Page 79 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Five days later, I sit in the plush chair of Philadelphia’s most exclusive obstetrics practice, my fingers drumming against the armrest. The waiting room is eerily quiet—no other patients, no rustling of magazines, no hushed conversations. Just silence. Damir arranged for the entire office to be cleared for our appointment, a security measure that would have seemed ridiculous to me a week ago.

Now, after learning the man who tried to kidnap me was one of Nikolai’s associates, I understand the precaution. I don’t like it, but I understand it.

“Are you comfortable?” asks Damir.

I nod, watching as he surveys the room for the third time since we arrived. He tracks methodically from corner to corner, lingering on the windows, the door, and even the air vents. Always calculating, always assessing. The habit used to unnerve me but now, it makes me feel protected.

“Mrs. Antonova?” The receptionist appears at the doorway. “Dr. Reynolds is ready for you.”

Damir rises first, offering his hand to help me up. His palm is warm against mine, steady where mine trembles slightly. We follow the receptionist down a hallway decorated with tasteful black and white photographs of pregnant women and newborns. The examination room is spacious and modern, with state-of-the-art equipment that makes the machines at the hospital where I work look outdated.

An ultrasound technician with the name tag “Alicia” greets us with a professional smile, already preparing the equipment. Dr. Reynolds, a tall woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes, extends her hand to me.

“Elena, it’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve reviewed your medical history, and everything looks excellent so far.”

I shake her hand. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

“Of course.” She turns to Damir, who stands near the door. “Mr. Antonov, a pleasure.”

Damir nods, his expression neutral as he shakes her hand. His gaze sweeps around the room, noting the location of each piece of equipment, the windows, and a second door that likely leads to an adjoining office.

“If you’ll lie back on the table and lift your shirt to expose your abdomen, we can get started,” says Dr. Reynolds a few minutes later.

I move to the examination table and lie down, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I feel. The position, the exposure of my skin, andthe strangers in the room all combine to make me tense. Damir must sense my discomfort because he moves immediately, positioning himself between me and the door as he takes my hand.

Amelia applies the cold gel to my stomach, and I flinch slightly. “Sorry about that,” she says with a smile. “We try to warm it, but it never quite works.”

I return her smile. The transducer presses against my skin, moving in slow, deliberate circles as the technician searches for the right angle. The screen beside the table remains dark for a moment, then flickers to life with grainy black and white images.

I hear a rapid, rhythmic pulsing that fills the room. Our baby’s heartbeat. Strong, steady, and undeniable. The sound wraps around me, and my throat tightens with emotion.

“There we are,” says Dr. Reynolds , pointing to the screen. “That’s your baby.”

I stare at the small form on the screen, trying to make sense of the shapes and shadows. It’s still so small, yet already so perfectly formed. Tiny arms, the curve of a head, and two legs, kicking away.

“Everything looks perfect,” Dr. Reynolds continues. “Based on measurements and your medical history, I’d place you at approximately thirteen weeks along, which is consistent with what you reported for your last menstrual period, Mrs. Antonova.”

“Look at him…or her.” Damir speaks softly, almost reverently.

I look up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. His gaze remains fixed on the screen, but his expression reveals awe and tenderness.

She pauses, glancing between us. “Would you like to know the gender? It’s a little early, but Amelia currently has a really good angle. I can give you an estimate with about eighty percent confidence.”

Before I can respond, Damir speaks. “Yes.” The word comes out with unexpected certainty, almost urgency.

Dr. Reynolds smiles and waits for me to nod before saying, “It’s a boy.” She points to evidence on the screen, explaining the indicators, but I’m not listening anymore. My attention has shifted entirely to Damir.

I turn toward him, prepared for any reaction—disappointment, satisfaction, or indifference. What I see instead stops my breath. His carefully maintained composure cracks completely. His grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain. For a brief moment—so brief I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching so closely—vulnerability crosses his features. His lips part slightly, his eyes widen, and something raw and unguarded flashes across his face before he reconstructs his usual mask.

In that unguarded second, I glimpse the depth of his emotional response to our child. Not just possession or pride, but love.

“A son,” he whispers.

I’ve never heard that tone from him before—wonder mixed with something deeper and almost primal.

“Would you like a recording of the heartbeat?” asks Amelia. “This machine allows me to send it to you digitally.”

Damir nods, and once more, the room fills with the rapid thump-thump-thump of our baby’s heart as Amelia records it. I watch Damir’s face as he listens, seeing the slight bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows hard. “Strong. Like his mother.”

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