Chapter 6 - Trifon
The car ride back to my place is quiet. Too quiet.
I expected the fighting. The shouting. Negotiations, maybe—threats about her powerful connections and how her family would make me bleed for this. That’s how this usually goes when you snatch a woman with a last name like Fyodorov.
But Yulia? She’s simply… silent.
She just sits there, trembling with fear. It’s the fear that bothers me. Had she put up a fight? I might’ve even enjoyed it.
I drum my fingers against the wheel, keeping one eye on her, waiting.
Any second now, she’ll throw her last name in my face, remind me exactly who she belongs to.
That her brothers will come slit my throat in my sleep.
That’s what I’ve been preparing for ever since I put the pieces together—realized whose little sister I’ve got strapped into my passenger seat.
The Fyodorovs.
Old money. Old Bratva. Quiet, dangerous, practically ghosts in New York’s underworld.
They’ve kept their name out of headlines and off police radars for decades—a clean image shielding a criminal empire beneath the surface.
And their daughter? She should’ve been the sharpest weapon in their arsenal.
But she’s not acting like it.
She’s tense, sure. Scared, definitely. But there’s no sharp-edged defiance. No demands to talk to her parents. No “Do you know who I am?” threats. Just… tight, confused silence. And it grates on my nerves more than screaming ever could.
What game is this?
I watch her as I drive. Her profile is sharp in the afternoon light—high cheekbones, straight nose, soft lips pressed into a thin line. The fire I saw in the hospital parking lot is still there, banked but not extinguished. She’s beautiful even when she’s terrified.
This isn’t about attraction, I remind myself.
It’s a strategy. When I took her after the shootout, I knew it was only a matter of time before the Fyodorovs came for me.
A kidnapped daughter? That’s war. But a marriage?
That’s an alliance. Politics. The oldest way to prevent bloodshed between families.
So, of course, I had to get her back and fix this mess I created. For three whole days, I waited and wondered when we’d come under attack by the Fyodorovs. When I figured she might not have told them I kidnapped her yet, I thought it wiser to fix the problem before the day came.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks as we cross into the wealthier part of the city.
“My house.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as we’re married.”
Her breath catches. I see her throat work as she swallows. She turns her face away, but not before I catch the flash of anger in her eyes. Good. Anger is better than fear.
The car winds through the hills, the skyline shrinking behind us as the streets grow wider, quieter, more exclusive. Boston’s upper crust is tucked away in manicured estates and towering glass fortresses.
Her family’s no stranger to this life. The Fyodorovs are old money. Maybe not Yuri's money, but enough to keep her in prep schools, Ivy League halls, cocktail parties with the country’s most elite men.
So why the hell does she look like we’ve crossed into another universe?
Her eyes go wide as the gates to my property loom ahead—black wrought iron, carved with intricate detailing, stretching fifteen feet high. I punch in the code, and the gates slide open, the car crawling up the winding drive.
The house reveals itself slowly—three stories of stone, glass, and steel perched high above the city. Sleek lines. Clean edges. Built for security as much as status.
She presses a hand to the window, barely breathing. “This is yours?” she whispers, almost to herself.
Her awe scrapes at me. What the hell did her parents keep her locked away from? She’s a Fyodorov. This world shouldn’t be foreign.
“Ours now,” I reply smoothly, and immediately regret the words when I see her flinch.
I park in front of the entrance and turn off the engine. For a second, we just sit there. The air thickens between us—her breath oscillating like a trapped bird, my obsession twisting deeper beneath my ribs.
I get out, round the car, and open her door.
She doesn’t move at first—eyes scanning the house, the property, the hilltop view like it’s some castle plucked from a movie screen.
The corners of my mouth twitch, but the confusion rides higher than amusement. “You’ve never seen a house like this?” I ask, watching her.
Her spine straightens, stubborn pride snapping into place. “My parents aren’t… like this,” she says, stepping out slowly. “We weren’t… rich.”
I try not to let my eyes pop out of my head because I know that’s a lie. Their import business is worth $50 million a year, easily. Even I know that.
Seriously. What the hell is she playing at?
I shut the car door behind her, leading the way up the front steps. She follows, hesitant, like I’ve just marched her into Versailles instead of my house.
It doesn’t add up.
I unlock the door, motioning her inside.
The entryway is wide, flooded with natural light, and features glass walls that frame the Boston skyline below. The house stretches open, with high ceilings, imported stone floors, and clean modern lines. It’s not ostentatious by Bratva standards, but it’s no modest condo either.
Yulia pauses in the foyer, eyes sweeping over the space like she’s never set foot in a place like this. Her fingers drift across the sleek marble console table.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her. “It’s a house, not a museum,” I say.
Her shoulders stiffen. Her nerves are obvious.
I move toward the living room. “Come sit. You want a drink?”
Her eyes narrow, but she follows me in. “What kind of drink?”
“Relax, Doctor,” I say, smirking as I walk to the bar cart. “I’m not drugging you.” I pour two fingers of vodka into a glass, hold it up. “Just good Russian hospitality.”
She crosses her arms but follows, perching on the edge of the velvet couch like it might bite her.
Her eyes stay sharp, wary, flicking from the drink to me. “Please,” she says quietly, voice raw around the edges now. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Straight to the point. Brave, considering.
I settle into the chair opposite, the glass heavy in my hand. “Already told you. You’re staying here. You’re mine now.”
Her throat works as she swallows, her grip tightening around the hem of her sleeve.
“Look, I think you’ve made some… some mistake,” she pushes, voice cracking slightly.
“My parents are simple people. They’ll worry if I disappear, and—they’re not—” she breaks off, shaking her head.
“They’re not powerful. Don’t you understand what my disappearance will do to them?
My dad? He’ll literally sell our house if he has to just to get a private detective. Why are you doing this to us?”
I still.
“They’ll worry?” I repeat slowly.
She nods, eyes glassy now, panic creeping in.
“Yes! They won’t know what to do. This is their worst nightmare.
My dad runs his small import business, and my mom’s probably baking something ridiculous while crying because she misses me already.
They’re not rich. We’re not…” she trails off, clearly overwhelmed. “I’m just a doctor.”
The weight in my chest tightens. My brain works double-time, lining up facts like dominoes.
The fear on her face is too raw, too genuine to be an act. She believes every goddamn word she says.
They kept her out. Completely.
A protective move. Smart, honestly. Hide the golden daughter, send her to Boston under the guise of independence, and bury her in a residency program where no one would look twice.
And suddenly, it all makes sense. Why the Fyodorov princess was working the ER night shift at a public hospital. Why she was living alone in a modest apartment instead of some luxury penthouse. Why she reacted with such horror to the violence outside the hospital.
They hid her. Protected her. Kept her innocent while they built an empire on blood.
And I—fuck—I plucked her straight out of that safety net, thinking she was part of the game.
Thinking I was preventing a war by marrying her.
Turns out… I may have started one.
I rake a hand over my jaw, staring at her like I’m seeing her for the first time.
“You really don’t know,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Her eyes narrow. “Know what? That you’re completely insane? Yeah, I’m catching on to that part.”
A bitter laugh slips out despite myself. Her fire’s still there, even tangled up in fear. I should admire that less than I do.
She looks up at me, eyes glazed with tears she refuses to let fall. “Please, tell me. Why am I here? What do you want with me?”
I cross the room, crouch down in front of her. “When was the last time you spoke to your family?” I ask.
She blinks. “Three days ago. Right after my shift. Before…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what she means. Before the shootout.
“And they haven’t called since? Worried why you haven’t checked in?”
Her lips press together. “They’re on vacation. In Russia. Visiting relatives.”
I nod slowly. That explains it. The Fyodorovs don’t know their daughter is missing because they’re not even in the country. But they will be back. And when they find out I exposed their princess to this world…
I grit my teeth, the weight of it sinking in now.
I thought marrying her would fix this—the whole calculated mess.
Her face got caught in the crossfire that night, and I assumed it was only a matter of time before the Fyodorovs came for me.
Their daughter? Involved? Kidnapped? That’s war…
unless you bury the problem, or make it part of your empire.
So, I did what generations of Bratva men have done before me—turned a mess into an alliance. Marriage over bloodshed. Keep the peace. Fix the optics.
But now? I may have made the wrong call.
I stare at her, those glassy green eyes full of real, gut-wrenching fear, at the tremble in her hands she’s trying so damn hard to hide—and then it hits me.
The guilt.
I shouldn’t care that she’s innocent.
But I do.
And that’s a problem.
It twists low in my gut—the wrongness of it, the realization that I married a girl so far outside this world she doesn’t even recognize her own last name as dangerous.
The guilt claws at me. Sharp. Unwelcome.
But I shove it down. Tell myself this is still a strategy. Still an alliance in the making, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
When her parents come back? When they find out? Better that they hear she’s my wife than assume the worst.
So no—I didn’t make a mistake. I’m keeping the peace. Preventing a war before it starts.
And if I feel bad for the wide-eyed girl staring at me like I’ve upended her entire universe… so be it. I’ve carried heavier burdens.
“Come on,” I say, straightening. My voice softens, the rough edge dulling as I gesture to the stairs. “You’ll take the best room.”
Surprise flashes across her face, like she didn’t think I’d let her have her own space. Suddenly, I realize how petrified she must be.
“I’m not a monster, Yulia,” I add quietly. “You’ll be safe here. Comfortable.”
That part’s true. The rest? It’ll unravel however it needs to.
She finally rises, hands trembling as she sets down the glass. I motion her toward the stairs and follow, eyes trailing her the whole time—obsession threading deeper beneath my skin, wrapping tight around the ribs already aching from this mess.
I’ll fix this. I always do.
Even if it means lying to her.
Even if it means lying to myself.
She doesn’t fight when I lead her upstairs. Wariness curls her shoulders in tight.
But when I open the door to the best guest room—the one with floor-to-ceiling windows, the king-size bed, the soft rugs, and the ocean view—her brows pinch.
“This is…where I’m staying?” Her voice is cautious.
I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, watching her. “Not exactly the dungeon you were picturing, huh?”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face before she wanders further in, hands brushing the soft duvet, the window frame. Her back to me now, outlined in the soft light. I shouldn’t be noticing the slope of her spine or the delicate curve of her waist. But I do.
“It’s the best room in the house,” I say simply. “Clean sheets. Privacy. Lock on the door—if that makes you feel better.”
She turns to face me, and her eyes narrow like she’s trying to figure me out.
I should leave. Let her settle in, process everything. But something keeps me rooted to the spot. Maybe it’s the way the afternoon light catches in her hair, turning it to fire. Maybe it’s the defiance still burning in her eyes despite everything.
“I’ll have dinner sent up,” I say gently. “Unless you’d prefer to join me downstairs.”
“I’d prefer to go home,” she fires back.
“This is your home now.”
She sighs and meets my gaze. “Why are you doing this? Really?”
There’s an exhaustion in her voice I don’t like hearing.
I run a hand through my hair, utterly lost for words. “It’s safer this way,” I manage to say despite the tightening in my throat. The truth? Can’t really tell her without shattering her world, can I?
I should feel guilty. Should regret dragging an innocent woman into my world. But watching her stand here, in this room, in my house, all I feel is possessive. Protective.
I didn’t really lie now, did I? It is safer this way.
“Look, all I want to know—“ she starts to argue, but I cut her off.
“Rest,” I tell her, forcing myself to step back into the hallway before she asks the question I don’t yet have a clear answer to. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
I close the door behind me and hear the lock click from inside. But locks can’t keep me out if I really want in. We both know that.