Page 12 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
First, I make sure the ones chasing us bleed for it.
The second Zakharov car’s still on me—persistent, but sloppy. They don’t know these streets as well as I do. I make another sharp turn, tires skimming the edge of an overflowing dumpster, cutting through a narrow passage that spits me into an old dockyard.
Dead end for most.
Not for me.
The instant I hit the docks, I kill the headlights and veer hard, slipping between the rusted-out cargo containers littering the space. The car behind me barrels forward, missing the turn entirely, its momentum carrying it wide off course.
They try to correct, tires screaming—but they’re too late.
I squeeze the trigger, one clean shot to the front tire as they lurch into view. The car skids, spinning out, slamming into a stack of scrap metal with an ugly crunch.
They won’t be chasing anyone tonight.
I breathe through the fury simmering just below my ribs, grab my phone one-handed, and dial.
Leonid answers on the first ring. “You good?”
“I’m breathing,” I grit out as I drive back in the direction of my house. “How’s Valentin?”
“Stable,” he says.
“And you?” I ask, meaning the rest—meaning: Are you hurt? Are you ready to burn the city down?
“We’re fine,” he sighs. “But we’ve got problems.”
“No shit,” I mutter, glancing at the shattered back window to see that the streets behind are empty. “Zakharovs must’ve lost their minds.”
“We gettin’ payback now?”
“Not yet. We do this smart. Let them breathe. Let them wonder when the axe falls.”
Leonid knows me—knows I don’t play reckless, not with blood on the line. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’ll handle it.”
I hang up, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat—the seat that should still be occupied by one stubborn, green-eyed doctor.
Instead, it’s empty.
My jaw tics as I grip the wheel tighter, speeding toward home.
***
The second I get home, I head straight for my office. My pulse hasn’t settled, and her name’s still rattling in my skull like a warning bell.
Yulia Fyodorov.
It’s been stuck in my head. Familiar in a way I can’t shake, but the dots aren’t connecting—yet.
I drop into the chair, fire up my laptop, and start digging.
The usual records pop first—medical licenses, Massachusetts General credentials, perfect grades. NYU pre-med, Weill Cornell for med school. Clean. Squeaky clean.
But that last name.
Fyodorov.
