Page 27 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

I can’t help but laugh. “Fabric. Right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I walk back and lean against the desk, arms crossed. “Your father doesn’t import fabric, Yulia. He imports people. Guns. Drugs. Whatever makes the most profit with the least risk.”

She freezes, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? You’re already here. Already caught up in this.”

Her lips curl into a snarl. “My father is a good man. My brothers are good men. They’re not—” she gestures wildly at the computer screen “—not this.”

“No?” I tilt my head. “Then why is your last name on half the documents in that folder?”

Her eyes dart to the screen, scanning frantically. I don’t know what she’ll find, but I take that bet. I’m careful with my digital footprint. But the truth is there, buried somewhere. I have a whole folder on her family.

“I don’t see anything,” she says finally.

“Because you don’t know what to look for.” I step closer. “The Fyodorovs have been Bratva for three generations. Your grandfather. Your father. Your brothers. All of them. Every single one.”

She shakes her head, backing away. “No. My family isn’t—they wouldn’t—”

“Your father is the Pakhan of the New York branch. Your brothers are his captains. And you? You’re their most precious secret. The daughter they kept clean. Protected from all of this.”

Her eyes widen, and I pray it’s the truth finally sinking in. Then something shifts—her shoulders straighten, her jaw sets.

“Bullshit,” she snaps. “My parents worked hard to fund my education. We live in a modest house in Brooklyn. If they were some... some crime lords, why would we live like that?”

“Because it’s the perfect cover,” I answer simply. “Keep the princess in the tower. Make her believe she’s normal. It’s smart, actually.”

Her face twists with pure pain. For a second, I think she might cry. But no—the fire behind her eyes blazes hotter than ever.

“You’re sick,” she hisses. “You kidnapped me, married me, and… turns out you’re a mobster. Now you think you can drag my family’s name through the dirt just to justify it? You’re unbelievable.”

“Yulia—”

“No!” Her voice cracks like a whip. “I’ve heard enough.”

She storms toward the door, shoving past me with barely-contained fury. I follow, close on her heels, my hand catching her wrist—but she jerks away like my touch burns.

“Yulia, listen—”

“I don’t want to hear another word,” she seethes, ripping open her bedroom door. “Stay the hell away from me, Trifon!”

The door slams in my face hard enough to shake the walls. The snick of the lock follows a second later.

I stand there with every instinct to break open that door, my body wired tight with frustration.

“Yulia,” I call, voice rougher than I intended.

No response.

My knuckles rap against the door, slow at first, then firmer. “Open the door.”

Silence.

I lean in, palm braced flat on the surface, listening. I hear her breathing—shallow, uneven. She sounds like she’s in shock. Processing.

“You can be pissed. I’d be shocked if you weren’t,” I say gently, now. She was innocent, after all. “But locking yourself in there won’t change the facts.”