Chapter 9 - Yulia
My whole world collapses as I stare at my brothers handling military-grade weapons like it’s routine.
My throat closes up, lungs refusing to work as the truth crashes over me like a tidal wave. This can’t be real. But it is. The evidence is right in front of me, and no amount of denial can wash it away.
I’ve been living a lie my entire life, and I never even suspected it.
Trifon’s hand stays firm on my elbow, guiding me back toward the car. I move like a zombie, feet dragging across the concrete, brain short-circuiting as it tries to process the impossible.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “Deep breaths.”
I want to scream at him. Want to slap that concerned look off his face because he’s the one who just tilted my world on its axis. But my body won’t cooperate. I’m trapped in a nightmare where nothing makes sense.
The whole way, I try to convince myself it’s a misunderstanding. That I missed something. That Trifon twisted it somehow. But deep down, I already know the truth.
I just don’t want to admit it.
“Father doesn’t know,” I insist as the tears fall down my face. “He wouldn’t allow them to do such things. I’m telling you!”
“We’re not finished,” Trifon says, helping me into the car. “You need to see all of it.”
“More?” I echo, voice cracking. “What more could there possibly be?”
He doesn’t answer, just slides in beside me and signals the driver.
We drive through the city in silence. I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of my childhood blur past. How many times had I walked these sidewalks, laughed with friends, completely oblivious to what was happening beneath the surface?
My brothers.
Selling guns.
It feels like a bad joke.
“Where are we going now?” I finally ask when I can force words past the knot in my throat.
“To see your father.”
My heart lurches. “No. Please. I can’t—I don’t want to—”
“You need to understand,” he cuts in, voice firm but not unkind. “Everything.”
I fall silent, my fists curling tight in my lap as the city decays around us. The farther we drive, the more familiar neighborhoods dissolve into rusted fire escapes and cracked sidewalks. Forgotten corners of New York—places tourists avoid and cops conveniently forget.
We cut down an alley so narrow I swear the car might scrape the walls. Graffiti bleeds across the brick like veins; trash bags are piled in doorways, and the smell of piss and rain lingers heavily in the air.
This is the city I never saw growing up—the version hidden from my eyes.
The car stops beside an old building wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. Neon letters flicker above the warped doorframe: Vesna Club.
It looks like the kind of place that chews people up and spits them out in pieces.
Trifon’s already out of the car, holding the door open for me.
I hesitate, stomach twisting.
“Come on,” he says, voice low. “You’re already in this, Yulia.”
My legs refuse to work for a beat too long, but I force them into motion. The second my shoes hit the cracked pavement, Trifon’s hand finds my elbow again, guiding me inside.
The club is dim, thick with smoke and bad intentions. Faded booths line the walls, cracked leather seats occupied by hard-eyed men hunched over drinks. Women hover by the bar, too much makeup, too few clothes.
The music buzzes low, like background noise to a far more dangerous conversation.
We weave through the room, heads turning as we pass. People recognize him—eyes drop, conversations die mid-sentence.
At the far end, a heavyset man stands guard, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
Trifon peels off a roll of cash, sliding it into the man’s palm without a word.
The bouncer counts it, then jerks his chin toward the door.
“This way,” Trifon says, leading me through.
We slip into a narrow hallway, walls stained with water damage, the floorboards groaning under every step. The air thickens as we twist through shadowed corridors, deeper into the building’s bones.
Finally, he stops beside what looks like a solid wall. His fingers trace along the wood, pressing something invisible—then a hidden panel clicks open.
A narrow slit. Barely wide enough to peer through.
“Look,” Trifon murmurs, stepping aside.
My pulse kicks, throat tight as I lean in, eye pressed to the darkness beyond the keyhole.
The space beyond the keyhole sharpens into view—a dimly lit area that appears to be a private backroom. A single table commands the center, battered wood littered with files, cash, and—
My stomach pitches—bricks of packaged pills. Bottles stamped with pharmaceutical labels.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, to make sense of the scene.
And then I see him.
My father.
Akim Fyodorov.
The man who used to help with my algebra homework. Who grilled burgers in the backyard, his laugh loud enough to rattle the neighbors. Who kissed my forehead when I got my acceptance letter to medical school.
He’s here—dressed sharp, calm.
I press closer to the keyhole, my nails biting into the doorframe.
Across from him sits a man I recognize too well—Dr. Grayson Holloway, Director of the Hospital. My hospital. The same one I fought to get into. The same one I thought I earned on merit.
Grayson leans forward, lowering his voice, but I catch enough—the words cutting like blades.
“The ER’s running low,” Grayson says. “Your shipment’s late.”
Father chuckles, a dark sound I’ve never heard from him before. “You’ll get your supply when the street’s paid. No freebies.”
“It’s not just the streets,” Grayson mutters, his jaw tight. “We’re mixing hospital stock already.”
The color drains from my face.
Hospital stock.
They’re pushing drugs through my hospital. Through the place I’ve poured my entire future into.
“Keep your staff quiet, your numbers clean,” Father warns, his voice like velvet over broken glass. “The Fyodorovs handle the rest.”
My knees nearly buckle.
I can’t breathe.
Trifon’s hand closes over my shoulder, steadying me from behind. His grip is warm, grounding—but I shake him off like his touch burns.
I stare through the keyhole, horror constricting my chest.
Grayson leans back, counting a stack of cash. My father pours two fingers of vodka, offering a glass across the table like they’re old friends sealing a routine deal.
And maybe they are.
I stumble back from the wall, my vision swimming.
“They’ve been—” My voice cracks. “They’ve been using my hospital—”
“Your father placed you there,” Trifon confirms quietly, watching me unravel. “They all did. To keep you clean.”
I cover my mouth, bile rising.
This isn’t real.
Everything I thought I earned was handpicked. Bought. Arranged.
But I did ace those exams, didn’t I? Unless Father paid off someone there as well.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my mouth.
Trifon wraps an arm around my waist, steadying me. “Let’s go.”
He guides me back to the elevator, then out to the car. I move on autopilot, my brain whirling with impossible truths. His car door opens, and I slide in without thinking, my world cracking wide open.
Trifon explains softly as the car weaves through the streets. “Your father supplies hospitals across the East Coast with pharmaceuticals that haven’t passed FDA approval yet. Highly profitable and illegal. Hospitals save money. Patients get treated. Your father makes millions. Everyone wins.”
“That’s not winning,” I hiss. “That’s playing with people’s lives!”
“Welcome to the real world, Yulia.”
I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care. I just need to be away from this nightmare.
The tears finally come as we drive. I don’t bother wiping them away. Let them fall. Let everything fall apart.
“How long have you known?” I ask after a while, voice hollow.
“About your family? Years.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?”
He glances over, his expression unreadable. “Would you have believed me without proof?”
No. I wouldn’t have. I’d have fought him, denied it, called him a liar. Just like I did.
The car pulls up to a fancy-looking hotel. Trifon leads me through the lobby, straight to the elevators, his hand never leaving the small of my back.
The suite is massive—all cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I walk to the glass, staring out at the skyline that suddenly feels alien to me.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
I expect him to gloat. To tell me he was right all along, wasn’t he? To enjoy pointing out how na?ve I was.
Instead, he surprises me.
“Now,” he says, “you should get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning.”
I turn, confused. “You’re leaving?”
“You need space.” He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Order whatever you want. Watch TV. Cry. Scream. Do whatever you need to do. No one will bother you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my reality.
I stand frozen for a long moment, waiting for the catch. But the door doesn’t reopen. I’m just... alone.
I move to the minibar, grab the first bottle I find—vodka, how fitting—and sink onto the plush couch. The alcohol burns as it goes down, a welcome distraction from the chaos raging inside me.
My family lied to me.
My entire life is a fabrication.
And I’m married to a man who is exactly what my family is—Bratva. A criminal. A liar.
I drink until the edges blur, until the tears run dry, until exhaustion claims me and I collapse into darkness.
Morning arrives with brutal sunshine and a pounding headache. I’m still on the couch, an empty bottle tipped over on the floor beside me. The knock at the door makes me wince.
“Go away,” I croak.
The door opens anyway. Trifon steps in, looking irritatingly fresh and put-together.
“Time to go,” he says, eyeing the empty bottle but making no comment.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I mutter, but even I can hear the defeat in my voice.
“We’re flying back to Boston,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken. “The plane leaves in an hour.”