Page 78 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Elena’s expression softens. “Really?”

“Yes.” I take her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. “I want to be involved in every aspect of this pregnancy, Elena. Every appointment, every decision, and every milestone.”

“Even the midnight cravings and mood swings?” she asks with a hint of humor in her voice.

“Even those.” I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Especially those.”

She laughs softly, the sound easing some of the tension from the room. “You might regret saying that in a few months.”

“I won’t.” My tone leaves no room for doubt.

She studies my face, her expression turning serious again. “This really does change everything, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That this complicates our arrangement. That it traps you here with me.” I hold her gaze. “That it forces you to stay when you might have chosen to leave.”

She doesn’t deny it, which I appreciate. Elena has never been one to lie to spare my feelings. “The thought crossed my mind. Not because I want to leave, but because I want any choice I make to be mine, not forced by circumstances.”

“Your choices are still your own.” I release her hand. “This pregnancy doesn’t change that.”

She looks skeptical. “Doesn’t it? You just listed all the new security measures, the changes to my work schedule, and the restrictions on my movement.”

“Those are necessary precautions, not chains.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Your safety, and our child’s safety, is non-negotiable, but that doesn’t mean you’re trapped.”

“What does it mean then?”

I consider my words carefully. “It means we adapt. We find ways to keep you safe while respecting your independence. It won’t be easy, but we’ll figure it out.”

Elena’s expression softens slightly. “I hope so.” She seems satisfied with my answer for now. “I need to shower,” she says, glancing down at her blood-stained shoes. “And burn these.”

I stand, offering her my hand. “I’ll have one of the staff dispose of them properly.”

She takes my hand, allowing me to pull her to her feet. “Thank you.”

As she moves toward the bedroom, I call after her. “Elena?”

She turns, a question in her eyes.

“No more secrets,” I say, my voice firm. “Not between us. Not anymore.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment before nodding. “No more secrets.”

I watch her disappear into the bedroom, the door closing softly behind her. The sound of the shower starts a moment later, the running water washing away the physical evidence of tonight’s violence.

I return to the bar and pick up my untouched whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal glass. The events of the night replay in my mind—the call from Fydor about the SUV being blocked and needing an alternate ride for my wife, the race to the hospital, and the sight of Elena struggling against her attacker.

The glass shatters in my grip, whiskey and blood mixing as shards of crystal embed themselves in my palm. I barely notice the pain, too consumed by the image of what could have happened if I’d arrived even seconds later.

I clean the cut methodically, wrapping a towel around my hand to stem the bleeding. The physical pain is nothing compared to the cold dread that had seized me when I realized Elena was in danger. Elena and our unborn child.

Our child. The reality of those words is still sinking in, reshaping my world in ways I never anticipated. I’ve never considered fatherhood, having never thought myself capable of that kind of responsibility. My own father sold me to theBratvawhen I was eight—hardly a model of paternal devotion. Yet despite my inexperience, I’ll do far better than he did, because failing my child or Elena is not an option.

23

Elena

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