Page 70 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I shrug out of my suit jacket, draping it over a barstool. “You’re the indecisive one. You choose.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not wrong.”

I watch her continue to flip between the same three menus. Elena is typically decisive about food. She knows what she wants and orders without hesitation. This uncharacteristic wavering catches my attention.

“Things have been going well for us,” I say, moving to the refrigerator for a glass of water from the dispenser. “Very well.” Most nights are like this these days—playful, easy...normal. I would love if this could be the rest of our lives. The thought surprises me with its intensity.

“Yes, very,” she says, setting down the tablet. “Grab my phone from my desk in my sitting room. I’ll order.”

I push away from the counter, barefoot and relaxed, not expecting to find anything unusual. Her study space in her bedroom, converted from the sitting area, is immaculate as always, with medical textbooks arranged by specialty with notes organized in color-coded folders. The desk drawer isn’t fully closed, and when I pull it open to look for her phone, I spot a handful of scattered change and a crumpled pharmacy receipt partially visible under some papers.

Without thinking, I smooth it out, automatically looking for the date to gauge how recent the purchase was. Two days ago. My gaze locks on the item listed below tampons: “EPT Pregnancy Test.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My fingers tighten around the thin paper, crinkling it further. A pregnancy test. Elena took a pregnancy test two days ago, and she hasn’t said a word to me about it. If she bought a test, she suspects she’s pregnant. If she hasn’t told me, either the test was negative or...

Or she’s pregnant with my child and hasn’t decided what to do about it.

A complex rush of emotions floods through me—anger at her secrecy, possessive satisfaction that she carries my child, and an unexpected jolt of vulnerability at the thought of fatherhood. I never imagined myself as a father. My own childhood was stolen from me, replaced with lessons in violence and power. What do I know about raising a child?

I carefully refold the receipt and place it exactly as I found it, deciding to give Elena the opportunity to tell me herself. I set a mental deadline of three days. If she hasn’t told me by then, I’ll confront her.

Her phone sits on the corner of the desk, partially hidden by a medical journal. I pick it up and return to the kitchen, schooling my features into neutrality.

“Here,” I say, handing her the phone.

“Thanks.” She takes it, our fingers brushing. Does she look nervous? Is she watching for my reaction?

I observe her with new awareness while she orders dinner. When she thinks I’m not looking, she places a protective hand over her stomach in a subtle, unconscious gesture that confirms my discovery. My child is growing inside her. “I was thinking Italian,” I suggest, remembering it’s her usual comfort food. “From that place on 5th you like.”

Her expression brightens. “That sounds perfect actually.”

I want to take care of her, even though I’m hurt and angry that she hasn’t said anything yet.It’s only been two days, I remind myself. She needs time. “How was your day?” I ask, moving to the living room and settling on the couch.

Elena follows, curling up beside me. “Long. I had back-to-back surgeries with Dr. Patel. A car accident victim with internal bleeding, and then an appendectomy.”

“You look tired.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, studying her more closely. There are shadows under her eyes I hadn’t noticed before. Morning sickness, perhaps? “Maybe you should cut back your hours.”

She frowns. “Why would I do that? I’m fine.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“This is residency, Damir. Everyone pushes themselves too hard.” She shifts away slightly. “Besides, I only have a few months left before I finish.”

I bite back the urge to tell her what I know, to demand why she’s keeping secrets. Instead, I pull her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I worry about you.”

“That’s sweet but unnecessary.” She rests her head against my chest. “How was your day? Valeriya mentioned something about increased surveillance?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” I stroke her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “Just the usual precautions.”

“Damir.” She sits up, fixing me with a stern look. “We agreed to no secrets. If something’s happening, I want to know.”

The irony of her demand for no secrets isn’t lost on me. “Federal agents have increased surveillance on several of my businesses, and Nikolai’s men have been spotted watching the same locations.”

“That sounds coordinated.”

“It’s not. The feds don’t work with Nikolai. They’re both circling for different reasons.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

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