Page 73 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Dr. Patel looks up, brow wrinkled. “Look again.”

I check the numbers more carefully this time. “Sorry, 5.4.”

“That’s a critical value, Clarke. The patient needs intervention immediately.” Dr. Patel’s voice is sharp with disappointment. “Order IV calcium gluconate and insulin with glucose. Now.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Shame washes over me as I hurry to place the orders. This isn’t like me. I’m always meticulous and always prepared. I never miss critical lab values. The rest of rounds passes in a blur of self-recrimination.

When we finally finish, Dr. Patel pulls me aside. “Is everything all right, Clarke? You’re not usually this distracted.”

“I’m fine, Dr. Patel. Just didn’t sleep well last night.” It’s not entirely a lie. Between the nausea and my racing thoughts about the pregnancy, sleep has been elusive.

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Get some rest tonight. I need you sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

As she walks away, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths. This pregnancy is already affecting my work. I need to tell Damir soon, before my performance suffers further or someone else notices the changes in me.

The rest of my shift drags on, each hour marked by waves of nausea that I fight to control. By the time I’m scheduled to leave, fatigue weighs on me like a physical burden. I change back into my street clothes and slip on the necklace, grateful that my shift is finally over.

I pull out my phone to text my driver that I’m ready earlier than expected. Valeriya is off again today, and Lev didn’t follow me around like she would. I didn’t think much of it until now when he’s not around as I look for him. Instead, I text Fydor, figuring maybe they’re together.

Finishing up now, Fydor. Ready whenever you are.

The response comes quickly:We’re stuck in the garage. One idiot rammed another, blocking access to and from the garage until the tow truck arrives. Alternate arrangementsen route. ETA TBD. Please wait inside the hospital for safety.

I groan, slumping against the wall. The thought of waiting in the crowded hospital lobby for who knows how long makes mystomach turn. Between the noise, the smells, and the constant movement, it’s the last place I want to be right now.

Understood.

I make my way to the lobby, finding a seat near the entrance. The space is packed with people—patients waiting to be discharged, visitors coming and going, and staff changing shifts. The conglomeration of voices, ringing phones, and overhead announcements assaults my senses.

Twenty minutes later, my nausea has intensified. The smell of someone’s takeout food wafts over from nearby, and my stomach lurches dangerously. I need air.

I stand up, grabbing my bag and heading for the exit. Just a few minutes outside. Just enough to clear my head and settle my stomach.

The automatic doors slide open, and I step out into the cool evening air. The temperature has dropped since morning, and a light breeze carries the scent of approaching rain. I take deep breaths, moving away from the entrance to a quieter spot near a small garden area.

The nausea recedes slightly while I focus on my breathing. In and out. Slow and steady. The tension in my shoulders begins to ease. I should go back inside. Damir would be furious if he knew I was outside alone, even on hospital grounds. His security protocols are strict for a reason, but the thought of returning to that crowded, noisy lobby makes my stomach clench again.

Just five more minutes of peace and fresh air before I go back in.

I sit on a bench, watching as hospital staff come and go through the parking lot. My hand rests on my still-flat abdomen, and forthe first time since seeing those positive tests, I allow myself to really imagine the future—a baby with Damir’s blue eyes and my dark hair, making a family I never expected to have.

The image brings an unexpected lump to my throat. I want this baby. I want this life with Damir, complicated and dangerous as it might be. The realization settles over me with surprising clarity that I need to tell him tonight. Whatever his reaction, he deserves to know.

A drop of rain lands on my cheek, pulling me from my thoughts. The sky has darkened considerably in the short time I’ve been outside. I stand, preparing to head back into the hospital when movement at the edge of the parking lot catches my eye.

A figure stands partially concealed by a large SUV, watching the hospital entrance. Something about their posture—tense, alert, and purposeful—catches my attention. I take a step back toward the hospital doors, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. The security protocols Damir insists on don’t seem excessive but necessary now.

I turn to head back inside when a strong hand clamps around my upper arm, yanking me backward. The threat doesn’t come from the suspicious SUV. I idly note that driver getting in their vehicle and driving off a second later.

The grip is intentionally bruising, returning my attention where it belongs. I go rigid with shock as I’m pulled against a solid chest.

“Mrs. Antonova,” hisses a male voice near my ear. “You’re coming with me.”

I don’t recognize the voice. I open my mouth to scream, drawing in a deep breath. The crack of a gunshot splits the air before any sound leaves my throat.

The hand on my arm suddenly goes slack. The man’s body crumples behind me, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs. Blood pools beneath the man’s head, spreading across the concrete in a dark, viscous puddle. A perfect hole marks the center of his forehead, and his eyes are open in permanent surprise.

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