Page 32 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
It feels like a bad joke.
“Where are we going now?” I finally ask when I can force words past the knot in my throat.
“To see your father.”
My heart lurches. “No. Please. I can’t—I don’t want to—”
“You need to understand,” he cuts in, voice firm but not unkind. “Everything.”
I fall silent, my fists curling tight in my lap as the city decays around us. The farther we drive, the more familiar neighborhoods dissolve into rusted fire escapes and cracked sidewalks. Forgotten corners of New York—places tourists avoid and cops conveniently forget.
We cut down an alley so narrow I swear the car might scrape the walls. Graffiti bleeds across the brick like veins; trash bags are piled in doorways, and the smell of piss and rain lingers heavily in the air.
This is the city I never saw growing up—the version hidden from my eyes.
The car stops beside an old building wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. Neon letters flicker above the warped doorframe:Vesna Club.
It looks like the kind of place that chews people up and spits them out in pieces.
Trifon’s already out of the car, holding the door open for me.
I hesitate, stomach twisting.
“Come on,” he says, voice low. “You’re already in this, Yulia.”
My legs refuse to work for a beat too long, but I force them into motion. The second my shoes hit the cracked pavement, Trifon’s hand finds my elbow again, guiding me inside.
The club is dim, thick with smoke and bad intentions. Faded booths line the walls, cracked leather seats occupied by hard-eyed men hunched over drinks. Women hover by the bar, too much makeup, too few clothes.
The music buzzes low, like background noise to a far more dangerous conversation.
We weave through the room, heads turning as we pass. People recognize him—eyes drop, conversations die mid-sentence.
At the far end, a heavyset man stands guard, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
Trifon peels off a roll of cash, sliding it into the man’s palm without a word.
The bouncer counts it, then jerks his chin toward the door.
“This way,” Trifon says, leading me through.
We slip into a narrow hallway, walls stained with water damage, the floorboards groaning under every step. The air thickens as we twist through shadowed corridors, deeper into the building’s bones.
Finally, he stops beside what looks like a solid wall. His fingers trace along the wood, pressing something invisible—then a hidden panel clicks open.
A narrow slit. Barely wide enough to peer through.
“Look,” Trifon murmurs, stepping aside.
My pulse kicks, throat tight as I lean in, eye pressed to the darkness beyond the keyhole.
The space beyond the keyhole sharpens into view—a dimly lit area that appears to be a private backroom. A single table commands the center, battered wood littered with files, cash, and—
My stomach pitches—bricks of packaged pills. Bottles stamped with pharmaceutical labels.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, to make sense of the scene.
And then I see him.
