Page 81 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

The pain in his voice is raw. I’ve heard pieces of his childhood before, but never with this level of vulnerability. “You’re not your father,” I say firmly.

“No.” His mouth curves into something almost like a smile. “I’m not, and our son will never know what it is to be abandoned or betrayed by his parents. He will be protected, educated, and given every advantage. He’ll know his worth from the moment he draws breath.”

The conviction in his voice brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away to focus on the moment. “What about the danger? Your enemies?”

“They’ll never touch him.” The words come out like a vow, cold and certain. “I’ll dismantle anyone who tries. Nikolai, the Feds…anyone. No one threatens what is mine.”

In another context, such possessiveness might frighten me. Now, it comforts me. In Damir’s world of shifting loyalties and constant threats, his protection is the strongest shield imaginable.

“And what about us?” I ask, gesturing between us. “This changes our arrangement.”

“Yes.” He studies my face, his expression serious. “The terms we agreed to no longer apply. Six months, a year—these timelines are meaningless now. We’re bound together by something far stronger than a contract or a federal investigation.”

My heart beats faster at his words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want you to stay. Not as my temporary wife, not as a business arrangement. As my partner. The mother ofmy child. My family.” He pauses, his gaze never leaving mine. “If that’s what you want?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. Four months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of staying with Damir beyond our agreed-upon time-frame. Now, I can’t imagine walking away. “I want that. I want our child to have both parents. I want him to be safe and loved.”

“He will be,” Damir promises. “And so will you.”

He leans across the space between us, cupping my cheek. His kiss is gentle, almost worshipful, and so different from the passionate encounters we’ve shared before. This isn’t about desire or possession. It’s about connection and the new life we’ve created together.

When he pulls back, I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen before—hope. It transforms his face, softening the hard edges and revealing the man beneath the armor. “There is much to prepare,” he says, his practical nature reasserting itself. “The penthouse will need a nursery. We should begin looking at schools, even though that’s years away. Security protocols will need to be updated, and your medical schedule… I want to be at every appointment.”

I laugh, surprised by his immediate shift to planning mode. “He won’t be here for almost seven months, Damir. We have time.”

“Time we’ll use wisely.” He tucks the ultrasound picture carefully into his inside jacket pocket, close to his heart. “Nothing will be left to chance.”

Viktor clears his throat discreetly from the front seat, reminding us of his presence. Damir straightens, his public persona sliding back into place like a well-worn coat. “Home, Viktor,” heinstructs. “And call Anton. I want the security team assembled when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir.” Viktor starts the engine.

As we pull away from the clinic, Damir’s fingers interlace with mine again. The gesture is casual, almost unconscious, yet it speaks volumes. This is no longer a marriage of convenience or a business transaction. This is real. Unexpected and unplanned, but undeniably real.

I look down at our joined hands, at the contrast between his large, scarred knuckles and my smaller fingers. His wedding ring catches the light, the platinum band gleaming against his skin. I remember the day I placed it on his finger, how foreign it had felt, and how temporary during that ceremony that had been more like a business meeting than a celebration.

Now, it feels like a promise. A declaration. A future I never expected but suddenly want with every fiber of my being.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I turn to him. This dangerous, complicated man is the father of my child. My husband. My protector. “I’m thinking that life takes strange turns,” I say honestly. “Five months ago, I was about to lose everything. My education, my future, and my dreams. Now, I have something I never expected to have again, especially at this point in my life.”

“What is that?”

“A family,” I say simply. “A real family.”

Something flickers in his eyes—understanding, agreement, and affection. He lifts our joined hands and presses his lips to myknuckles, the gesture surprisingly tender from a man known for his ruthlessness.

“Family,” he repeats, the word sounding like a vow on his lips. The car glides through the city streets, carrying us toward home. Outside, Philadelphia continues its normal rhythm, oblivious to the seismic shift that has occurred between us. To the world, nothing has changed. Damir is still the dangerouspakhan, the man to be feared and respected. I’m still the medical student who married him for reasons no one quite understands.

Inside this car, everything has transformed. The ultrasound picture in Damir’s pocket has rewritten our story. As we drive in comfortable silence, he traces circles on the back of my hand with his thumb in a gesture so casual it seems he’s unaware he’s doing it. His other hand occasionally touches his jacket pocket as if checking that the ultrasound is still there.

I study his profile, noting the slight softening around his mouth and the relaxation of the perpetual tension in his shoulders. For the first time since I’ve known him, Damir looks at peace, and I realize, with startling clarity, that I am too.

24

Damir

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