Chapter 15 - Yulia
I stand in the reception area of my new clinic—my clinic—and let that sink in for a moment. By the end of my first week at the clinic, I’ve memorized this place like the back of my hand.
It’s smaller than I’m used to with its’ tighter rooms, fewer staff, and limited supplies. But strangely, that makes it easier to manage around here. I don’t have to tiptoe around fragile egos or bureaucracy. There’s no department head breathing down my neck, no politics, no power games.
Just people.
Real people.
And I’m in charge of them all.
It sounds nuts to even think about, in all honesty. Just six weeks ago, I was his prisoner. And now I’m what? His business partner? His doctor?
Still his wife, technically, but something’s shifted between us.
The clinic isn’t fully operational yet, but word travels fast in Bratva circles.
The clinic runs on a skeleton crew; Just me, a nurse named Marina, and a receptionist who speaks four languages and looks like he could break a man’s neck as easily as he books appointments.
Trifon suggested both of them, but I made the final call.
“Doctor Fyodorov,” the receptionist calls as I finish saying goodbye to my last patient. “Car accident coming in. Five minutes.”
“Prep Exam Room 2. And call Marina back if she’s left.”
When the “accident” victim arrives, I know immediately it’s code for a gunshot wound. He’s pale, bleeding through a makeshift bandage, supported by two of his brothers.
“Get him on the table,” I say, already shifting into trauma mode. “Marina, start an IV. Bullet tray.”
It’s not my first GSW. You don’t work at Mass General without seeing your share of blood. But it’s the first time I’m handling one alone—no trauma team, no stocked ER, no backup.
Just me.
And somehow, that’s exhilarating.
Fortunately for the guy, the bullet missed the major vessels. I clean, extract the bullet, and suture up the wound. His brothers hover until I snap at them to back off.
“She’s tough,” one mutters in Russian. I pretend not to understand, but it hits me somewhere deep. I guess because I never acknowledged it to myself, but he is right. I am tough.
Running a place like this with mobsters for patients isn’t for the weak of heart.
But, day by day, I’m falling in love with my god damn job.
As they leave, one of the men presses something into my hand—a small, ornate wooden box.
Inside is a delicate gold bracelet. I try to return it, but he shakes his head.
“For doctor,” he insists. “For helping brother.”
I should refuse it because I fear that it’s probably stolen. But the sincerity in his eyes stops me. This is their currency—not just money, but loyalty, gratitude.
I’m starting to understand how this world works.
By noon, I’ve already treated three patients—a knife wound, a broken finger, and a toddler with an ear infection.
The contrast gives me whiplash. One minute, I’m stitching up a hulk of a man with a million tattoos.
And the other? I’m making silly faces at a chubby-cheeked little girl while I check her ears.
By the end of my first two weeks here, I’ve treated Bratva captains and their children, girlfriends and pregnant wives, old women who kiss my cheeks and leave bags of homemade piroshki, and men who kill for a living.
They’re not all soldiers and enforcers. Not all guns and blood.
There are wives. Children. Parents. People caught in the crossfire who have nowhere else to go, who would be turned away, or flagged, at a regular ER. Here, they’re seen, treated, and respected.
And somehow, I’m part of that.
It still goes against everything I thought I wanted. But when I’m in the exam room, none of that matters.
I’m a doctor.
And in this place, I finally begin to feel like myself again.
I try not to think about what that says about me—that I’m thriving in a clinic funded by blood money and am slowly becoming comfortable in Trifon’s world.
And yet… I am.
This work grounds me in a way I didn’t expect, and that terrifies me because every time I remember how furious and helpless I felt when I was dragged into Trifon’s life, I want to scream.
He stole my future.
He stole my choices.
And yet, he didn’t have to give me this.
He could’ve kept me under lock and key until the ink on the marriage certificate dried and his conscience quieted.
But he didn’t.
Of course, he built this place for his people, but he put it in my hands and trusted me in the process. And no matter how hard I try to hate him… that part? That part won’t leave me alone.
I tell myself I’m still angry and that I still despise him for what he’s taken from me. But deep down, I know the truth. Some part of me doesn’t just respect him for what he’s given me. Some part of me is starting to admire him.
It’s reached a stage now that sometimes, when the door opens, I hope it’s him.
It’s been a long day when I check my watch and realize it’s nearly eight. Trifon texted earlier about picking me up for dinner at eight-thirty. I’ve just enough time to clean up and change out of my scrubs. I head to the small office at the back of the clinic, where I keep a change of clothes.
Just as I’m pulling on a simple black dress, Marina knocks.
“Doctor, one more patient.”
I suppress a sigh. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“It’s a young kid with a fever and a bad throat. The mother is very worried.”
Children are my weakness, and Marina knows it. “Alright. Send them in.”
The mother hovers anxiously when I examine the sweet four-year-old girl. It’s nothing serious, just a typical virus, but I take the time to explain instructions and medications, ensuring the mother understands when to worry and when not to.
I’m so focused that I don’t notice him until I turn to wash my hands.
Trifon leans against the doorframe, watching me with a lazy little smile that gets my heart racing. His jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loose around his neck. Still, somehow, he’s looking impossibly put-together at the end of a day when I feel like I’ve been run over.
My heart does that stupid little skip it always does when I see him now.
“You’re late,” he says, but there’s no edge to it.
I glance at my watch. Nine-fifteen. “Sorry. Emergency.”
He looks at the little girl, who’s now cuddled in her mother’s lap, and his expression softens. “Not a problem.”
The mother’s eyes widen when she notices him. She straightens, smooths her daughter’s hair, and gives him a respectful nod. “Pakhan,” she murmurs.
The word still makes my skin prickle. The reminder of who he is.
“Take care of your daughter, Irina,” he tells her gently. “Dmitri would want her to get her rest.”
She nods as I usher them out with a reassuring smile.
With them gone, it’s just us.
I roll my shoulders, suddenly aware of the knots that have formed there over hours of bending over patients.
“Long day?” Trifon asks, stepping closer.
I nod, suddenly self-conscious. I probably look like hell.
“You look tired,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”
His lips quirk. “I didn’t say you don’t look beautiful. Just tired.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Even after that night—after his mouth between my thighs, after the dreams that followed—I still don’t know how to handle his compliments.
“Turn around,” he says suddenly.
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“Because I asked nicely. Turn around.”
Something about his tone makes me obey. I turn, presenting my back to him. I hear him step closer. Feel the heat of him before his hands settle on my shoulders.
“What are you—” I begin.
“Shh.” His fingers dig into the knots of muscle. “You’re wound tighter than a spring.”
He’s not wrong. I close my eyes as his thumbs find a particularly stubborn knot between my shoulder blades and work it loose. A small, breathy whimper escapes my lips.
“Good?” he asks, voice dropping lower.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage. His hands are magic. He knows exactly how much pressure to apply, when, and where. Another knot releases, and I nearly moan.
His palms slide lower, working the muscles along my spine. My body starts to relax, melting beneath his touch. I think I should pull away and remember all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me like this.
But God, it feels too good.
“Better?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
I nod, eyes still closed, leaning back slightly against his chest. His hands dip to my lower back, then up again. Each stroke seems to linger a little longer, press a little deeper. And god, at some point, I begin to feel each touch between my legs.
I’m not sure when the massage shifts from therapeutic to something else. Maybe it’s when his fingers brush the sides of my breasts as he works my shoulders. Maybe it’s when his chin grazes my neck as he whispers into my ear. Maybe it’s when my breath hitches and I don’t pull away.
His hands move lower, massaging along my shoulder blades, fingertips brushing the slope of my spine. My breath catches.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
The words shouldn’t mean anything. But they sink in deeper than I want them to.
His hands keep moving.
I lean into the touch before I can stop myself.
One hand grazes the curve of my hip, and I turn around.
Our eyes meet—and the air changes.
It goes thick and charged, the kind of tension that crackles between thunderstorms and confessions. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I just look at him.
And he looks back like this moment is a miracle he’s trying not to ruin.
My toes curl against the floor. I’m not even fully aware of the movement, only of the way heat licks up my spine, the way my chest tightens with need. My hands hang useless at my sides, itching to touch him, to pull him closer.
“Trifon,” I whisper, my eyes darting to his lips.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper, more to myself than to him, but I’m already leaning in.
“Probably not,” he agrees, his hand sliding up to caress my waist.
We meet in the middle.