Page 8 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Nothing yet.” I straighten my suit jacket. “Keep digging. I want to know everything—where she lives, who she spends time with, and what caused the financial problem.”

“You know getting involved with her is a bad idea. She’s clean and has no connections to our world. She’s studying to save lives, not take them.”

I give him a hard look. “I’m aware of that.”

“Are you? Because the last time I checked, we were in the middle of a war with Nikolai. He’s looking for any weakness he can exploit.”

“I don’t have weaknesses.”

Anton laughs, then grimaces as the movement pulls at his wound. “Everyone has weaknesses, brother. Even you.”

I check my watch. “I have a meeting. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Damir.” Anton’s voice stops me at the door. “Be careful. Not just with Nikolai, but with her. She’s not like us.”

I nod once and step into the hallway, scanning the corridor for any sign of Elena. She’s nowhere to be seen. Probably with her supervisor, discussing some patient.

As I walk toward the elevator, I consider what Anton said. He’s right that I should be focusing on Nikolai, on protecting what’s mine, and on revenge. I don’t get obsessed. I don’t get attached. That mistake almost got me killed.

But this woman? I can’t stop thinking about her.

The elevator doors open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the lobby. As the doors begin to close, I catch a glimpse of dark hair and blue scrubs turning the corner at the end of the hall. My finger hovers over the “door open” button for a fraction of a second before I let the doors slide shut.

I have an empire to run. A war to win. I don’t have time for distractions.

Yet as the elevator descends, thoughts of brown eyes and the scent of flowers fill my mind.

3

Elena

Ipush through the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall, my phone clutched tightly in hand. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly as I pause in the empty corridor, thumb hovering over the screen. For the twentieth time today, I type out a message to Casey.

“Where the hell are you? Just answer me!”

I hit send, watching the blue bubble attempt to deliver before the now-familiar exclamation point appears. Failed. Again. The mechanical coldness of that error message feels like another slap across my face.

“Dammit,” I mutter, my voice echoing in the empty hallway.

I tap over to Instagram, the app loading with painful slowness. When Casey’s profile finally appears, I reflexively pull down to refresh, hoping—stupidly, desperately hoping—that something will have changed.

“The user you are looking for no longer exists.”

The same blank avatar stares back at me, that digital tombstone marking where his photos once lived. I switch to X, fingers trembling slightly as I navigate to his profile. The same void. The same erasure.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper, throat tightening as the reality sinks deeper into my chest.

That bastard hasn’t just ghosted me. He’s methodically, deliberately scrubbed himself from every digital connection we shared. Erased himself from my online world with the same calculated precision he used to drain my bank account. Every penny of my inheritance—my future, my security, and my last connection to my mother—gone, along with the man I thought loved me.

I’m so focused on my phone that I barely notice where I’m walking until I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall. My phone clatters to the ground as strong hands grip my upper arms, steadying me.

“Sorry, I wasn’t…” The words die in my throat as I look up.

It’s him. The man from the café. The one who appeared in the elevator. The one who was in Anton’s hospital room this morning.

Damir Antonov.

He studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s even more imposing up close, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that belongs on a magazine cover. Dark hair, perfectly styled. A suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.

---