Page 18 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
It’s still there.
Chapter 6 - Trifon
The car ride back to my place is quiet. Too quiet.
I expected the fighting. The shouting. Negotiations, maybe—threats about her powerful connections and how her family would make me bleed for this. That’s how this usually goes when you snatch a woman with a last name like Fyodorov.
But Yulia? She’s simply… silent.
She just sits there, trembling with fear. It’s the fear that bothers me. Had she put up a fight? I might’ve even enjoyed it.
I drum my fingers against the wheel, keeping one eye on her, waiting. Any second now, she’ll throw her last name in my face, remind me exactly who she belongs to. That her brothers will come slit my throat in my sleep. That’s what I’ve been preparing for ever since I put the pieces together—realized whose little sister I’ve got strapped into my passenger seat.
The Fyodorovs.
Old money. Old Bratva. Quiet, dangerous, practically ghosts in New York’s underworld. They’ve kept their name out of headlines and off police radars for decades—a clean image shielding a criminal empire beneath the surface. And their daughter? She should’ve been the sharpest weapon in their arsenal.
But she’s not acting like it.
She’s tense, sure. Scared, definitely. But there’s no sharp-edged defiance. No demands to talk to her parents. No “Do you know who I am?” threats. Just… tight, confused silence. And it grates on my nerves more than screaming ever could.
What game is this?
I watch her as I drive. Her profile is sharp in the afternoon light—high cheekbones, straight nose, soft lips pressed into a thin line. The fire I saw in the hospital parking lot is still there, banked but not extinguished. She’s beautiful even when she’s terrified.
This isn’t about attraction, I remind myself. It’s a strategy. When I took her after the shootout, I knew it was only a matter of time before the Fyodorovs came for me. A kidnapped daughter? That’s war. But a marriage? That’s an alliance. Politics. The oldest way to prevent bloodshed between families.
So, of course, I had to get her back and fix this mess I created. For three whole days, I waited and wondered when we’d come under attack by the Fyodorovs. When I figured she might not have told them I kidnapped her yet, I thought it wiser to fix the problem before the day came.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks as we cross into the wealthier part of the city.
“My house.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as we’re married.”
Her breath catches. I see her throat work as she swallows. She turns her face away, but not before I catch the flash of anger in her eyes. Good. Anger is better than fear.
The car winds through the hills, the skyline shrinking behind us as the streets grow wider, quieter, more exclusive. Boston’s upper crust is tucked away in manicured estates and towering glass fortresses.
Her family’s no stranger to this life. The Fyodorovs are old money. Maybe not Yuri's money, but enough to keep her inprep schools, Ivy League halls, cocktail parties with the country’s most elite men.
So why the hell does she look like we’ve crossed into another universe?
Her eyes go wide as the gates to my property loom ahead—black wrought iron, carved with intricate detailing, stretching fifteen feet high. I punch in the code, and the gates slide open, the car crawling up the winding drive.
The house reveals itself slowly—three stories of stone, glass, and steel perched high above the city. Sleek lines. Clean edges. Built for security as much as status.
She presses a hand to the window, barely breathing. “This is yours?” she whispers, almost to herself.
Her awe scrapes at me. What the hell did her parents keep her locked away from? She’s a Fyodorov. This world shouldn’t be foreign.
“Ours now,” I reply smoothly, and immediately regret the words when I see her flinch.
I park in front of the entrance and turn off the engine. For a second, we just sit there. The air thickens between us—her breath oscillating like a trapped bird, my obsession twisting deeper beneath my ribs.
I get out, round the car, and open her door.
