Chapter 4 - Trifon
The moment I see those bastards, thanks to the doctor’s warning, I know they’re here for blood.
I can’t believe that those Zakharov idiots are stupid enough to come for me at a hospital, of all places. That, too, after they showed balls sufficient to shoot my brother tonight. I should’ve known they wouldn’t stop there.
I barely have time to react before the first gunshot cracks through the night.
The doctor flinches beside me, her coffee smashing to the ground. She moves like she’s ready to bolt, but I’ve already got my hand around her arm, pulling her in, shielding her body with mine.
Concrete explodes at shoulder height, where her skull was a heartbeat ago.
Her green eyes go wild with panic, and I see her fight-or-flight response kicking in as she tries to fight herself free of my grip.
She doesn’t understand, does she? The bastards attacking us will have her down in seconds.
“Stay down,” I snap, reaching for my gun.
The next shot rings out as I drag her behind the pillar and keep my finger steady on the trigger. Chaos detonates across the lot—people shouting, security ducking for cover, nurses scrambling back inside.
My brothers are supposed to be here. Leonid and Iosif are due to pick up Valentin at any time. Where the fuck are they?
I chance a glance over the hood of the nearest car and scan the lot.
Two men in dark windbreakers are using the ER sign as partial cover.
Typical Zakharov grunts. They spot me and open up with another round.
I duck, grabbing the good doctor by the scruff of her collar and pulling her closer to the ground.
Her body collides with mine, her smaller frame tucked into my chest, her hands braced against me, eyes wide with shock—and heat.
She’s trembling, but it’s not all fear. I can feel it—the sharp edge of adrenaline, her pulse hammering through that soft throat, the faintest quake where her hip presses against mine.
“You want to get your head blown off, be my guest,” I growl, my breath grazing the shell of her ear, holding her there with one hand at the nape of her neck, the other gripping my gun. “Otherwise, keep still.”
She glares up at me, chest rising and falling, her breath ragged and warm against my collarbone. Up close, her scent curls through the air. Her fists bunch in my shirt like she’s debating fighting me off—but she stays put.
Smart girl.
Just as I shift to fire again, headlights sweep across the lot—the unmistakable roar of engines cutting through the night.
Leonid’s black SUV skids to a halt near the ER entrance. Iosif jumps out, weapon ready, returning fire without hesitation.
Backup.
Finally.
But even with the bullets flying, my awareness stays locked on the woman practically molded to my chest, soft curves pressed tight against every hard line of my body, her green eyes still burning with fight.
Fuck me.
Wrong time, wrong place—but suddenly I want her pressed against me for a hell of a lot more than survival.
Later.
First, I deal with these idiots.
Then? We’ll see how long Dr. Yulia keeps up that attitude when there’s no gunfire between us.
Everything happens fast. My brothers spread out, laying down cover fire as I return shots, forcing the attackers back.
I see Iosif head indoors and then, within minutes, Valentin’s gurney bursts through the trauma bay doors, wheeled by my brother and one of my men, flanked by nurses shrieking for cover.
“Get him in the car!” I bark at Iosif, gesturing toward Valentin. Meanwhile, Leonid, I see, has managed to bring down two of our attackers.
Iosif tosses me a questioning look as his gaze lands on Yulia, still pressed to my side.
“Listen, all of you,” I yell. “Get in the fucking car and go.”
“What about you, Brother?” Leonid bellows back, still warding off the gunfire from the remaining one man.
I inch closer to the SUV with Yulia still in my grip. I aim, shooting out the knee of the last remaining attacker.
“There could be more coming,” I tell my brothers. “Take Valentin home.”
The doctor, Yulia, shoves off my grip and stands, hair wild, breathing hard. She clocks the corpses with a single wide-eyed sweep, then whips around to face me.
“What the hell was that?” she demands.
Iosif is helping Valentin into the car, but I see all three of my brothers pause and look between us questioningly.
“I saved your life,” I snap at her.
“You just—your friends just—” She’s sputtering, shaking. “You can’t just—this is a hospital, for god’s sake! You—people—”
She’s actually beautiful when she’s furious. It’s not the right time to notice, but I do.
In the distance, Sirens are wailing. Fuck. That means we have a minute, maybe two, before more law enforcement shows up and ruins my night.
Leonid chimes in. “Should I clean up the mess, or—?”
“Leave it,” I say. “Zakharovs want to leave bodies on my turf, let them explain it.”
He nods and gets into the car, but leaves the door open, watching Yulia and me like we’re some prime time entertainment.
I turn to the doctor. “You’re coming with us.”
She stares at me like I’m insane. Maybe I am.
I don’t have time to explain. I can already feel the problem unraveling in real-time—she saw everything. My face. The gunfire. The retaliation. This is the kind of shit that turns civilians into liabilities.
I grip Yulia’s arm and nod at my brothers. “Drive. We’ll follow in my car.”
“No. No, I’m not. Your brother’s fine. The police are coming. I’m staying here.” She actually tries to yank herself free.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “You’re a witness. They saw you. Next time, they’ll aim at you first.”
She tries to fight me, but I’m stronger. “So what, you’re kidnapping me now? This is insane. You can’t just—”
“Let’s go,” I order, and before Yulia can react, I haul her into my arms.
Her fist slams into my ribs. I barely feel it, but goddamn, she tries. “Let me go, asshole.”
She bites. She fucking bites my hand, right below the thumb, and for a second, I see stars. I only hold her stronger.
“What the hell are you doing?!” she shrieks, fists pounding at my chest as I stride toward my car.
“Keeping you alive,” I bite out, shoving open the passenger door. “Stay down.”
“Put me down, you psycho—!”
I drop her into the seat, slam the door, and round the car just as more shots crack through the lot. Tires screech.
Fuck. More Zakharov scum are here. My men peel out with Valentin, Iosif covering them as they go.
I slide behind the wheel and pull out my gun before bringing the engine to life.
Yulia’s still yelling beside me, trying to claw at the door handle.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice steel. “You don’t want to step out there right now.”
She freezes for half a second as another bullet ricochets off the asphalt nearby, her chest rising and falling like she’s seconds from hyperventilating.
“Buckle up,” I order, punching the accelerator.
The tires squeal as I rip out of the lot, weaving through the side streets, eyes darting between the mirrors. My jaw tightens when I spot headlights closing in fast behind us.
Of course, they’re not done.
“Let me out,” Yulia demands, voice cracking at the edges now, fear tangled with rage. “I’m not going anywhere with you—”
“You already are,” I snap, swerving onto a side street as another car barrels into view. “Stay low.”
She’s scrambling to process it all—the attack, me, the gun in my lap—but her stubbornness burns through the fear.
“You kidnapped me,” she hisses, gripping the seat, her eyes wild. “What kind of psychopath—”
“Saving your ass, actually,” I cut in. “But if you want to step out and introduce yourself to the guys with automatic weapons, then that’s an adventure you might not live to talk about.”
Her mouth opens, but the next burst of gunfire shatters the rear windshield.
I swerve hard, one hand on the wheel, the other raising my gun, firing a clean shot through the back window. One of the pursuing cars jerks sideways, tires screeching as it collides with a parked truck.
“Jesus Christ,” Yulia gasps, ducking instinctively as glass rains down.
The second car’s still tailing us, close now, too close.
My pulse hammers steady, every muscle taut as I maneuver through the industrial backstreets. I can feel her shifting beside me—heart racing, adrenaline climbing, her mind working a mile a minute.
Then, to my utter aggravation, she moves.
The second I swerve around a corner, her hand slams the door latch open. I reach for her, but she’s faster, diving out into the alleyway, rolling to the pavement before I can grab hold.
“Yulia!” I snarl, tires screeching as I slam the brakes.
I want to stop. Want to haul her stubborn ass back into the car where she’s protected. But headlights flare in the mirror—the other car’s still on me, gaining fast.
I scan the alley as I roll past, eyes sharp. She’s already gone—disappeared between dumpsters, shadows swallowing her whole. No movement. No silhouette. No clear target.
Good.
If I can’t see her, neither can they.
I grind my teeth, fury knotting in my chest as I slam my foot down on the gas, peeling off into the next side street, forcing their car to follow. My priorities are locked—the faster I lose them, the safer she stays.
I’ll deal with her later.
First, I make sure the ones chasing us bleed for it.
The second Zakharov car’s still on me—persistent, but sloppy. They don’t know these streets as well as I do. I make another sharp turn, tires skimming the edge of an overflowing dumpster, cutting through a narrow passage that spits me into an old dockyard.
Dead end for most.
Not for me.
The instant I hit the docks, I kill the headlights and veer hard, slipping between the rusted-out cargo containers littering the space. The car behind me barrels forward, missing the turn entirely, its momentum carrying it wide off course.
They try to correct, tires screaming—but they’re too late.
I squeeze the trigger, one clean shot to the front tire as they lurch into view. The car skids, spinning out, slamming into a stack of scrap metal with an ugly crunch.
They won’t be chasing anyone tonight.
I breathe through the fury simmering just below my ribs, grab my phone one-handed, and dial.
Leonid answers on the first ring. “You good?”
“I’m breathing,” I grit out as I drive back in the direction of my house. “How’s Valentin?”
“Stable,” he says.
“And you?” I ask, meaning the rest—meaning: Are you hurt? Are you ready to burn the city down?
“We’re fine,” he sighs. “But we’ve got problems.”
“No shit,” I mutter, glancing at the shattered back window to see that the streets behind are empty. “Zakharovs must’ve lost their minds.”
“We gettin’ payback now?”
“Not yet. We do this smart. Let them breathe. Let them wonder when the axe falls.”
Leonid knows me—knows I don’t play reckless, not with blood on the line. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’ll handle it.”
I hang up, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat—the seat that should still be occupied by one stubborn, green-eyed doctor.
Instead, it’s empty.
My jaw tics as I grip the wheel tighter, speeding toward home.
***
The second I get home, I head straight for my office. My pulse hasn’t settled, and her name’s still rattling in my skull like a warning bell.
Yulia Fyodorov.
It’s been stuck in my head. Familiar in a way I can’t shake, but the dots aren’t connecting—yet.
I drop into the chair, fire up my laptop, and start digging.
The usual records pop first—medical licenses, Massachusetts General credentials, perfect grades. NYU pre-med, Weill Cornell for med school. Clean. Squeaky clean.
But that last name.
Fyodorov.
It won’t sit right.
I dig deeper, pulling alumni profiles, old news clippings, and anything else that is public-facing. NYU’s alumni page loads next—a glowing feature on Yulia herself, complete with her graduation photo.
I freeze.
It’s not just her green eyes, stubborn jaw, that sharpness I’ve already tasted in person. It’s the people standing with her. Her family.
I lean closer, jaw tightening as I read the caption—quotes about her parents’ sacrifices, their pride, how they “built everything from nothing” and “support every one of her dreams.”
Her brothers—three of them—standing at her side. All grinning like the golden boy next door. I’ve seen their faces before. Different angles, different sources—but I’ve seen them.
Because they’re not civilians.
They’re Bratva.
Old-school. Quiet. Low-profile, but lethal. A powerful name back in New York’s underworld. A family that has kept itself insulated, despite the money and connections.
And I just kidnapped their little sister.
My pulse spikes again, not with panic, but calculation. She isn’t what I expected. And now? She’s a whole new kind of problem.
A beautiful, infuriating, dangerous problem with Bratva blood.
I stare at her face one more time, dragging my gaze down the photo, replaying the way she looked pressed against me earlier—defiant, furious, far too tempting for my own good.
The start of an obsession creeps in before I can stop it.
She’s not just trouble.
She’s not just a Fyodorov. She’s one of the Fyodorovs.
And I don’t let loose ends like that walk away.