Page 6 of Fake Marriage Mafia Triplets

“You learned this from your father.”

“My father was Dorian Voss, a document forger.” I give him the version that fits without exposing the whole messy history. “He taught me provenance records, notary stamps, and how to file through high-volume processing queues. He died five years ago, and I’ve been putting his curriculum to use ever since.”

Nikita turns a page. “The clerk’s issue seal and officiant signature on your marriage packet are better than most federal work I’ve seen.”

“You keep a lot of federal work on hand to compare it to?”

“Enough.” He doesn’t rise to the taunt, which is somehow worse than if he had.

I hate that the praise pleases me anyway. “I carved it from dental stone. Six hours, if you do it right. I did it right.”

He lifts his head and takes me in with more interest than anger. He’s recalculating, and the new number is higher than the one he started with.

“Why did you choose this estate?” he asks.

“You were legally dead. No public wife was listed. The security contract lapsed eighteen months after your death was declared. The trust attorney filed maintenance reports but never visited, and the timer-lock system your property manager installed was two generations behind current residential security.” I count the reasons on my fingers without thinking about it, and then I stop because the gesture turns my defense into a sales pitch. “Your estate was the safest entry point I’ve ever found, and I spent four months confirming every detail before I filed anything.”

“Who hired you?”

“Nobody hired me. I work alone, and Maren helps with the resale logistics.”

He sets the buyer receipt aside and picks up the message screenshots. “These show a chain of buyers Maren contacted through auction channels. How many people know you accessed this property?”

“Maren knows. The buyers know I had access to the pieces, although they don’t necessarily know where I found them. The service-company receptionist saw me twice but wouldn’t recognize me tomorrow.” I’ve already done this math. “The town records clerk who indexed the delayed marriage return handled three hundred filings that week. She wouldn’t remember my name.”

My phone sits on the desk between us, still locked, still in Nikita’s possession. He moved it from his coat pocket to the desk surface when he sat down, and I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes with an intensity that probably borders on pathetic. A notification from Callum flashed at six this morning before Nikita turned the phone facedown, but I couldn’t read anything beyond his name.

As if summoned by the thought, the phone vibrates against the wood. Nikita picks it up and reads the lock screen.

“Celine is calling again,” he says.

“She’s my mother.” I keep my voice even. “She leaves voicemails.”

He sets the phone down without playing the message, and thirty seconds later, it vibrates again with a voicemail notification. Nikita turns the phone toward me.

“You need to unlock it.”

I enter the code without picking up the phone. He taps the voicemail and activates the speaker. Celine’s voice fills the study, thin, annoyed, and painfully familiar.

“Piper, it’s Mom. Rent is due Friday, and I already told the landlord you’d handle it. I need you to call me back because I already spent what you sent last time on a few things I needed. I had that hair appointment, Lisa’s party was last weekend, and the streaming bill came out automatically. I don’t understand why you can’t just set up a transfer so I don’t have to keep calling. You need to call me back.”

The voicemail ends. Nikita taps the screen, and the study is silent again.

She didn’t ask where I am. She didn’t ask whether I’m safe or if Callum is okay. She didn’t ask a single question that required an answer about me rather than my bank account.

This is the pattern. Celine converts every dollar I send into proof that she deserved it, and then she calls for more. She loves me. I believe that. She just treats me like a credit card, grateful when I work and resentful when I decline.

Nikita sets the phone down more carefully than before, and the gentleness of that gesture makes me want to throw something. I don’t need a bratva boss handling my family with kid gloves.

“My mother has depended on me financially since my father died,” I say, because the alternative is sitting here while he constructs his own version from a voicemail and sympathy. “Callum’s lender is a separate problem, but Celine’s rent, Celine’s bills, and Celine’s inability to hold a job for longer than four months are the reasons I started running estate scams instead of doing legitimate resale work.”

“You don’t have to explain her.”

“Her dependence is why I robbed you.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t bother softening them.

The phone vibrates again when Callum sends another text. His name appears on the screen, and the notification preview fills in. Hey, just checking in. The lender says tonight is fine, so there’s no emergency. Do you think you’ll have the rest by then? I hope you’re okay.

He’s pretending his lender is patient. He’s pretending the deadline hasn’t moved again. He’s pretending the apologetic text he sent last night wasn’t followed by three hours of silence because he couldn’t think of what else to say. The casual tone is Callum’s armor, and it’s thinner than he thinks.