Page 19 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
She doesn’t move at first—eyes scanning the house, the property, the hilltop view like it’s some castle plucked from a movie screen.
The corners of my mouth twitch, but the confusion rides higher than amusement. “You’ve never seen a house like this?” I ask, watching her.
Her spine straightens, stubborn pride snapping into place. “My parents aren’t… like this,” she says, stepping out slowly. “We weren’t… rich.”
I try not to let my eyes pop out of my head because I know that’s a lie. Their import business is worth $50 million a year, easily. Even I know that.
Seriously. What the hell is she playing at?
I shut the car door behind her, leading the way up the front steps. She follows, hesitant, like I’ve just marched her into Versailles instead of my house.
It doesn’t add up.
I unlock the door, motioning her inside.
The entryway is wide, flooded with natural light, and features glass walls that frame the Boston skyline below. The house stretches open, with high ceilings, imported stone floors, and clean modern lines. It’s not ostentatious by Bratva standards, but it’s no modest condo either.
Yulia pauses in the foyer, eyes sweeping over the space like she’s never set foot in a place like this. Her fingers drift across the sleek marble console table.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her. “It’s a house, not a museum,” I say.
Her shoulders stiffen. Her nerves are obvious.
I move toward the living room. “Come sit. You want a drink?”
Her eyes narrow, but she follows me in. “What kind of drink?”
“Relax, Doctor,” I say, smirking as I walk to the bar cart. “I’m not drugging you.” I pour two fingers of vodka into a glass, hold it up. “Just good Russian hospitality.”
She crosses her arms but follows, perching on the edge of the velvet couch like it might bite her.
Her eyes stay sharp, wary, flicking from the drink to me. “Please,” she says quietly, voice raw around the edges now. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Straight to the point. Brave, considering.
I settle into the chair opposite, the glass heavy in my hand. “Already told you. You’re staying here. You’re mine now.”
Her throat works as she swallows, her grip tightening around the hem of her sleeve. “Look, I think you’ve made some… some mistake,” she pushes, voice cracking slightly. “My parents are simple people. They’ll worry if I disappear, and—they’re not—” she breaks off, shaking her head. “They’re not powerful. Don’t you understand what my disappearance will do to them? My dad? He’ll literally sell our house if he has to just to get a private detective. Why are you doing this to us?”
I still.
“They’ll worry?” I repeat slowly.
She nods, eyes glassy now, panic creeping in. “Yes! They won’t know what to do. This is their worst nightmare. My dad runs his small import business, and my mom’s probably baking something ridiculous while crying because she misses me already. They’re not rich. We’re not…” she trails off, clearly overwhelmed. “I’m just a doctor.”
The weight in my chest tightens. My brain works double-time, lining up facts like dominoes.
The fear on her face is too raw, too genuine to be an act. She believes every goddamn word she says.
They kept her out. Completely.
A protective move. Smart, honestly. Hide the golden daughter, send her to Boston under the guise of independence, and bury her in a residency program where no one would look twice.
And suddenly, it all makes sense. Why the Fyodorov princess was working the ER night shift at a public hospital. Why she was living alone in a modest apartment instead of some luxury penthouse. Why she reacted with such horror to the violence outside the hospital.
They hid her. Protected her. Kept her innocent while they built an empire on blood.
And I—fuck—I plucked her straight out of that safety net, thinking she was part of the game.
