to my blood.

Who am I to deny her? I stand, lifting her with me in one fluid motion. She gasps, then locks her legs around my waist, her skirt bunching between us as I carry her from the dining room.

“Where—?”

“Study,” I murmur against her neck. “Unless you want me to take you right on top of our dinner?”

Her laugh vibrates against my throat as she tugs at my tie, working the silk loose with impatient fingers. “Too many dishes in the way.”

I kick open the study door, not bothering with the light. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting her skin silver as I set her on the edge of my desk. Papers scatter—contracts worth millions but meaningless compared to her.

Elena immediately pulls me between her thighs, attacking the buttons of my shirt. There’s something frantic in how she yanks the fabric apart, two buttons popping free and skittering across hardwood.

“Easy,” I say, catching her wrist, studying her face. Elena is typically measured, deliberate even in passion. I’ve memorized her rhythms and patterns. Tonight she’s different—wild, desperate. Unleashed.

“Don’t want easy,” she mumbles against my mouth, biting my bottom lip. “Want you.”

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