Page 17 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Because deep down, I know fighting him here buys me nothing.
The moment I’m out of the car, he pops the trunk and pulls out a thin folder.
“What’s this?” I ask when he hands it to me.
“Open it.”
Warily, I step forward and flip open the folder. It takes my brain a second to process what I’m seeing.
Marriage license. Marriage certificate. Both with our names already filled in. My brain hiccups. No, I’m hallucinating—this can’t be real.
I look up, sure, this is some sick joke. “What the hell is this?”
“Exactly what it looks like,” he says, crossing his arms. “Marriage papers.”
A laugh escapes me—high-pitched, verging on hysterical. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Sign them,” he says, trying to hand me a pen I refuse to take.
“No way in hell,” I spit, shoving the folder back at him. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not signing anything.”
He sighs as if I’m being difficult over something trivial, like choosing a restaurant for dinner. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me and demand I marry you—a complete stranger, a criminal—and you think that’s reasonable?”
He leans against the car, studying me with those unsettling eyes. “Not a complete stranger. I know you, Yulia Fyodorov. Born April 18th, raised in Brooklyn. Father, Akim. Mother, Maria. Three older brothers—Damien, Arman, and Ilya.”
My blood freezes. “How do you—”
“Graduated top of your class at NYU. Then Weill Cornell Medical. Now finishing your first year of residency at Mass General.” He continues like he’s reading my resume. “You live alone in an apartment on Beacon Street. Unit 507. You take the T to work most days, but sometimes splurge on an Uber when you’re running late.”
Each word feels like a knife sliding between my ribs. He knows everything. Where I live. My family.
My family.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper, real fear gripping me now.
He steps closer, and I back up until I hit the car. “One signature, and this ends. Your family stays safe in New York.”
There it is. The threat, unveiled. My parents, my brothers—their lives dangled before me like bait.
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, but the memory of gunfire echoes in my ears. The casual way he shot a man in the knee. The bodies in the parking lot.
“I would.” His voice drops, dangerous.
He means every word. I can tell from how coiled he stands. Every threat. Every promise.
Trembling, I take the pen and scrawl my name across the lines.
Yulia Fyodorov.
My hand barely steadies as I push the papers back at him.
Trifon’s eyes gleam with dark satisfaction.
“You’re mine now,” he says, voice like velvet and gunpowder.
And god help me—the spark crackling under my fear?
