Chapter 11 - Yulia
I’ve never seen this many dresses in one place outside of a magazine.
Silks, satins, velvets, beadwork so delicate I’m afraid to breathe on it.
There’s a team of two stylists and a personal shopper in one of Trifon’s bedroom suites, unloading box after box as though I’m some kind of heiress prepping for a royal ball.
One holds up a Dior gown in midnight blue, another fans out a selection of earrings that sparkle like starlight.
“This one would look divine on you,” the older woman says, as if this is normal.
I nod mutely, unsure what to say. I never lacked anything growing up. My family made sure of that. But we weren’t flashy. We didn’t splurge. Birthdays meant cake and books, and the occasional special gift, like a new cellphone, not Cartier.
“Try this next,” one of them says, handing me something silver and clingy and terrifying.
I blink, but before I can gather the courage to say I need a minute, there’s a knock on the door.
I’m half-expecting Trifon to storm in and force me into one of these ridiculous gowns himself when the door bursts open and Nadya pokes her head in. Her face is still bruised from the accident, but her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Holy shit, look at all this!” she exclaims, limping inside without waiting for an invitation.
A taller woman follows—same midnight-dark hair as Trifon, but softer features and a quiet grace that makes Nadya look like a firecracker in comparison.
“You must be Yulia,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’m Darya. The other sister.”
“Oh!” I blink. “I didn’t realize he had two.”
“Four brothers, two sisters,” Nadya chimes in, already rummaging through a rack of dresses. “Trifon’s the oldest, then Valentin, Leonid, Iosif, Miron, then us.” She holds up a black dress with a thigh-high slit. “You’d look hot in this.”
“Nadya,” Darya says, half-amused, half-scolding. “You can’t just hijack her fitting.”
“It’s okay,” I cut in quickly. “Honestly, I could use the help. I’m a little... out of my depth.”
Understatement of the year.
“Well, you came to the right girls,” Nadya grins, tossing her hair. “Darya’s the chic one. I’m just the mouthy one.”
“She’s being modest,” Darya says, smiling fondly. “Nadya’s got great taste—she just applies it recklessly.”
I glance at Nadya’s bruises. “Yeah, I picked up on that.”
To my surprise, they both laugh. Not polite society chuckles. Real, full-bodied laughter.
“I like her,” Nadya says, grinning at her sister. “She’s got bite.”
“Much better than the last one,” Darya says, stepping back to appraise another dress.
I watch her. “The last one?”
“The last girlfriend,” Nadya explains breezily, flipping through another rack. “Some blonde nightmare who laughed quite annoyingly at everything Trifon said, like he was the next coming of Kevin Hart. Lasted three weeks.”
“Oh,” I murmur, unsure why the fact that they didn’t seem to like her makes my chest feel... lighter. “We’re not—I mean, this isn’t—”
“We know,” Darya says, gently cutting me off as she settles onto the edge of the bed. “Trifon told us everything.”
I tense. “Everything?”
“About the hospital. The shooting. How he made you sign those papers,” Nadya adds, blunt as ever. “Pretty dick move, honestly.”
“Nadya!” Darya gasps.
“What? It was!” Nadya turns to me, face sincere. “Look, our brother’s got a protective streak the size of Siberia. But if he ever gives you trouble, you come to us. We’ll knock some sense into him.”
I blink at them, thrown by the warmth and loyalty radiating from both. These women—sisters of a Bratva kingpin—are offering to protect me? It’s surreal.
“Thank you,” I say, slowly. “But I can handle Trifon.”
Nadya grins. “I bet you can. I saw you bossing him around when I was bleeding all over his fancy floors. Most people won’t even look him in the eye.”
“That must make for a fun interaction,” I mutter.
They both burst into laughter, Darya wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“You have no idea,” she says, smiling. “That’s why we like you. You don’t treat him like a monster. You see the man.”
I think of Trifon. The man who dragged me into this mess married me without warning, then pulled back to let me breathe. The man who panicked over his sister and thanked me like it wasn’t second nature.
“He’s not what I expected,” I admit.
“None of us are,” Darya says softly. “Our world isn’t easy. But we’re still human.”
“Not easy? Our world is a mess! Darya’s not allowed to date,” Nadya adds, earning a scandalized groan from her sister. “Trifon scares off anyone who even breathes near her. Same with me, though I’m sneakier.”
“He’s trying to protect you,” I say automatically—then blink, surprised at my own defense.
“Exactly,” Darya replies, eyes steady on mine. “Just like your parents tried to protect you... by keeping you in the dark.”
The words land like a punch. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.
My family lied, shielded me, and kept me out of their world. Trifon does the same with his sisters. The methods are different, but the motive is identical.
Then Nadya groans. “Enough of this Hallmark moment. Try this on.” She shoves an emerald-green dress into my arms. “It’ll make your eyes lethal.”
***
Two hours later, the sisters are gone, and the house is quiet again. But it’s a different kind of quiet—less suffocating, more thoughtful.
They aren’t what I expected. None of them are. And maybe... neither am I.
Now there’s the gala tonight. A room full of Bratva folks.
The thought makes my stomach lurch.
But I promised Nadya I’d be there.
And I keep my promises.
***
By the time evening rolls around, I’m dressed in the emerald gown Nadya picked out because, of course, she was right. It does make my eyes pop. My hair’s swept into an elegant chignon, courtesy of the stylist Trifon sent. The earrings sparkle. The heels are taller than anything I’ve ever owned.
I stare at my reflection and barely recognize the woman looking back at me.
Poised. Polished. Like she belongs in this glittering world.
The thought is terrifying. It’s so far removed from the life I called my own.
A soft knock breaks through my daze.
“Come in,” I call, expecting one of the staff.
But it’s not a maid.
It’s him.
Trifon steps into the room, and suddenly there’s not enough air.
He’s in a black tuxedo that fits like a second skin, every line of him cut sharp and clean. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his dark hair slicked back, jaw clean-shaven. Even his cufflinks look lethal.
He stops in his tracks. Those ice-blue eyes take me in like he’s starving.
For once, it’s not me who’s speechless.
“You look…” His voice roughens. “You’re beautiful.”
I swallow the dryness forming in my throat. “Thanks. You don’t look half-bad yourself.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “I’ll pretend that’s generous.”
We just stand there, the silence between us thick and humming. I fidget with my bracelet, suddenly hyperaware of everything—his gaze, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch like he’s holding himself back.
“Nadya and Darya stopped by earlier,” I say, trying to fill the space between us with something safe.
“I heard.” His voice is softer now. “They like you.”
“I like them too,” I admit. “They’re… sweet.”
“You sure we’re talking about the same people?” he says dryly, brow cocking.
I laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Okay—sweet might be pushing it. But they were kind to me.”
He nods once, then takes a step closer.
“I’m glad,” he says simply. “You deserve kind.”
His gaze lingers on me, dropping briefly to the neckline of my dress, then tracing the curve of my bare shoulder before snapping back to my eyes. He shifts his weight like he’s trying not to reach for me.
I feel it too. This awareness. This heat.
He holds out a hand, palm open. “Ready?”
I hesitate only a second before sliding my fingers into his. “As I’ll ever be.”
He smiles. And as I take his arm, I feel the weight of his gaze slide back over me. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
***
The gala is a fever dream of gold lighting and glittering glasses, a sea of dark suits and jeweled dresses. The emerald-green gown clings to me like a whisper, elegant and understated, but I still feel like a fraud the moment we enter the ballroom.
“Remember,” Trifon murmurs as we walk deeper into the dazzling ballroom, his hand warm against the small of my back, “you’re my wife tonight. Just smile and let me do the talking if you feel stressed out.”
“I’m your wife every night, apparently,” I mutter. “The papers made sure of that.”
His lips twitch. “True.”
Everyone here knows each other from the criminal underworld. Cousins, aunts, uncles, people who’ve probably attended these functions since birth. I smile. I nod. I hold my clutch with both hands to keep it from shaking.
“Trifon!” a booming voice cuts through the crowd.
A tall man strides toward us—Trifon’s eyes, Valentin’s smile, and the kind of charisma that commands a room.
“And this must be the doctor who saved our little sister.”
“Leonid,” Trifon says with a nod. “Yes. This is Yulia. My wife.”
My stomach flinches at the word, but I manage a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Leonid says, taking my hand and brushing a kiss across it. “I hear you put my brother in his place. That’s no small feat.”
I open my mouth to reply, but two more men step up beside him—same dark hair, same sharp cheekbones. They don’t need introductions, but Trifon gives them anyway.
“Iosif and Miron. The youngest.”
Iosif, tall and serious, nods with quiet politeness. Miron, who can’t be much older than me, grins like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“So you’re the one who jumped out of Trifon’s moving car,” he says, impressed. “That’s badass.”
“Miron,” Trifon says, warning clear in his voice.
I can’t help it—I smile. “It wasn’t going that fast. And I’ve taken nastier spills during ER shifts.”
Miron laughs, delighted. “I like her already.”
“Everyone likes her,” Trifon says, dry as bone. “Now go do something useful before you start grilling her on blood types.”
They wander off, though Leonid lingers just long enough to give me a look—measured, assessing. Like he’s still deciding whether to be charmed or suspicious.
“Your brothers are… something,” I murmur once they’re out of earshot.
“That’s one word for it.” Trifon’s hand settles lightly at the small of my back, anchoring me. “You okay?”
I glance up at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “I’m fine,” I say automatically, then shake my head. “No, actually—I’m terrified. This whole thing feels like a fever dream.”
“You’re doing better than half the people here,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Just stay close.”
And I do.
For the next hour, Trifon leads me through a blur of introductions—uncles with sharp eyes, aunts dripping in diamonds, cousins who look like they stepped off a runway. I shake hands, smile until my cheeks ache, and try to track names I’m sure I’ll forget by morning.
I keep smiling.
That’s my strategy—smile, nod, say something polite, let Trifon steer. I might not know the rules of this world, but I know how to play nice under pressure. Still, my hands are a little too cold, my laugh just a bit too high, and every time someone asks how we met, my stomach knots tighter.
I take a sip of champagne to buy time and almost choke when a woman in sapphire mentions her last visit to Prague, where Trifon bailed her out of jail for smuggling.
The smile stays on my face, but something must give me away.
Because a few minutes later, Trifon slides his hand around my waist and murmurs in my ear, “You’re about five seconds away from faking a phone call, aren’t you?”
I glance up at him. “You’re not wrong.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Come on.” He leads me away from the crowd until we end up in a quieter corner of the ballroom, near a massive window that overlooks the garden. The hum of the party fades behind us.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, exhaling. “Thank you. I was starting to feel like a very well-dressed deer in headlights.”
“Are you always this social?” he asks, leaning against the wall beside me.
I laugh. “God, no. I haven’t been to anything like this in years.”
“You don’t like parties?”
“I don’t have time. I spend most of my nights elbow-deep in charts or talking to nurses about bed shortages.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“Infinitely.”
He grins, then leans closer. “So you’re saying this isn’t your scene?”
“I’m saying I’m trying not to trip in these heels and bring shame to your entire bloodline.”
That gets a real laugh from him, low and husky. “You could show up in combat boots and still outshine everyone here.”
My cheeks flush. “Careful. You’ll make me think you’re capable of being nice.”
“I’m not nice,” he says softly. “But I’m honest. For the sake of honesty, what are you thinking right now?”
“I’m thinking I’m not used to any of this,” I say. “I haven’t been to a party in years. I work nights, days, sometimes both. Haven’t exactly had time to sip champagne and make small talk with random strangers, let alone...” My voice trails off.
“Let alone?” his eyes pull me in as he leans closer to hear what I have to say.
“Criminals,” I whisper, flinching, for I know it sounds like an insult.
To my surprise, he laughs. The kind of laugh that makes my toes curl. Just then, I realize how close we stand. His body shields me from the crowd. If I take one step back, and he takes one forward, I’ll be at his mercy.
“That’s probably why you’re still sane,” he chuckles.
My heart races. “You think this is me sane?”
He leans in, voice low. “If this is you losing it, I think I like it.”
The air shifts—sharp, charged. I glance away, heart kicking harder in my chest.
“Besides,” I say, trying to bring the conversation back to safer ground, “I worked hard to get there. Mass Gen isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I looked it up.”
That draws my attention. “You Googled my hospital?”
“I Googled you,” he whispers, his eyes shifting between mine. “After the wedding. Wanted to know what I married.”
“And?” My voice is hoarse. “What did you find?”
He studies me for a long moment. “Someone who’s too good for this room.”
My mouth goes dry.
There’s no teasing in his voice now—just sincerity, a quiet intensity that makes my stomach flutter. For a second, the ballroom, the lies, the past—it all fades.
It’s just us.
I glance down at his hand resting on the window ledge beside mine. Close. Not touching. But close enough.
“I don’t belong here,” I murmur.
“You do,” he says. “They just don’t know it yet.”
I lift my gaze to meet his. “Really?”
His eyes burn into mine. “I knew you’d fit right in and rule these circles the second you told me to let you do your job in that ER.”
Heat pulses through me like a current, and I don’t feel afraid.
Not this time.