Page 26 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

If she wasn’t digging through my most sensitive information, I might even be impressed.

She’s smart—far smarter than I gave her credit for. Any other woman in her position wouldn’t have the balls to sneak into my office, much less find a way into my computer. But here she is, this stubborn doctor.

“Found what you were looking for?” I ask again, pushing off the doorframe.

She flinches like my voice slapped her, but her chin juts out a second later—pride sparking under all that panic.

Her eyes flick back to the screen before her gaze cuts to mine. Cold. Shattered. And burning with something that twists low in my gut.

“You’re disgusting,” she spits. “You… yourunthis? You’re the one at the top of the Bratva? The Pakhan?”

“Yes,” I say calmly, wondering now what she thinks of the Bratva. From the way she speaks of it, like it’s something sinful to even think of, I’m willing to wager a bet that she thinks I’m scum.

Her lip curls in disgust, tears brightening her eyes—but they don’t fall. She’s too fucking proud.

“I willneverforgive you,” she swears, trembling. “For dragging me into your… yourfilth. You’re a criminal. You’re poison.”

The words slice, sharper than I expect. My amusement fades. I move closer. “Careful, Doctor.”

“Why?” She laughs bitterly. “You’ll kill me, too? Add me to your little list of crossed-out names?”

So she saw that file.Fuck.

I advance another step, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back away—just plants her feet wider.

“If I wanted you dead,” I say quietly, “you wouldn’t be standing here arguing with me.”

“What do you want then?” Her voice cracks. “Why am I here? What’s the point of all this? Y…you’re a criminal. Why are you doing this to me? To my poor family?”

I study her for a moment—the stubborn set of her jaw, the intelligence burning behind those green eyes. She’s figured out who I am. How much longer before she puts together the rest of it?

Maybe it’s time.

“What do you know about your family, Yulia?”

She blinks, clearly thrown by the question. “What?”

“Your family,” I repeat. “The Fyodorovs. What do you really know about them?”

Her expression hardens. “Don’t bring my family into your sick games.”

I pause, tipping my head, fighting the smile that tugs at my mouth. “Funny. They forgot to mention they built their fortune the same way.”

She reels back like I slapped her, eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t talk about my family like that.”

I arch a brow, slow and deliberate. “Why not? They’re not saints, Yulia. You think their hands are clean just because they hid you behind textbooks and hospitals? You think that neat little apartment of yours wasn’t bought with blood money?”

“Liar,” she hisses, voice cracking.

I close the final gap between us, crowding her space until her back nearly hits the window. Her breath jumps at her throat, frantic beneath her throat.

“You’re living in a fantasy,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous. “Your family’s waist-deep in this world, sweetheart. You’ve just been too naive to see it.”

“You…I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t fucking trust you, you hear me?” Her eyes water, and her lips quiver with rage.

“It’s not a game.” I step back. “Your father’s import business. Did you ever wonder what he actually imports?”

“Fabric,” she says immediately. “From Russia. For designers in the garment district.”