Page 86 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“Dmitri is smart,” Trifon says. “He would have succeeded anywhere.”
I suddenly remember the woman and child at my clinic—Irina and Dmitri’s wife and daughter. The ones Trifon greeted by name. Another piece falls into place.
“Your son works for Trifon?” I ask.
“Not directly,” Irina says, refilling my tea. “But under his protection. Safe job. Good money.”
“And you never ask questions,” I guess, remembering what Trifon told me in the car.
The elderly couple exchanges glances. “No need,” Yuri says simply. “We trust him.”
After dinner, Irina insists on serving tea and honey cake in their small sitting room. The space is cozy, filled with old photographs and handmade doilies. I spot a younger Trifon in a few pictures, standing awkwardly beside a teenage boy who must be Dmitri.
“You look like your mother,” Irina says suddenly, studying my face. “Same eyes. Kind eyes.”
I blink in surprise. “You knew my mother?”
“No, no,” she laughs. “But I see pictures in the newspaper. Society pages.”
“Oh.” I feel a pang of homesickness, unexpected and sharp. Despite everything, I miss my mother. The way she’d cook for me when I was sick, the scent of her perfume.
“Family is complicated,” Irina says, patting my hand as if sensing my thoughts. “But love is simple. Either it is there, or it is not.”
I glance at Trifon, who’s engaged in quiet conversation with Mikhail. He looks relaxed here, the hard edges softened by the warmth of this home. I’ve never seen him like this—genuinely at ease, warm and jovial.
When it’s time to leave, Irina presses containers of leftovers into our hands, ignoring Trifon’s protests. She cups my face between her weathered hands, much as she did with Trifon.
“You take care of him,” she whispers. “He needs someone who sees him.Knows him.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just nod. Yuri claps Trifon on the shoulder, then surprises me by pulling him into a fierce hug. Even more surprising—Trifon returns it.
Back in the car, we sit in silence for a moment before Trifon starts the engine.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For bringing me there. For showing me that.”
He glances at me, then back at the road. “I thought you needed to see it. After yesterday.”
“See what?”
“That there’s more to this life than what your family thinks,” he says quietly. “That it’s not all violence and games.”
“That there’s more to you, you mean,” I correct gently.
He doesn’t deny it. “Maybe that too.”
I watch him as he drives, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands rest easily on the wheel. This man mowed an old couple’s lawn for free because he saw they needed help.
“Why did you really help them?” I ask. “The truth.”
He’s been quiet for so long, I think he might not answer. Then, “They reminded me of my grandparents. Back in Russia. We left them behind when we came here.” His voice is soft, almost reverent. “And they were kind to me when not many people were. They saw a boy, not Yuri’s heir.”
The admission strikes me more deeply than I expected. Trifon rarely speaks of his past.
“Everyone deserves to be seen for who they really are,” I say.
His eyes flick to me briefly. “Yes. They do.”
We lapse into comfortable silence again, the car’s engine a gentle hum beneath us. I rest my head against the window, suddenly tired but content. The evening has shifted something in me, rearranged pieces of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve since the day Trifon walked into my life.
