Page 29 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Her steps falter. “Plane?”

“We’re going a little far,” I guide her outside where my driver waits with the car. “I’m not spending my day on the interstate.”

She balks at the car door, one last attempt at resistance, but I gently shove her in. She slides into the backseat, and I follow, keeping myself between her and any possible escape.

The drive to the private airfield is tense. She stares out the window, jaw clenched, arms crossed like a barrier between us.

“How long will we be gone?” she finally asks.

“Depends on how quickly you accept the truth. I’m going to show you I wasn’t lying about your family.”

She scoffs, but there’s less conviction behind it now. Doubt has been eating at her for days. I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, the furrow between her brows.

“My family isn’t what you say they are,” she insists, but her voice wavers.

“We’ll see.”

At the airfield, my plane waits on the tarmac—sleek, white, equipped with everything we need for the short flight. Shehesitates at the stairs, looking up at the metal beast like it might devour her.

“After you,” I say, guiding her up with a hand at the small of her back.

Inside, she stops short at the luxury interior—leather seats, polished wood, and a fully stocked bar. I watch her eyes take it all in, this luxury she’s never seen before.

“Sit,” I instruct, pointing to a seat. “Buckle up.”

She sits reluctantly, as far from me as the cabin allows. A flight attendant appears with a tray of food—fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee. Yulia eyes it hungrily but doesn’t reach for it.

“Eat,” I say, softer now. “Starving yourself won’t change anything.”

She glares but finally takes an apple, biting into it with unnecessary force. I hide my smile behind my coffee cup.

As the plane takes off, she continues to ignore me, focusing on her food like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. Once she’s done eating, she crosses her arms so tight I’m surprised her ribs aren’t cracking. Her eyes flick to the window, then back to me, then to the window again, like she’s debating whether jumping out at 30,000 feet is a better option than dealing with me.

Finally, curiosity wins over. “What you say doesn’t make sense. My family... they’re normal. We had Sunday dinners. My mom baked cookies. My dad helped with homework.”

“And Al Capone played with his children in the yard,” I say. “Monsters are people too, Yulia.”

She flinches at that.

She shakes her head, pulling her knees up onto the seat, retreating like she can build a wall between us. “I don’t believe you.”

“You will.” I lean back, stretching my legs, watching her every twitch, every fractured thought playing out across her face. “Give it an hour.”

Her brows pinch. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” I murmur, eyes glinting with the truth she’s not ready for. “It’s…educational.”

She glares at me, jaw set like she’s seconds from launching herself across the cabin to throttle me.

God help me, I enjoy the thought.

But unfortunately, she chooses silence as her weapon.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a soft jolt, the private jet coasting to a smooth stop. Her eyes dart to the window as the skyline comes into view—concrete, steel, glass, the unmistakable sprawl of New York City in the distance.

She stiffens. I watch her put it together—the familiar silhouettes of the bridges, the glitter of the high-rises beyond the private airstrip. Her fingers dig into the seat cushion.

“Where are we?” she demands, voice brittle.