Page 13 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
It won’t sit right.
I dig deeper, pulling alumni profiles, old news clippings, and anything else that is public-facing. NYU’s alumni page loads next—a glowing feature on Yulia herself, complete with her graduation photo.
I freeze.
It’s not just her green eyes, stubborn jaw, that sharpness I’ve already tasted in person. It’s the people standing with her. Her family.
I lean closer, jaw tightening as I read the caption—quotes about her parents’ sacrifices, their pride, how they “built everything from nothing” and “support every one of her dreams.”
Her brothers—three of them—standing at her side. All grinning like the golden boy next door. I’ve seen their faces before. Different angles, different sources—but I’ve seen them.
Because they’re not civilians.
They’re Bratva.
Old-school. Quiet. Low-profile, but lethal. A powerful name back in New York’s underworld. A family that has kept itself insulated, despite the money and connections.
And I just kidnapped their little sister.
My pulse spikes again, not with panic, but calculation. She isn’t what I expected. And now? She’s a whole new kind of problem.
A beautiful, infuriating, dangerous problem with Bratva blood.
I stare at her face one more time, dragging my gaze down the photo, replaying the way she looked pressed against me earlier—defiant, furious, far too tempting for my own good.
The start of an obsession creeps in before I can stop it.
She’s not just trouble.
She’s not just a Fyodorov. She’s one ofthe Fyodorovs.
And I don’t let loose ends like that walk away.
Chapter 5 - Yulia
For three whole days, I’ve done nothing but work and attempt to forget that disaster outside the ER.
Spoiler alert—it’s not working.
I’d like to pretend I imagined the whole thing—the gunfire, the bodies, the part where Trifon basically kidnapped me to “keep me alive,” and then his stupid, infuriatingly broad shoulders as he drove off into the night.
But no, that happened.
“Dr. Fyodorov?” A nurse—not Marcy, she’s off today—hovers at my elbow. “The patient in Exam Three is complaining about the wait.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there,” I say, forcing a smile.
She nods and moves away. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. God, I’m tired. I haven’t slept properly since that night. Every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots. Feel tattooed arms pulling me against a hard chest. See bodies dropping to the pavement.
I should have reported it. I know that. I’m a doctor—we’re mandatory reporters for violence. But the second I jumped out of that car and hit the pavement, rolling behind a dumpster, my survival instinct took over.
I ran. Zigzagged through back alleys like a frightened rabbit, hiding whenever headlights swept past. My scrubs were torn, my hands bloody from the fall. I must’ve looked insane—a wild-eyed woman sprinting through Boston’s industrial district at midnight.
It took me two hours to find my way back to civilization. I finally flagged down a cab, gave him everything in my pockets,and collapsed into my apartment at 3 AM. By then, my entire body was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. I locked every door, pushed furniture against it, and huddled in my shower until the hot water ran out.
I slept through four alarms the next morning—a first in my entire professional life. When I finally dragged myself to the hospital, three hours late, the place was crawling with police.
“Shooting in the parking lot,” one of the residents whispered as I slipped past. “Five bodies. Gang-related, they think.”
