Page 100 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“You can’t predict everything, Damir.”

“With Elena, I should have.” I stare at the tracking signal. “I promised to protect her.”

Anton loads a magazine into his sidearm. “We’ll get her back.”

The convoy speeds down the highway, each mile bringing us closer to Elena. I review the property schematics on my tablet, memorizing every entrance, every room, and every potential hiding place. Nikolai thinks he’s forcing my hand, making me choose between my empire and my wife.

He doesn’t understand there was never a choice. If there was, I made it long ago, when she first came into my life. The irony of it is, if Nikolai had approached me without the betrayal, indicating he wanted to take full control of the illegal side of our endeavors, I would have agreed months ago, even before Elena. Now, he’s going to die instead.

The traffic is thick, but my men move carefully and quickly, seizing any opening. It feels like forever but is less than an hour before the signal on her necklace gets stronger.

“Signal’s stabilized,” says Anton, showing me his table even as I’m looking at my phone. I haven’t really looked away from the flickering red dot since getting in the SUV. “They’ve stopped moving. Definitely the bay house.”

I nod, studying the thermal imaging feed. Eight heat signatures inside the house. One isolated in what appears to be a study with two possible guards nearby. The others are scattered throughoutthe property. Which of those eight is Nikolai, and does he have more waiting nearby?

“Any way to tell if Nikolai is there too?”

“Speculation, but maybe.” Anton points to a signature on the second floor. “Based on movement patterns and the respectful distance the others are keeping, I’d bet that’s him.”

“Ten minutes to the safest place to stop that isn’t too far but also isn’t too close, boss,” says Viktor. “We’ll go in on foot from there.”

“Affirmative.” I check my weapons one final time. The rage I’ve kept contained now focuses to a sharp point. Nikolai has crossed the final line. He’s taken what’s mine. What I love.

The emerald necklace tracker pulses steadily on my phone screen.Hold on, Elena. I’m coming.

“Anton?” I look up from my phone to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Damir?”

“No survivors except Elena.”

29

Elena

Icouldn’t find a way to escape at the gas station, so I’m back to the SUV with Alexei. When he put me back in a while ago, he let me sit up front and didn’t zip tie my hands to the car handle this time—just together on my lap. I guess he figures I’m not much threat. In my current state, without options, he’s sadly right.

“We’re getting closer,” he says, his accent thicker now that we’re away from public spaces. I notice a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool air conditioning.

I stare out the window, watching as the landscape changes. Urban sprawl gives way to increasingly isolated stretches of woodland and water. The Chesapeake Bay glimmers in the distance, sunlight dancing across its surface in a way that would be beautiful under different circumstances.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Alexei’s gaze flicks to me, then back to the road. “You’ll see soon enough.”

I catalog everything I can about our surroundings, mentally mapping the route in case I get a chance to escape later. We turn onto a private road, winding through a thick field of trees until a modernist mansion comes into view. The structure is all sharp angles and glass, perched on a bluff overlooking the water.

“Nice place,” I say, trying to sound casual while my heart hammers. I press my bound hands protectively over my stomach.

Alexei parks the SUV in a circular driveway and comes around to my side. He opens the door and grabs my upper arm, pulling me out with enough force to make me stumble.

“Watch it,” I snap. “I’m pregnant.”

His grip loosens slightly, but his expression remains impassive as he marches me toward the front entrance. The double doors swing open before we reach them, revealing two men in dark suits. Their identical expressions and postures remind me of the security personnel at Damir’s buildings, but these men don’t have the same disciplined professionalism. There’s something cruder about them and more volatile.

“Take her to the special guest room,” says Alexei, handing me off like a package. “Nikolai wants her comfortable for now.”

One of the men grabs my arm while the other walks ahead, leading us through a soaring entryway with a floating staircase and minimalist furnishings. The place is expensively decorated but lacks the warmth of Damir’s penthouse. Everything here feels like it’s for show rather than living.

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