Chapter 14 - Trifon
She thinks I don’t notice the way she looks at the windows. Like they’re bars.
She hasn’t said a word about feeling trapped—not once. But I see it. In the way she lingers in the gardens all day. The way she turns her face slightly when the sun comes through the glass. The way she stiffens when I enter the room, like she’s reminding herself she has no say in being here.
Or maybe the last one doesn’t have anything to do with her feeling trapped. She’s been avoiding me for three days since I caught her eavesdropping—running in the opposite direction whenever I enter a room, eating meals at odd hours to dodge me at the table.
It would be amusing if it weren’t so goddamn frustrating. The woman had my tongue on her quivering clit, and now she can’t even look me in the eye?
No. This ends today.
I find her in the garden, curled up on a stone bench with a book balanced on her knees.
I clear my throat. She jumps, the book nearly sliding off her lap.
“Jesus,” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Make noise when you walk.”
“I did. You were somewhere else.” I nod at the book. “Good reading?”
She closes it, her fingers nervously tracing the edges. “Just trying to stay literate.”
The sun catches in her hair, turning the strawberry blonde strands to liquid copper. She looks softer out here among the roses.
“Get dressed,” I tell her. “We’re going out tonight.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Out? As in…outside the grounds?”
“Yes, Yulia. Outside. Where normal people go sometimes.”
She hesitates, suspicion clear in those green eyes. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” I cluck my tongue. “It’s a dinner, not a trap. You in?”
That earns me a soft snort and a muttered, “Fine. But if this ends in a ‘surprise’ like the time you kidnapped me when I fell for your request for a conversation, I’m lighting your house on fire.”
“Fair.”
I take a step closer, making her tilt her head to meet my eyes. “Be ready in an hour. Wear something nice.”
Her lips twitch. “Because the place is fancy—or because you like me in dresses?”
There it is. That spark I’ve been waiting for.
“Both,” I say, letting my gaze linger. “But mostly the second.”
A soft flush rises on her cheeks. I almost reach out—almost—but stop myself.
“Fine,” she says, standing. “One hour.”
She brushes past me, close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo. My hand inches to reach out, to grab her hand, to hold her just a little longer in conversation, but I let her pass.
***
She meets me by the car exactly on time.
And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
The dress is black with a deep green sheen, the kind of fabric that drinks in shadows and throws back light in all the right places. It clings to her curves like it was sewn straight onto her skin, the neckline low enough to tempt, the slit high enough to threaten my sanity.
She looks like temptation on legs.
And she knows it.
Her hair’s swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and her lips are painted that same wicked shade of red I haven’t stopped thinking about since the gala. One look at her and I feel something primal claw its way up my spine.
“You’re staring,” she says, like she’s already bored of the effect she’s having.
“You look nice,” I say, voice rougher than intended.
She shrugs. “You told me to wear something nice.”
I open the car door for her and let her slide in before I say something stupid. Like how I want to rip that dress off her.
“Where are we going?” she asks as the car pulls away from the house.
“Dinner first,” I reply. “Then a surprise.”
“I’m not big on surprises lately.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. But you might like this one.”
***
We pull up in front of Bellami’s, one of the oldest and most discreet restaurants in Boston. Private rooms, off-the-books reservations, and a wine cellar that makes the world’s most renowned sommeliers drool.
The valet takes one look at the car, then at me, and stiffens like he’s just been summoned to confession.
Inside, it’s low-lit and hushed—polished mahogany floors, candlelight flickering in antique sconces, velvet booths that muffle sound. The ma?tre d’ sees me and immediately straightens like someone stuck a rod up his spine.
“Mr. Yuri,” he breathes, bowing slightly.
Yulia’s fingers twitch where they rest on her clutch.
“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. “What are you, in a boy band or something?”
I smirk. “You didn’t know? We call ourselves NslayNC.”
She actually laughs at that—loud, sudden, completely unguarded. And fuck me if it doesn’t slide straight down my spine.
“Right this way, Sir,” the host says. People are watching us. Some discreetly. Some not. One older man stands to shake my hand before I pass his table. Yulia’s eyes go wide.
“Okay, now it’s giving celebrity chef vibes,” she whispers.
I lean in just enough for her to feel the heat of my breath on her ear. “Would that make you my sous-chef or dessert?”
She straightens fast, eyes narrowing. “I swear to God—”
But she’s smiling. And blushing.
The host leads us behind a heavy velvet curtain, revealing a private booth tucked into the corner. The wine cart’s already waiting, and the lighting here is even lower—just one golden pool of glow between us.
She pauses at the entrance to the room. Her posture shifts slightly as she straightens her shoulders. She’s playing it cool, but I see it. The flicker of discomfort in her eyes.
She moves to slide into the chair I lead her to, but her heel catches the edge of the carpet.
She stumbles forward.
I catch her instantly—my hands on her waist, her body colliding with mine in one soft thud.
For a second, she just…stays there. Pressed against me.
Her breath catches. Her chest brushes mine. My hands flex on instinct, feeling the curve of her hips beneath the fabric of that fucking lethal dress.
“You good?” I murmur, voice low and rough.
Her eyes flash up to meet mine. A little startled. A little too aware. “Fine.”
I don’t let go right away. Not until I feel her pulse flutter under my palm.
When I do let go, it’s slow.
She slides into her seat with more caution, cheeks flushed, lips parted. I follow, adjusting my cuffs like I didn’t just have a full-body fantasy about bending her over this table.
“Is this too much?” I ask her, waving off the waiter.
“No…it’s lovely,” she says, after a quick beat.
I pour her some wine and hand her the menu.
“You pick the starters,” I say casually, settling across from her.
She blinks. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Go wild.”
Her fingers tighten on the leather-bound menu. “Men don’t usually let me order.”
I tilt my head, studying her. “Seriously?”
“I learned it from my father,” she admits. “He always took charge.”
Her voice softens just a little. Not fond. Not angry either. Just… distant. Like she’s reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.
I study her face.
There’s a flicker of sadness she tries to bury in the way she studies the menu.
“You miss him,” I say, not as a question.
Her eyes lift to mine, surprised. And maybe a little wary. “He’s not dead.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
A beat passes between us.
Then she looks down again, her fingers tracing the edge of the menu. “I just… haven’t spoken to him. Or my brothers. Not since…” Her jaw tenses. “Not since I realized who they actually are.”
And that’s the real grief, isn’t it?
Not losing them. Learning what they are.
Her world cracked open, and now she’s stuck in the in-between. Too clean for their world. Too tangled in mine.
I say nothing. Just let her sit in the quiet with me. Let her know I’m not going to pry or push. She’s already unraveling just by being here.
She clears her throat after a moment, snapping herself out of it. “Anyway,” she mutters, forcing a lighter tone, “burrata with truffle honey and the crab cakes. Happy?”
“Very.” I flag down the waiter, who reappears like he’s been hiding behind the curtain just waiting for me to twitch a finger.
Yulia toys with her glass, spinning the stem between her fingers.
“So,” she says, tilting her head, “was this your idea of making peace by forcing me to marry you? A bribe by fine dining?”
“Is it working?”
She pretends to consider. “Well, I haven’t tried dessert yet.”
“Still thinking about that sous-chef role?”
She snorts into her wine. “Keep dreaming, Gordon Ramsay.”
“Dreaming,” I murmur, “isn’t really the problem.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
The air tightens between us again. Heat bleeding across the table. Her dress slips slightly as she leans in to take another sip of wine, and my eyes catch the soft line of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.
She catches me looking.
And doesn’t stop me.
This is why I brought her here.
To remind her she can still laugh. Still flirt. Still feel wanted and powerful, and like the room she walks into bends around her.
To remind her that despite everything… she still gets to choose.
Even if what she’s choosing… is starting to look a hell of a lot like me.
***
When dinner is nearly over, the waiter appears with dessert. As he sets down her plate, his elbow catches her wine glass. Red liquid splashes across the table and down the front of her dress before either of us can react.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Yuri!” he blurts, eyes wide with panic. “I’ll—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in coolly. “Get some club soda. A towel.”
He scurries off, visibly sweating. I turn to Yulia.
She’s already dabbing at her dress with her napkin.
“Let me,” I say, rising as the waiter reappears with supplies. I take the towel, dip it, and move around the table.
She watches me warily. “I can do it.”
“I’ve got it.”
I kneel beside her chair.
The wine’s soaked through the fabric across her lap and—fuck—the curve of her breast where the neckline dips. I hesitate, towel in hand, pulse thick in my throat.
I start with her thigh. Press the damp cloth against the spill, careful but close. Her skin is warm beneath the dress. Silky. She shifts slightly, and my hand almost slips higher than it should.
Her breath catches. Mine does too.
I move to the stain on her chest.
When our eyes lock, everything between us stills.
I press the towel to the swell of her breast, careful, respectful—but her nipple tightens beneath the fabric, and my knuckles graze the edge of it.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” I murmur, not sorry at all.
“It’s…fine,” she whispers, her pupils blown wide.
I linger half a second longer than I should. Then I pull back, place the towel on the table, and return to my seat like I didn’t just mentally map every inch of her skin.
The air between us is charged. Raw.
She clears her throat. “You mentioned a surprise?”
I nod, needing the shift. “Finish your dessert. We’re not far.”
***
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the car, driving through a part of Boston she doesn’t seem to recognize. We pull up to a nondescript building—three stories, brick facade, windows darkened. Nothing special from the outside.
“What is this place?” she asks as I help her out of the car.
“Something I’ve been working on. Come see.”
I unlock the front door, leading her into a space that looks nothing like the exterior suggests. The lobby is sleek and modern, featuring freshly painted walls, marble floors, and recessed lighting. It’s empty now, but the idea is there.
“Is this... a medical facility?” she asks, looking around with growing interest.
“It will be,” I confirm, watching her face. “We need a second private clinic for our people.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Your people?”
“Bratva members and their families. People who can’t go to regular hospitals without raising questions.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “You said this will be your second?”
I nod, guiding her further inside. “That night, the clinic was too far. We had no choice but to take Valentin to the general hospital—and the shootout that followed? It put civilians at risk. It nearly got him killed. I realized then—we needed a second, more central location. This is it.”
I lead her through what will be the reception, into a hallway lined with examination rooms—some already equipped with basic medical supplies, others still empty.
“This is impressive,” she says, running her fingers along a stainless steel counter. “But why show me?”
This is the moment. I step closer, watching her reaction carefully.
“Because I want you to run it.”
She goes still, her eyes widening. “What?”
“You’re a doctor, Yulia. A damn good one, from what I’ve seen. You saved Nadya with barely any supplies at all. Imagine what you could do with a fully equipped facility.”
“You want me to work for you?” She sounds incredulous, but there’s something else in her voice.
Interest.
“With me,” I correct. “Not for me. This would be your clinic. Your domain. I provide the resources, you provide the expertise.”
She walks further into the room, turning in a slow circle as she takes it all in. “I’d have full medical autonomy? No interference?”
“Within reason. My people need discretion, not police involvement. But medically? It’s your call.”
“And staffing?”
“You’d build your own team. People you trust, but we’ll vet you who you interview before they come to you.”
She turns away, and for a moment I think I’ve miscalculated. Then I see her shoulders straighten, her spine align—the posture of a doctor making a diagnosis, not a prisoner weighing an offer.
“I’d need proper equipment,” she says, and my chest tightens with something like hope. “Full lab capabilities. At least ten beds for overnight stays. And a surgical suite.”
“Done.”
She spins back to face me. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice softer now. “Why would you do this for me?”
I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “Because you’re wasted sitting around my house. Because you’re a doctor—it’s in your blood. And because...”
“Because what?” she prompts when I hesitate.
“Because you deserve something that’s yours. Something no one can take away. I want to see you happy, Yulia.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for the trap, the catch. Finding none.
“When can I start?” she asks, and the smile that breaks across her face is so genuine, so unguarded, that it hits me like a physical blow.
This is her. The real Yulia. Not the angry captive or the sad daughter. This is her essence—passionate, determined, brilliant.
And I want more of it. More of her.
“As soon as you’re ready,” I tell her. “Tomorrow, if you want.”