Chapter 5 - Yulia
For three whole days, I’ve done nothing but work and attempt to forget that disaster outside the ER.
Spoiler alert—it’s not working.
I’d like to pretend I imagined the whole thing—the gunfire, the bodies, the part where Trifon basically kidnapped me to “keep me alive,” and then his stupid, infuriatingly broad shoulders as he drove off into the night.
But no, that happened.
“Dr. Fyodorov?” A nurse—not Marcy, she’s off today—hovers at my elbow. “The patient in Exam Three is complaining about the wait.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there,” I say, forcing a smile.
She nods and moves away. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. God, I’m tired. I haven’t slept properly since that night. Every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots. Feel tattooed arms pulling me against a hard chest. See bodies dropping to the pavement.
I should have reported it. I know that. I’m a doctor—we’re mandatory reporters for violence. But the second I jumped out of that car and hit the pavement, rolling behind a dumpster, my survival instinct took over.
I ran. Zigzagged through back alleys like a frightened rabbit, hiding whenever headlights swept past. My scrubs were torn, my hands bloody from the fall. I must’ve looked insane—a wild-eyed woman sprinting through Boston’s industrial district at midnight.
It took me two hours to find my way back to civilization.
I finally flagged down a cab, gave him everything in my pockets, and collapsed into my apartment at 3 AM.
By then, my entire body was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
I locked every door, pushed furniture against it, and huddled in my shower until the hot water ran out.
I slept through four alarms the next morning—a first in my entire professional life. When I finally dragged myself to the hospital, three hours late, the place was crawling with police.
“Shooting in the parking lot,” one of the residents whispered as I slipped past. “Five bodies. Gang-related, they think.”
Five bodies. My stomach dropped. I hadn’t seen that many.
I should have stepped forward right then and told them everything.
But then Dr. Chen caught me sneaking in. “Fyodorov! Where the hell have you been? We’re short-staffed after last night’s mess, and we need all hands on deck. Triple your patient load today.”
And just like that, I was swept into the chaos of a post-shooting ER—triaging patients, running labs, covering for colleagues who’d called out from trauma. By the time my sixteen-hour shift ended, the police were gone.
I told myself I’d report it tomorrow. And then tomorrow became the next day.
And then the excuses piled up like bricks—the police had already interviewed witnesses; they had security footage; what difference would my statement make?
And beneath it all, the fear: what if they came for me if I talked?
So here I am, three days later, pretending nothing happened. Pretending I don’t check over my shoulder every time I step outside.
I stitch up the impatient man in Exam Three, reset a dislocated shoulder in Five, and discharge four patients in quick succession. My shift’s almost over. Just one more patient, then a coffee break, then two more hours of rounds before I can crawl home and collapse.
My last patient before break is a six-year-old with a fever. She’s adorable, with missing front teeth and Hello Kitty Band-Aids all over her arms “for decoration.” I listen to her chest, smile at her mother, and prescribe antibiotics for what’s likely strep throat.
“All done,” I tell them, ruffling the little girl’s hair. “You’re very brave.”
The mom thanks me, and I escape into the hallway, finally free for my break. I slip out the side entrance, the one staff use to avoid the main doors where ambulances roll in. The crisp autumn air hits my face, and for the first time all day, I take a full breath.
The coffee shop is just across the small side street. I can already smell the roasting beans. My mouth waters at the thought of a vanilla latte with an extra shot—my reward for surviving another day.
I’m halfway across the street when I feel it—that prickle at the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched.
My steps falter. My heart kicks up, hammering against my ribs. Slowly, I turn, scanning the quiet street.
Nothing. Just parked cars, a few pedestrians hurrying past.
I’m being paranoid. Of course I am. It’s been three days. I’m safe.
I push through the coffee shop door, savoring the warmth and the buzz of normalcy. I order my latte, mindlessly scrolling through my phone while I wait. The barista calls my name, and I grab the cup, already sipping as I turn toward the door.
And freeze.
Because he’s there. Standing by the door. Blocking my exit.
Trifon Yuri.
“Hello, Doctor.” He smiles and moves toward me. “Miss me?”
My legs won’t move. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Run, my brain screams. But where? He’s between me and the only exit.
“You left without saying goodbye,” he continues, stepping closer. “That was rude.”
“Stay away from me,” I finally manage, backing up until I hit the counter. “I’ll scream.”
He smiles. “No, you won’t.”
And he’s right—because screaming means involving innocent people in whatever this is.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
He glances at his watch. “You’ll be late for your next patient if we don’t go now.”
My blood turns to ice. “How do you know my schedule?”
“I know everything about you, Yulia Fyodorov.” He says my name as if he’s savoring it. “Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your choice.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I screech.
“Five minutes,” he counters. “That’s all I need. Then you can go back to your patients.”
“No.”
His eyes darken. “Five minutes for a conversation outside, or I make a scene. Your choice, Doctor.”
My eyes dart to the other patrons. Two elderly women. A mother with a toddler. College kids with laptops. Innocent people who have no idea they’re sharing space with a man who plays with guns.
I swallow hard. Five minutes. Just five minutes, and he’ll leave me alone. I can handle that. I can handle him.
I’m lying to myself again.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Five minutes.”
I follow him out, pulse jackhammering against my ribs, every step fueled by regret. Stupid. So stupid. But what choice did I have? Cause a scene? Risk innocent people getting caught in whatever storm follows this man around?
The narrow alley beside the coffee shop is quiet—just dumpsters, loading doors, cracked pavement. He leads me toward a sleek black car parked at the curb, glancing casually over his shoulder like this is normal.
Every instinct screams this is wrong.
“Five minutes,” I remind him, voice tight. “And I swear, if you lay a finger on me—”
He laughs. “Relax, Doctor. We’re just talking.”
But then his hand wraps around my wrist, and the next thing I know, the car door is open, and I’m being shoved inside.
“What the hell—” The coffee hits the ground, and my feet scrape the pavement, sneakers skidding, but he’s faster, stronger. His grip locks like steel around my arm, and I’m half-tossed into the passenger seat before I can blink.
The door slams shut.
Panic detonates in my chest.
I lunge for the handle, but it doesn’t open, and he’s already rounding the hood. My hand fumbles uselessly at the latch, my heartbeat roaring in my ears as the driver’s side door rips open, and Trifon slides in beside me.
“Let me out!” I slam my palms against the door, against the glass. “Are you insane? I have patients—my shift isn’t over—”
“Yes, your three o’clock rounds.” He puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb. “And the staff meeting at five.”
A chill races down my spine. “How do you—”
“I know everything about you.”
“Stop the car,” I demand, panic rising. “Let me out now, or I swear to God—”
“You’ll what?” He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “Jump out again? I’m better prepared this time around.”
“Where are you taking me?” I try again, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “My shift isn’t over. I can’t just disappear—they’ll call the police.”
“No, they won’t,” he says with maddening confidence. “Your fellow doctor—Dr. Chen, is it?—thinks you’ve gone homesick. Food poisoning, very unfortunate.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “You talked to my attending?”
“I had someone call on your behalf.”
“You had—” I sputter, rage finally overcoming fear. “Are you insane? You can’t just—that’s my job! My career! Who the hell do you think you are?”
He takes a sharp turn, unfazed by my outburst. “The man who saved your life three nights ago. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Saved my—” I nearly choke. “You’re the reason I was in danger in the first place! You and your—your gangster friends, shooting up a hospital parking lot!”
“They weren’t my friends,” he says coolly. “They were trying to kill me. And you, by association.”
“I wasn’t associated with you!” I shout, fully losing it now. “I was minding my own business until you dragged me into your psychotic turf war!”
He pulls up to a red light and turns to face me fully. The intensity in his gaze pins me to the seat. “You became involved the moment you helped my brother.”
“I was doing my job!”
“And now I’m doing mine.”
The light changes, and he accelerates smoothly, navigating through Boston’s busy streets like he owns them. Maybe he does, for all I know.
“Let me out,” I try again, hating how desperate I sound. “Please. I won’t say anything. I haven’t told anyone about what happened.”
“I know,” he says calmly. “If you had, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
Is that a threat? It feels like one. My hands start to tremble, and I clench them into fists to hide it.
“You’re going to get me fired!” I cry out in real fear.
“I’ll deal with it.”
“You’re insane!”
“Possibly,” he grins and gives me a wink.
A real wink.
“You can’t do this,” I snap, twisting in my seat, shoving at his arm. It’s like pushing a brick wall. “I’ll report you. I’ll—”
“To whom?” His eyes cut to mine, sharp, glinting with dark amusement. “More importantly, how? In case you didn’t notice, sweetheart, you’re in my car and at my mercy.”
My throat tightens, heat rushing up my neck.
“You’re crazy,” I hiss, trying the door again. Locked. Of course. “I’ll scream—”
“Go ahead.” His knuckles tighten on the wheel. “No one’s listening.”
The car jerks forward, weaving down the alley, cutting through traffic. Every block that passes knots my stomach tighter.
“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracks, panic bleeding through the bravado now.
“Someplace quiet.” His eyes flick to me, dark, steady. “You want to yell? We’ll do it there.”
My mouth dries out. I press back against the seat, heart pounding against my ribs, counting every second, every turn, every exit we pass.
It doesn’t take long.
Ten minutes later, we’re in an underground lot—empty, concrete walls pressing in, the hum of distant traffic muffled by layers of stone.
The car stops. My fingers curl into fists as he kills the engine, turns toward me.
“Out,” he orders.
“Like hell.”
Trifon leans closer, his arm braced along the back of my seat, caging me in. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You can get out on your own, or I can carry you. Your choice, Doctor.”
The heat of him, the scent of leather and danger, and that maddening calm—my pulse stumbles. I glare at him, hatred burning through my veins. But I open the door and step out, dignity intact. For now.
Because deep down, I know fighting him here buys me nothing.
The moment I’m out of the car, he pops the trunk and pulls out a thin folder.
“What’s this?” I ask when he hands it to me.
“Open it.”
Warily, I step forward and flip open the folder. It takes my brain a second to process what I’m seeing.
Marriage license. Marriage certificate. Both with our names already filled in. My brain hiccups. No, I’m hallucinating—this can’t be real.
I look up, sure, this is some sick joke. “What the hell is this?”
“Exactly what it looks like,” he says, crossing his arms. “Marriage papers.”
A laugh escapes me—high-pitched, verging on hysterical. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Sign them,” he says, trying to hand me a pen I refuse to take.
“No way in hell,” I spit, shoving the folder back at him. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not signing anything.”
He sighs as if I’m being difficult over something trivial, like choosing a restaurant for dinner. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me and demand I marry you—a complete stranger, a criminal—and you think that’s reasonable?”
He leans against the car, studying me with those unsettling eyes. “Not a complete stranger. I know you, Yulia Fyodorov. Born April 18th, raised in Brooklyn. Father, Akim. Mother, Maria. Three older brothers—Damien, Arman, and Ilya.”
My blood freezes. “How do you—”
“Graduated top of your class at NYU. Then Weill Cornell Medical. Now finishing your first year of residency at Mass General.” He continues like he’s reading my resume.
“You live alone in an apartment on Beacon Street. Unit 507. You take the T to work most days, but sometimes splurge on an Uber when you’re running late. ”
Each word feels like a knife sliding between my ribs. He knows everything. Where I live. My family.
My family.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper, real fear gripping me now.
He steps closer, and I back up until I hit the car. “One signature, and this ends. Your family stays safe in New York.”
There it is. The threat, unveiled. My parents, my brothers—their lives dangled before me like bait.
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, but the memory of gunfire echoes in my ears. The casual way he shot a man in the knee. The bodies in the parking lot.
“I would.” His voice drops, dangerous.
He means every word. I can tell from how coiled he stands. Every threat. Every promise.
Trembling, I take the pen and scrawl my name across the lines.
Yulia Fyodorov.
My hand barely steadies as I push the papers back at him.
Trifon’s eyes gleam with dark satisfaction.
“You’re mine now,” he says, voice like velvet and gunpowder.
And god help me—the spark crackling under my fear?
It’s still there.