Page 31 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Only when her breathing steadies do I lower my hand.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares—wide-eyed, shattered—as her perfect world burns down in front of her.
Damien Fyodorov stands at the center of it all, barking orders while men unload crates of military-grade weapons. Arman checks serial numbers. Ilya counts cash. Clean, efficient. Bratva through and through.
And Yulia? She’s unraveling.
Her hands lift, shaking like she’s trying to hold her chest together. “That’s not—” Her voice cracks. “They can’t—”
But they are. Her brothers—the good men, the family she was so ready to defend—are selling death by the crate-load. I lean in, voice low. “Believe me now?”
She flinches but doesn’t look away.
I watch her cave in on herself, every piece of denial snapping one by one.
She sways, unsteady.
I catch her elbow.
“That’s not possible,” she breathes, so quietly I barely hear it. But the evidence is right in front of her. Undeniable. Her brothers? They’re Bratva. Just like me.
And as the truth sinks in, I watch her world collapse around her.
“Let’s go,” I murmur, because she’s seen enough.
Her glassy eyes finally cut to me—gutted, furious, lost—and for once, she doesn’t argue.
Chapter 9 - Yulia
My whole world collapses as I stare at my brothers handling military-grade weapons like it’s routine.
My throat closes up, lungs refusing to work as the truth crashes over me like a tidal wave. This can’t be real. But it is. The evidence is right in front of me, and no amount of denial can wash it away.
I’ve been living a lie my entire life, and I never even suspected it.
Trifon’s hand stays firm on my elbow, guiding me back toward the car. I move like a zombie, feet dragging across the concrete, brain short-circuiting as it tries to process the impossible.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “Deep breaths.”
I want to scream at him. Want to slap that concerned look off his face because he’s the one who just tilted my world on its axis. But my body won’t cooperate. I’m trapped in a nightmare where nothing makes sense.
The whole way, I try to convince myself it’s a misunderstanding. That I missed something. That Trifon twisted it somehow. But deep down, I already know the truth.
I just don’t want to admit it.
“Father doesn’t know,” I insist as the tears fall down my face. “He wouldn’t allow them to do such things. I’m telling you!”
“We’re not finished,” Trifon says, helping me into the car. “You need to see all of it.”
“More?” I echo, voice cracking. “What more could there possibly be?”
He doesn’t answer, just slides in beside me and signals the driver.
We drive through the city in silence. I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of my childhood blur past. How many times had I walked these sidewalks, laughed with friends, completely oblivious to what was happening beneath the surface?
My brothers.
Selling guns.
