Page 25 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Worth a shot.

The screen unlocks, and I’m in.

I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I start with his emails. Most are in Russian, which I can only partially understand despite my heritage—my parents never insisted we learn it fluently. But I get enough. Business transactions. Shipping manifests. References to territories and distributions.

Then I see it. A folder labeled Bratva.

My blood turns to ice.

I know that word. Everyone knows that word—Russian mafia.

My parents used to whisper about them, warning us to stay away from certain neighborhoods in Brooklyn where they were known to operate.

Hands trembling, I open the folder.

Organizational charts. Territory maps stretching across the city. Photos—men with dead eyes, thick necks, guns casually slung at their sides.

My eyes snag on his name. Trifon Yuri. Right at the top.

Underneath it: Pakhan.

My stomach caves in on itself. I might not speak fluent Russian, but even I know that one.

Boss. Leader. Kingpin.

I click through file after file, bile rising higher with every revelation. This isn’t street-level crime. This is deep-rooted, generational, blood-stained, empire-level organized crime.

The man who kidnapped me. Married me. The man whose house I’ve beensleepingin…is the Bratva boss. Not just in Boston. Based on these files…possibly the entire goddamn East Coast.

Photos confirm it—Trifon, shoulder to shoulder with known criminals. Guns, cash, and meetings that don’t belong in daylight.

A list of names catches my eye. People who owe him. People who’ve crossed him.

Some of those names are crossed out.

A chill spreads under my skin, cold as grave dirt.

I can barely breathe as the puzzle pieces slam together—the shootout at the hospital. His casual threats. The lethal calm in his voice. The absolute, suffocatingpowerhe walks around with.

I feel sick.

I’m still staring at the screen, hands frozen on the mouse, when the door creaks open behind me.

I whirl around, pulse skidding to a stop.

Trifon leans in the doorway.

Our eyes lock, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.

Chapter 8 - Trifon

She’s caught red-handed, standing over my desk with my files wide open, staring at me like a deer in headlights. The blood drains from her face so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t faint.

There’s something almost adorable about the way her eyes widen, the guilty panic that flares across her features.

Almost.