Chapter 24 - Trifon
I wake to the smell of coffee and something buttery wafting through the hallway.
Morning sunlight filters through the curtains, soft against the dark sheets.
My shoulder aches less today. I move a little, cautious, testing the range of motion.
No shooting pain. No blood-soaked gauze.
Just the dull throb of a wound that’s finally almost healed.
But the room feels… empty.
Usually, by now, she’s here—moving softly, balancing a tray in one hand, her other one brushing her hair out of her face as she murmurs some reminder about antibiotics. She fusses in this quiet way that makes me feel cared for without being coddled.
But today, no sound. No soft knock. No warm presence hovering near the bed with her smile that makes everything more bearable.
I push myself up, frowning.
Where the hell is she?
The silence of the room suddenly feels too heavy.
I’ve grown accustomed to her presence over the past few weeks. Her quiet efficiency as she changed my bandages. The weight of her body curled in the chair beside my bed on the nights she refused to leave. I asked her to get into bed with me. But she said she might hurt me if she did.
“Yulia?” I call out, my voice still rough with sleep.
Nothing. I push myself up, testing my strength. Better. Much better than yesterday.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in,” I call, expecting—hoping—it’s her.
But it’s just one of the maids carrying a tray with breakfast and my medications. Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me sitting up.
“Good morning, Sir,” she says, setting the tray on the bedside table. “You’re looking much better today.”
“Where is Dr. Fyodorov?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.
She busies herself arranging things on the tray, not quite meeting my eyes. “She left early this morning, Sir.”
Something cold slides down my spine. “Left where?”
“To see her family, I believe,” Elena replies, pouring tea. “She said not to wake you, that you needed the rest.”
Her family. The words hit like a second bullet, this one straight through my chest.
“Did she say when she’d be back?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but god, my voice shakes. Elena glances up, concerned.
“No, Sir. She just asked me to make sure you took your medication and had something to eat.”
Of course. One last act of kindness before she walks away—the doctor making sure her patient won’t die after she’s gone. Professional to the end.
I dismiss Elena with a nod, waiting until the door closes behind her before letting my mask slip. The pain that floods through me has nothing to do with my shoulder.
She’s gone back to them. After everything—the revelation of how little they valued her—she’s still chosen them over me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Blood is blood. And what am I to her, really? The man who kidnapped her. Forced her into marriage. Got her pregnant. Used her at the gala to make a point. Nearly died and made her save me.
But damn it, I thought... I thought things had changed between us.
I thought of her voice, cracking with emotion as she worked to save my life. “You idiot,” she’d called me. “You absolute idiot.” Like she couldn’t bear the thought of losing me.
Had I imagined all of it? Had I been seeing what I wanted to see, feeling what I wanted to feel?
No. I know what I saw in her eyes, what I felt in her touch. It was real.
And now it’s gone, slipped through my fingers like water because I never told her. Never said the words that might have made her stay.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, ignoring the breakfast tray entirely. There’s only one person who might know what’s really going on.
Valentin answers on the second ring. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“The Fyodorovs,” I cut straight to it. “Where are they staying?”
A pause. “Still in Boston, last I heard. But I don’t know exactly where. Why?”
“Yulia’s gone to see them.”
Another pause, longer this time. “And you think she’s not coming back.”
Valentin knows me too well and can read the fear beneath my anger, even over a phone connection.
“I need to find her,” I say.
“Trifon,” Valentin’s voice goes serious, “maybe she just wanted to talk to them. It doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it means,” I snap. “She’s made her choice. But I need to see her one more time. I need to tell her—” I break off, not ready to say it out loud, even to my brother.
“Tell her what?” he presses.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, already moving to get dressed, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder. “Just keep an eye on things while I’m gone. If something happens to me—”
“For fuck’s sake, Trifon,” Valentin interrupts. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Where are you going?”
“To find the Fyodorovs.”
“How the hell will you find them?
I pull on pants with one hand, wincing as the movement pulls at my stitches. “They’ll have a safehouse somewhere in the city.”
“Trifon, wait—”
I hang up, not bothering to hear more. He’ll be pissed, but I don’t have time for his concerns. Every minute that passes is another minute she slips further away from me. Another minute to convince herself she’s better off without me.
And maybe she is. Maybe they all are. However, I need to tell her the truth before she makes a decision.
I need her to know that I love her.
That I’ve loved her for longer than I even realized.
That whatever life she chooses, whatever she wants to build for herself and our child, I’ll support it, even if it means letting her go.
But first, I need to find her.
***
The Bratva dive bar looks exactly like what it is—a hole in the wall where men like me go when we need something done quietly. The kind of place normal people walk past without a second glance, their eyes sliding away from the unmarked door like it doesn’t exist.
Inside, the air smells of cigarettes, stale beer, and secrets for sale.
I spot him immediately—Petrov, a rat-faced information broker who makes his living selling other people’s business to the highest bidder. He’s nursing a vodka at the far end of the bar.
“Pakhan,” he nods as I slide onto the stool beside him. “Heard you were laid up.”
“Rumors of my incapacitation have been greatly exaggerated,” I say dryly. “I need information.”
His lips twitch. “Don’t we all?”
I place a thick envelope on the bar between us. “The Fyodorovs have a safehouse in the city. I need the address.”
He shrugs. “Might know something. But information on the Fyodorovs comes at a premium these days. Everyone wants to know their business.”
I add another stack of bills to the envelope. “Everyone isn’t me.”
That gets a nervous laugh. “True enough.” He finally takes the envelope, tucking it inside his jacket without counting it. He knows I’m good for it.
“They’ve got a place in Beacon Hill. Brownstone on Chestnut Street. Number 42. Very respectable.”
“Security?”
“Minimal. They’re not expecting trouble. At least, not the kind that would come looking for them in Beacon Hill.”
I nod my thanks and stand to leave.
“Pakhan,” Petrov calls after me. “Word is the Zakharovs have been sniffing around, too. Looking for the same information.”
I turn back. “The Zakharovs?”
He shrugs. “Just what I heard. Thought you might want to know.”
I toss him another bill. “You didn’t see me.”
“See who?” he smiles, pocketing the money.
Outside, the late afternoon sun slants between buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. I walk quickly back to my car, parked two blocks away, to avoid being seen. My shoulder throbs dully, a reminder that I’m not at full strength yet.
But it doesn’t matter. I’ll crawl to her if I have to.
Beacon Hill is old money, old architecture, old secrets.
The kind of neighborhood where everyone minds their own business because they’ve got plenty to hide.
The brownstone at 42 Chestnut Street is indistinguishable from its neighbors—four stories of red brick and white trim, black shutters, brass door knocker.
I park in an alley a block away, out of sight of the main street. It’s better to approach on foot, circle the building, and look for the best entry point.
I’m not planning to fight my way in—just to talk to her. See her face one more time. Tell her the truth and then let her go, if that’s what she wants.
I check my gun out of habit, then slide it back into its holster. I won’t need it. Not for this.
I’m halfway down the alley when I notice something’s off. A reflection in a window. Movement where there shouldn’t be any. I turn, hand already reaching for my weapon.
But it’s too fucking late.
They step out from doorways, from behind dumpsters, from the shadows themselves. Five, no, six men. All armed.
And I recognize one of them—a thin man with a scar across his temple. He was at the bar, in a corner booth, watching as I spoke to Petrov. Fuck. I was sloppy, distracted by thoughts of Yulia. I thought it was nothing.
But it’s the man who steps forward last that makes my blood run cold.
Anton Zakharov.
The man who started this war was the day he shot at my brother.
“Yuri,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slippery. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Zakharov,” I nod, keeping my tone neutral. “Taking in the sights?”
He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Just checking on a... business opportunity. One you seem intent on interfering with.”
“Business?” I repeat, trying to buy time.
“What would you call it?” He steps closer, and his men tense, ready to move at his signal. “An alliance. A merger. A joining of families.”
“A trap,” I say flatly. “For them, and for you.”
Anton laughs. “Always so dramatic. But no, I think the trap is right here.” He gestures to the alley around us. “You, alone, barely recovered from your injuries. Walking right into our hands.”
I keep my face impassive, mind racing through options. I’m outnumbered, not at full strength, and they’ve blocked both exits from the alley. My gun won’t help against six armed men. And no one knows I’m here except Valentin, who’s probably still pissed that I hung up on him.
“So this is revenge?” I ask, playing for time. “For disrupting your plans with the Fyodorovs?”
“Partly,” Anton admits. “You did steal what was promised to us.”
“Yulia wasn’t a thing to be promised,” I say, anger flaring despite my best efforts to stay calm. “She’s a woman with her own mind.”
“Ah, yes, your wife.” His smile turns cruel. “Tell me, does she know you’re here? Or did she finally come to her senses and leave you?”
The words hit their mark with precision. I try not to react, but something must show on my face because Anton’s smile widens.
“She did, didn’t she? Left you for her family.” He laughs. “Can’t say I blame her. What woman would choose to stay with her kidnapper when she could be free?”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t know anything about us.”
“I know enough,” he says. “I know she was meant to cement our alliance with the Fyodorovs before you interfered. Now, we’ve got some trouble, you see.
The Fyodorovs say you don’t want them to ally with us.
” His smile turns calculating. “But complications can be... removed. And once I have my bride…”
The threat makes me snap. I lunge forward, but two of his men grab my arms, wrenching my injured shoulder. Pain tears through me, white-hot and blinding.
“I’ll kill you,” I snarl, struggling against their grip. “If you touch her, I’ll burn your entire fucking empire to the ground.”
Anton seems amused by my outburst. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Yuri. In fact, you’re not in a position to do much of anything anymore.”
He nods to one of his men, who steps forward with a knife. The blade catches the late afternoon sun, glinting wickedly.
I brace myself for pain, for the cold slide of steel between my ribs. If this is how it ends, at least my last thoughts will be of her. Of the life we could have had.
But the expected blow never comes.
Instead, there’s a shout from the mouth of the alley. Then another. And suddenly, the space is filling with men—my men. Valentin leads the charge, gun drawn, with Leonid, Iosif, and Miron close behind.
And with them, to my complete shock, are the Fyodorovs. Akim at the front, his sons flanking him, all armed.
The Zakharov men release me immediately, backing up as they’re suddenly outnumbered two to one. Anton’s smile falters for the first time.
The numbers aren’t in his favor anymore. With a furious hiss, he signals retreat. The Zakharovs vanish into the dark.
I sag back against the wall, chest heaving.
Valentin crouches beside me. “You look like shit.”
I breathe a laugh. “You came.”
He grunts. “Of course I came. But if you hang up on me again, I can’t promise there’ll be a next time.”
My gaze flicks past him, to the four men I last expected to see come to my defense. And I wonder…what the hell’s going on around here?