Chapter 8 - Trifon #2
She balks at the car door, one last attempt at resistance, but I gently shove her in. She slides into the backseat, and I follow, keeping myself between her and any possible escape.
The drive to the private airfield is tense. She stares out the window, jaw clenched, arms crossed like a barrier between us.
“How long will we be gone?” she finally asks.
“Depends on how quickly you accept the truth. I’m going to show you I wasn’t lying about your family.”
She scoffs, but there’s less conviction behind it now. Doubt has been eating at her for days. I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, the furrow between her brows.
“My family isn’t what you say they are,” she insists, but her voice wavers.
“We’ll see.”
At the airfield, my plane waits on the tarmac—sleek, white, equipped with everything we need for the short flight. She hesitates at the stairs, looking up at the metal beast like it might devour her.
“After you,” I say, guiding her up with a hand at the small of her back.
Inside, she stops short at the luxury interior—leather seats, polished wood, and a fully stocked bar. I watch her eyes take it all in, this luxury she’s never seen before.
“Sit,” I instruct, pointing to a seat. “Buckle up.”
She sits reluctantly, as far from me as the cabin allows. A flight attendant appears with a tray of food—fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee. Yulia eyes it hungrily but doesn’t reach for it.
“Eat,” I say, softer now. “Starving yourself won’t change anything.”
She glares but finally takes an apple, biting into it with unnecessary force. I hide my smile behind my coffee cup.
As the plane takes off, she continues to ignore me, focusing on her food like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
Once she’s done eating, she crosses her arms so tight I’m surprised her ribs aren’t cracking.
Her eyes flick to the window, then back to me, then to the window again, like she’s debating whether jumping out at 30,000 feet is a better option than dealing with me.
Finally, curiosity wins over. “What you say doesn’t make sense. My family... they’re normal. We had Sunday dinners. My mom baked cookies. My dad helped with homework.”
“And Al Capone played with his children in the yard,” I say. “Monsters are people too, Yulia.”
She flinches at that.
She shakes her head, pulling her knees up onto the seat, retreating like she can build a wall between us. “I don’t believe you.”
“You will.” I lean back, stretching my legs, watching her every twitch, every fractured thought playing out across her face. “Give it an hour.”
Her brows pinch. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I murmur, eyes glinting with the truth she’s not ready for. “It’s…educational.”
She glares at me, jaw set like she’s seconds from launching herself across the cabin to throttle me.
God help me, I enjoy the thought.
But unfortunately, she chooses silence as her weapon.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a soft jolt, the private jet coasting to a smooth stop. Her eyes dart to the window as the skyline comes into view—concrete, steel, glass, the unmistakable sprawl of New York City in the distance.
She stiffens. I watch her put it together—the familiar silhouettes of the bridges, the glitter of the high-rises beyond the private airstrip. Her fingers dig into the seat cushion.
“Where are we?” she demands, voice brittle.
I rise, grabbing my jacket, smoothing my cuffs like we didn’t just spend the flight in a cold war with one another. “New York,” I say coolly, ignoring the panic bleeding into her expression.
Her breathing quickens as the stairs lower outside, the cabin door popping open with a hiss. The smell of jet fuel and city air wafts in.
“No,” she whispers, shoving to her feet as I gesture for her to follow. “No, you—you said it was educational—”
“It is.” I head for the stairs, not bothering to look back.
She scrambles after me, footsteps heavy behind mine as we descend to the tarmac. Black SUVs idle beside the plane, engines running.
By the time we’re in the car heading into the city, she’s practically vibrating with tension.
“Please,” she says suddenly, grabbing my arm. “Don’t hurt them. Whatever you think they’ve done—”
“I’m not going to hurt your family,” I cut her off. “I’m just going to show you who they really are.”
“I’ll cooperate,” she promises, desperation edging into her voice. “I’ll stay with you. Be your wife. Whatever you want. Just leave them alone.”
Something twists in my chest at her plea. She’s willing to sacrifice herself for them, even now. It’s admirable. Foolish, but admirable.
“I don’t want your forced cooperation,” I say. “I want you to see the truth.”
She falls silent again, staring out at the familiar streets of her hometown.
I watch her as we drive, the way her hands twist in her lap, the tight set of her shoulders.
Part of me wants to turn the car around and take her back to Boston, shielding her from this.
But she needs to know. For both our sakes.
My phone buzzes with an update from Miron. Perfect timing.
“They’re at the docks,” I tell the driver, and feel Yulia stiffen beside me.
“The docks?” she repeats.
“Your brothers are there,” I inform her.
“Why would my brothers be at the docks?”
I don’t answer, and she doesn’t push.
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into an industrial area—weathered warehouses, shipping containers, the smell of salt water heavy in the air. I direct the driver to park behind a row of containers, out of sight.
“Stay close,” I instruct Yulia as we get out. “And stay quiet.”
She nods, eyes wide with fear and something else.
Curiosity.
She wants to know, even as she dreads the truth.
I lead her through a maze of containers, keeping to the shadows. The sound of voices grows louder as we approach a large warehouse at the edge of the dock.
“That’s Damien’s voice,” she whispers, freezing in place.
I nod, guiding her forward until we reach a vantage point with a clear view inside the warehouse’s open bay doors.
Her gasp slices through the dockyard air, sharp and panicked.
I clamp a hand over her mouth fast, dragging her back into the shadows before anyone notices.
She’s trembling against me—small, warm, wrecked.
I wait.
Only when her breathing steadies do I lower my hand.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares—wide-eyed, shattered—as her perfect world burns down in front of her.
Damien Fyodorov stands at the center of it all, barking orders while men unload crates of military-grade weapons. Arman checks serial numbers. Ilya counts cash. Clean, efficient. Bratva through and through.
And Yulia? She’s unraveling.
Her hands lift, shaking like she’s trying to hold her chest together. “That’s not—” Her voice cracks. “They can’t—”
But they are. Her brothers—the good men, the family she was so ready to defend—are selling death by the crate-load. I lean in, voice low. “Believe me now?”
She flinches but doesn’t look away.
I watch her cave in on herself, every piece of denial snapping one by one.
She sways, unsteady.
I catch her elbow.
“That’s not possible,” she breathes, so quietly I barely hear it. But the evidence is right in front of her. Undeniable. Her brothers? They’re Bratva. Just like me.
And as the truth sinks in, I watch her world collapse around her.
“Let’s go,” I murmur, because she’s seen enough.
Her glassy eyes finally cut to me—gutted, furious, lost—and for once, she doesn’t argue.