Chapter 7 - Yulia
I wake with a start, my heart hammering against my ribs before my brain catches up. Then it crashes over me—the parking lot shootout, the kidnapping, the marriage certificate.
My fingers curl into the unfamiliar silk sheets as reality sinks like lead in my stomach.
I’m trapped in a stranger’s mansion, legally bound to a man who threatened my family—and I still have no idea what he really wants from me.
The morning sun burns too bright, too soft, too…wrong.
I don’t belong here.
Sleep had barely touched me last night. I’d been too busy replaying his words on a loop.
This is your home now.
No, it’s not.
It’s not my home. It’s not my life. It’s not even my story anymore. It’s his. Whatever this is, he’s writing it.
For a moment, I consider burying myself back under the covers and pretending none of this is real. But I can’t hide from this horrid reality forever, can I?
I push myself up and out of bed, and that’s when I realize I have no clothes apart from the scrubs I’ve been wearing since yesterday, which are rumpled beyond salvation now. But I’m not about to sit around in them all day. I need to think, and thinking means routine. And routine means work.
Work. Oh god. My shift starts in two hours.
Whatever Trifon’s up to, I can’t let it derail my career. I didn’t spend years clawing my way through med school and landing this residency just to throw it all away because some tattooed psychopath decided to kidnap me!
I head into the shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in the same damn clothes from yesterday, my hair is combed, and I feel semi-human again. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection. “Just get to work. Figure the rest out later.”
Next up, I try the door, half-expecting it to be locked from the outside, but the handle turns effortlessly. Okay, so I’m not a prisoner. That’s... something.
I head downstairs, replaying the path from yesterday. The house is quiet. No Trifon. No staff. Perfect. Maybe I can just walk out.
I find the front door and pull it open, stepping onto the wide stone porch. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and grass. Freedom is just a car ride away. Except...
I don’t have a car. Or my phone. Or my wallet.
Shit.
Still, the hospital isn’t that far. I can walk to the nearest main road and catch a cab there, and can ask to borrow cash from one of the nurses. I just need to get off this property.
I stride down the front steps, following the curved driveway toward the gates I saw yesterday.
But when I reach the gates?
I realize quickly—I’m not going anywhere.
Massive iron gates stand locked, not a security guard in sight, but cameras follow me as I pace, scanning for a panel, a button, anything.
I try the code pad and press the exit button. It doesn’t work. I press it again. Harder.
Still nothing.
I try yelling at the cameras. Silence answers me.
My chest tightens with frustration. No. No. I’m not a hostage. I’m not some caged thing he can just keep.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, shoving the gate with both hands. It doesn’t budge.
I pace the perimeter, eyes darting. The stone wall runs the length of the property, tall enough to block out everything beyond. I’d need a ladder—or the upper body strength of a Navy SEAL—to clear it.
Anger bubbles up, hot and immediate. I’m trapped. Actually trapped. In a mansion that looks like it belongs in a luxury real estate magazine, sure, but trapped nonetheless.
Fury lights my veins. I pivot on my heel and storm back inside, my sneakers slapping the ground as I track him down. Time to get the bastard responsible for this to give me some real freaking answers.
The mansion’s bigger than I realized—an endless maze of polished floors, vaulted ceilings, and hallways designed to confuse. I throw open doors as I go—a theater, a gym, guest rooms that look like they belong in luxury magazines, a library straight out of a billionaire’s fever dream. But no Trifon.
Figures. A man that insufferable wouldn’t make himself easy to find.
Finally, near the back of the house, I hear faint typing. I follow the sound to a half-open door and shove it wider without knocking.
There he is.
Trifon sits behind an enormous desk like he owns the world—and annoyingly, he probably does. Blue button-down rolled to his elbows, the same shade as his eyes. His dark hair was damp, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. He glances up as I barge in, completely unfazed.
“Good morning,” he drawls, like this is normal. Like I’m a houseguest who’s just come down for breakfast.
“Let me out,” I snap, skipping the small talk entirely. “I have a shift in two hours.”
His eyes lock with mine, cool and unreadable. “You’re not going to work today.”
“Yes, I am.” I march across the room, planting both palms on the desk, leaning in until I’m practically in his space. “People depend on me. I save lives, remember? Unlike you, I actually contribute something useful to society.”
“I called your hospital. You’re on medical leave.”
My jaw drops. “You did what?”
“Food poisoning, wasn’t it?” He tilts his head, all mock concern. “Turns out it’s more serious than expected. You’ll need a week to recover.”
The casual way he says it—like he’s discussing the weather instead of hijacking my entire life—makes me want to scream.
“You can’t do that!” I cry, my voice rising. “That’s my job. My reputation. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get there?”
“I’m sure you’ll get another job if this one doesn’t work out,” he says with a dismissive wave.
Something inside me snaps.
“Listen to me, you arrogant, control-freak asshole,” I hiss, leaning across the desk until we’re nearly nose to nose.
His eyes darken at the proximity, but I keep going.
“I didn’t spend four years of medical school and rack up student loans that would make your accountant weep just to have some—some thug with control issues derail my entire career.
Either you let me out of here, or you tell me exactly what I’m doing here. ”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before it fades behind that infuriating calm. “Sit down, Yulia.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I want my life back.”
“You’ll get answers when you stop breathing fire.”
“Stop—breathing—fire?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me, forge marriage papers, trap me here, and you expect me to be polite? Are you that fucking delusional?”
His lips twitch. “Are you always this dramatic with your patients? It must be exhausting for them.”
“Only when they’re complete psychopaths,” I fire back, crossing my arms. “What do you even want from me?”
Trifon rises, all slow, dangerous grace, rounding the desk until he’s standing too close. The air tightens. He smells like expensive cologne, cedar, and something darker. It’s deeply unfair how attractive he is with menace dripping from every pore.
“I told you yesterday,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re safer here.”
“Safer from what? The only danger I’ve encountered lately is you.”
His mouth quirks, almost amused. “The men shooting at us might disagree.”
“Men who were shooting at you,” I correct. “I was just collateral damage.”
“And now you’re not.”
I glare, but the heat climbing my neck has nothing to do with anger. God, I hate my body for noticing him—the sharp jaw, the broad shoulders, the way his eyes drag over me like I’m his next acquisition.
“You’re delusional,” I mutter.
“And yet here you are.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “That makes no sense! Why am I here? Why did you make me sign those papers? Why—”
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who jumped out of a moving car three nights ago. Where were your critical thinking skills then, Doctor?”
I shove his chest in annoyance—he barely moves. Solid as stone. His grin only widens, like this whole exchange is foreplay to him.
“This is insane,” I grit out. “Let me go.”
Instead, he shifts, brushing past me with infuriating ease. “You hungry? The chef can make anything.”
“I want to leave and don’t have much of an appetite, thanks,” I growl.
“Not happening.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I stare at him, rage vibrating under my skin. “You really think the world bends to what Trifon Yuri wants, don’t you?”
He smirks, insufferably smug. “Generally? It does.”
My hands curl into fists, and I glower at him.
He crosses his arms, towering over me like the smug, dangerous storm cloud that he is. “You’re being ungrateful, you know? Let’s be honest. Most women would kill to wake up in this house, married to me.”
I bark out a laugh so sharp it could slice through steel. “Most women clearly have brain damage.”
His brows lift, but I bulldoze over whatever arrogant comeback he’s cooking up.
“I don’t care how many people cower when you walk into a room,” I bite out, stepping back, pulse thundering in my ears. “I’m not one of them.”
I spin on my heel and stalk toward the door. Just before I reach the threshold, I glance back—just once.
He’s still there, leaning against his desk like this is some game, eyes tracking every move I make, like he’s already plotting his next play.
“You’re not going to tell me the truth, are you?” I hiss.
“Nope,” he grins.
God…I hate how my heart races when he looks at me like that. Hate that I still hover, wondering if he has more to say. Before I make a fool of myself by staying a beat too long, I slam the door behind me so hard that the walls shudder.
The days pass in a maddening blur. One becomes two, becomes three, and I’m still trapped in this house.
Trifon brought over some fresh clothes. Asked me if I’d like to join him for meals a few times.
I kept saying no. He stopped asking. Now?
He comes and goes—sometimes absent for most of the day, sometimes working from his study.
When we cross paths, it’s tense. We circle each other like wary animals, neither willing to give ground.
I spend most of my time in the library, trying to distract myself with books. Or in the gym, punching a bag until my knuckles ache, imagining it’s Trifon’s smug face. I try the gates sometimes, hoping for a moment of neglect, but they remain stubbornly locked.
By day four, desperation sets in. I’ve missed nearly a week of my residency—a residency I fought tooth and nail to get. What if they replace me? What if all those years of sacrifice amount to nothing because of one tattooed egomaniac?
I need leverage. Something to force his hand. And the only way to get it is to figure out what the hell is going on.
I wait until Trifon leaves one morning, watching from my window as his car disappears down the driveway. Then I make my move.
His study is easy. Unlocked. Like he doesn’t expect me to be bold enough to snoop through his life.
Idiot.
The room is exactly as I remember—all dark wood and leather, windows overlooking the manicured grounds. I head straight for his desk, where his computer sits.
Password protected, of course. I try a few obvious guesses—his name, his brother’s names, combinations of common numbers—but nothing works. Then I spot a sticky note tucked into a desk drawer: V42-1978-SL.
Worth a shot.
The screen unlocks, and I’m in.
I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I start with his emails.
Most are in Russian, which I can only partially understand despite my heritage—my parents never insisted we learn it fluently.
But I get enough. Business transactions.
Shipping manifests. References to territories and distributions.
Then I see it. A folder labeled Bratva.
My blood turns to ice.
I know that word. Everyone knows that word—Russian mafia.
My parents used to whisper about them, warning us to stay away from certain neighborhoods in Brooklyn where they were known to operate.
Hands trembling, I open the folder.
Organizational charts. Territory maps stretching across the city. Photos—men with dead eyes, thick necks, guns casually slung at their sides.
My eyes snag on his name. Trifon Yuri. Right at the top.
Underneath it: Pakhan.
My stomach caves in on itself. I might not speak fluent Russian, but even I know that one.
Boss. Leader. Kingpin.
I click through file after file, bile rising higher with every revelation. This isn’t street-level crime. This is deep-rooted, generational, blood-stained, empire-level organized crime.
The man who kidnapped me. Married me. The man whose house I’ve been sleeping in…is the Bratva boss. Not just in Boston. Based on these files…possibly the entire goddamn East Coast.
Photos confirm it—Trifon, shoulder to shoulder with known criminals. Guns, cash, and meetings that don’t belong in daylight.
A list of names catches my eye. People who owe him. People who’ve crossed him.
Some of those names are crossed out.
A chill spreads under my skin, cold as grave dirt.
I can barely breathe as the puzzle pieces slam together—the shootout at the hospital. His casual threats. The lethal calm in his voice. The absolute, suffocating power he walks around with.
I feel sick.
I’m still staring at the screen, hands frozen on the mouse, when the door creaks open behind me.
I whirl around, pulse skidding to a stop.
Trifon leans in the doorway.
Our eyes lock, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.