Page 84 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I snort. “A low bar, but I’ll take it.”
He chuckles.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few more minutes. He seems to know where he’s going, turning down side streets and through neighborhoods I’ve never seen, without even referring to a map.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, breaking the quiet. “After yesterday.”
I stare out the window. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I always knew my father was... old-fashioned and traditional. But I never realized he thought I was weak.”
“He’s wrong,” Trifon says simply.
“Maybe.” I trace patterns on the window with my fingertip. “Or maybe I’ve never given him reason to think otherwise. I’ve always been the obedient one.”
“Until me,” he points out, a hint of pride in his voice.
I can’t help but smile at that. “Yes. Until you.”
We turn down a street lined with modest houses, each with a small yard, nothing fancy. The neighborhood appears lived-in, comfortable, yet not wealthy.
“Where are we?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he murmurs, slowing the car.
He pulls up in front of a small brick house with white trim and a neat garden. It’s ordinary in every way, the kind of place you’d drive past without a second glance. Nothing about it screams “Bratva king’s destination.”
“What is this place?” I ask as he kills the engine.
Trifon turns to me, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. “Somewhere important to me,” he says. “Somewhere I haven’t brought anyone else.”
The significance of that statement isn’t lost on me. I follow him up the narrow walkway to the front door, noticing how the garden, though small, is meticulously maintained. Flowers bloom in careful rows, and the grass is freshly cut.
Trifon presses the doorbell once, then stands back, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that’s become familiar.
The door swings open, and I’m greeted by the sight of an elderly woman with silver hair twisted into a neat bun. Her face breaks into a wide smile the moment she sees Trifon.
“Trifon!” she exclaims in a thick Russian accent, reaching up to clasp his face between wrinkled hands. “My boy!”
To my complete shock, Trifon bends down, allowing this tiny woman to plant kisses on both his cheeks. His face softens into something I’ve never seen before—open affection.
“Babushka,” he says warmly. “You look well.”
“And you brought a guest!” She turns her bright blue eyes to me, assessing me with surprising sharpness. “Your wife? Yes, yes, must be. Pretty like you said.”
I feel heat creep into my cheeks. Trifon talked about me to this woman?
“Yulia,” Trifon says, “this is Irina Volkov. And—” He nods to an elderly man who’s appeared behind her “—her husband, Yuri.”
“Welcome, welcome!” Yuri booms, his voice strong despite his age. He steps forward to shake my hand enthusiastically. “Come inside! Irina has been cooking all day!”
They usher us in with such warmth that I feel humbled. Inside, the house is small and warm. Cozy chaos. Knitted throws on the couch, family photos covering every wall. The smell of stew and dill wraps around us like a blanket.
“This way, please,” Irina says, leading us past a quaint living room to a small dining area at the back of the house. The table is already set for four, with mismatched china that somehow looks perfect together. A vase of fresh flowers sits in the center, and candles flicker softly.
“Sit, sit,” she insists, practically pushing Trifon into a chair. “Mikhail, the wine—no, not for her,” she adds quickly, eyeing me with knowing eyes. “For her, we have tea.”
I glance at Trifon, who shrugs. “They know everything,” he says quietly.
“Old women always know,” Irina says with a wink, disappearing into the kitchen. “It’s our job to pry.”
