Chapter 8 - Trifon
She’s caught red-handed, standing over my desk with my files wide open, staring at me like a deer in headlights. The blood drains from her face so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t faint.
There’s something almost adorable about the way her eyes widen, the guilty panic that flares across her features.
Almost.
If she wasn’t digging through my most sensitive information, I might even be impressed.
She’s smart—far smarter than I gave her credit for. Any other woman in her position wouldn’t have the balls to sneak into my office, much less find a way into my computer. But here she is, this stubborn doctor.
“Found what you were looking for?” I ask again, pushing off the doorframe.
She flinches like my voice slapped her, but her chin juts out a second later—pride sparking under all that panic.
Her eyes flick back to the screen before her gaze cuts to mine. Cold. Shattered. And burning with something that twists low in my gut.
“You’re disgusting,” she spits. “You… you run this? You’re the one at the top of the Bratva? The Pakhan?”
“Yes,” I say calmly, wondering now what she thinks of the Bratva. From the way she speaks of it, like it’s something sinful to even think of, I’m willing to wager a bet that she thinks I’m scum.
Her lip curls in disgust, tears brightening her eyes—but they don’t fall. She’s too fucking proud.
“I will never forgive you,” she swears, trembling. “For dragging me into your… your filth. You’re a criminal. You’re poison.”
The words slice, sharper than I expect. My amusement fades. I move closer. “Careful, Doctor.”
“Why?” She laughs bitterly. “You’ll kill me, too? Add me to your little list of crossed-out names?”
So she saw that file. Fuck.
I advance another step, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back away—just plants her feet wider.
“If I wanted you dead,” I say quietly, “you wouldn’t be standing here arguing with me.”
“What do you want then?” Her voice cracks. “Why am I here? What’s the point of all this? Y…you’re a criminal. Why are you doing this to me? To my poor family?”
I study her for a moment—the stubborn set of her jaw, the intelligence burning behind those green eyes. She’s figured out who I am. How much longer before she puts together the rest of it?
Maybe it’s time.
“What do you know about your family, Yulia?”
She blinks, clearly thrown by the question. “What?”
“Your family,” I repeat. “The Fyodorovs. What do you really know about them?”
Her expression hardens. “Don’t bring my family into your sick games.”
I pause, tipping my head, fighting the smile that tugs at my mouth. “Funny. They forgot to mention they built their fortune the same way.”
She reels back like I slapped her, eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t talk about my family like that.”
I arch a brow, slow and deliberate. “Why not? They’re not saints, Yulia. You think their hands are clean just because they hid you behind textbooks and hospitals? You think that neat little apartment of yours wasn’t bought with blood money?”
“Liar,” she hisses, voice cracking.
I close the final gap between us, crowding her space until her back nearly hits the window. Her breath jumps at her throat, frantic beneath her throat.
“You’re living in a fantasy,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous. “Your family’s waist-deep in this world, sweetheart. You’ve just been too naive to see it.”
“You…I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t fucking trust you, you hear me?” Her eyes water, and her lips quiver with rage.
“It’s not a game.” I step back. “Your father’s import business. Did you ever wonder what he actually imports?”
“Fabric,” she says immediately. “From Russia. For designers in the garment district.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Fabric. Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I walk back and lean against the desk, arms crossed. “Your father doesn’t import fabric, Yulia. He imports people. Guns. Drugs. Whatever makes the most profit with the least risk.”
She freezes, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie? You’re already here. Already caught up in this.”
Her lips curl into a snarl. “My father is a good man. My brothers are good men. They’re not—” she gestures wildly at the computer screen “—not this.”
“No?” I tilt my head. “Then why is your last name on half the documents in that folder?”
Her eyes dart to the screen, scanning frantically. I don’t know what she’ll find, but I take that bet. I’m careful with my digital footprint. But the truth is there, buried somewhere. I have a whole folder on her family.
“I don’t see anything,” she says finally.
“Because you don’t know what to look for.” I step closer. “The Fyodorovs have been Bratva for three generations. Your grandfather. Your father. Your brothers. All of them. Every single one.”
She shakes her head, backing away. “No. My family isn’t—they wouldn’t—”
“Your father is the Pakhan of the New York branch. Your brothers are his captains. And you? You’re their most precious secret. The daughter they kept clean. Protected from all of this.”
Her eyes widen, and I pray it’s the truth finally sinking in. Then something shifts—her shoulders straighten, her jaw sets.
“Bullshit,” she snaps. “My parents worked hard to fund my education. We live in a modest house in Brooklyn. If they were some... some crime lords, why would we live like that?”
“Because it’s the perfect cover,” I answer simply. “Keep the princess in the tower. Make her believe she’s normal. It’s smart, actually.”
Her face twists with pure pain. For a second, I think she might cry. But no—the fire behind her eyes blazes hotter than ever.
“You’re sick,” she hisses. “You kidnapped me, married me, and… turns out you’re a mobster. Now you think you can drag my family’s name through the dirt just to justify it? You’re unbelievable.”
“Yulia—”
“No!” Her voice cracks like a whip. “I’ve heard enough.”
She storms toward the door, shoving past me with barely-contained fury. I follow, close on her heels, my hand catching her wrist—but she jerks away like my touch burns.
“Yulia, listen—”
“I don’t want to hear another word,” she seethes, ripping open her bedroom door. “Stay the hell away from me, Trifon!”
The door slams in my face hard enough to shake the walls. The snick of the lock follows a second later.
I stand there with every instinct to break open that door, my body wired tight with frustration.
“Yulia,” I call, voice rougher than I intended.
No response.
My knuckles rap against the door, slow at first, then firmer. “Open the door.”
Silence.
I lean in, palm braced flat on the surface, listening. I hear her breathing—shallow, uneven. She sounds like she’s in shock. Processing.
“You can be pissed. I’d be shocked if you weren’t,” I say gently, now. She was innocent, after all. “But locking yourself in there won’t change the facts.”
I stay there for another few seconds, listening to her stubborn silence, then push off the door and walk away.
For two days, I give her space.
I leave food at her door only to find it gone hours later. I bring fresh coffee upstairs, knock on the door to check on her. She tells me to go away. She never opens the door.
I knock a few more times, offering quiet words through the wood. She ignores each one.
I try again the next morning. “Yulia.”
No reply.
Her silence needles under my skin in ways I don’t care to admit. It shouldn’t bother me. Let her throw her tantrum. She’ll come around when she’s ready.
But knowing she’s curled up behind that door, seething, unraveling, alone—it stirs something more desperate than frustration in my chest. I need to handle this before she spirals out of control.
By the end of the second day, I’ve had enough.
I wait. I watch. She has to leave eventually—human nature always wins.
By day three, I’ve run out of patience. I’ve given her space. Time to process. Now she needs to face reality.
I instruct the staff to stop delivering food to her room. It’s cruel, perhaps, but effective. Hunger is a powerful motivator.
It takes hours before her door finally cracks open. I’m waiting in the shadows of the hallway, lounging against the wall where she can’t see me.
She peeks out, looking both ways before slipping into the corridor. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her clothes rumpled from sleep. Even exhausted and angry, she’s beautiful. The most alive thing in this house.
I wait until she’s halfway down the hall before stepping out.
“Going somewhere?”
She freezes, her shoulders tensing before she turns to face me. “I’m hungry,” she says defiantly. “Since your staff suddenly stopped bringing food.”
“Convenient,” I say, moving toward her. “I’m just on my way out. You can join me.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Where are you going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I’d rather starve than spend another minute with you,” she says, and she makes a move to head back to her room, but her stomach betrays her with a growl.
“No, you wouldn’t.” I reach for her arm. “Let’s go.”
She tries to dart past me, but I’m faster. I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her clean off the ground, her back against my chest, her feet kicking air.
“Put me down!” she shouts, struggling against my grip.
“Stop fighting,” I murmur into her ear. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she insists, still thrashing as I carry her down the stairs.
“You can fight me all the way to the car, or you can walk on your own. Your choice.”
She stills in my arms, calculating. “Fine. I’ll walk.”
I set her down, but keep a firm grip on her elbow. She glares but doesn’t bolt.
Progress.
“I need to eat something first,” she says as I lead her toward the door.
“You can eat on the plane.”
Her steps falter. “Plane?”
“We’re going a little far,” I guide her outside where my driver waits with the car. “I’m not spending my day on the interstate.”