Page 44 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“I’m your wife every night, apparently,” I mutter. “The papers made sure of that.”
His lips twitch. “True.”
Everyone here knows each other from the criminal underworld. Cousins, aunts, uncles, people who’ve probably attended these functions since birth. I smile. I nod. I hold my clutch with both hands to keep it from shaking.
“Trifon!” a booming voice cuts through the crowd.
A tall man strides toward us—Trifon’s eyes, Valentin’s smile, and the kind of charisma that commands a room.
“And this must be the doctor who saved our little sister.”
“Leonid,” Trifon says with a nod. “Yes. This is Yulia. My wife.”
My stomach flinches at the word, but I manage a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Leonid says, taking my hand and brushing a kiss across it. “I hear you put my brother in his place. That’s no small feat.”
I open my mouth to reply, but two more men step up beside him—same dark hair, same sharp cheekbones. They don’t need introductions, but Trifon gives them anyway.
“Iosif and Miron. The youngest.”
Iosif, tall and serious, nods with quiet politeness. Miron, who can’t be much older than me, grins like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“So you’re the one who jumped out of Trifon’s moving car,” he says, impressed. “That’s badass.”
“Miron,” Trifon says, warning clear in his voice.
I can’t help it—I smile. “It wasn’t going that fast. And I’ve taken nastier spills during ER shifts.”
Miron laughs, delighted. “I like her already.”
“Everyone likes her,” Trifon says, dry as bone. “Now go do something useful before you start grilling her on blood types.”
They wander off, though Leonid lingers just long enough to give me a look—measured, assessing. Like he’s still deciding whether to be charmed or suspicious.
“Your brothers are… something,” I murmur once they’re out of earshot.
“That’s one word for it.” Trifon’s hand settles lightly at the small of my back, anchoring me. “You okay?”
I glance up at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “I’m fine,” I say automatically, then shake my head. “No, actually—I’m terrified. This whole thing feels like a fever dream.”
“You’re doing better than half the people here,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Just stay close.”
And I do.
For the next hour, Trifon leads me through a blur of introductions—uncles with sharp eyes, aunts dripping in diamonds, cousins who look like they stepped off a runway. I shake hands, smile until my cheeks ache, and try to track names I’m sure I’ll forget by morning.
I keep smiling.
That’s my strategy—smile, nod, say something polite, let Trifon steer. I might not know the rules of this world, but I know how to play nice under pressure. Still, my hands are a little too cold, my laugh just a bit too high, and every time someone asks how we met, my stomach knots tighter.
I take a sip of champagne to buy time and almost choke when a woman in sapphire mentions her last visit to Prague, where Trifon bailed her out of jail for smuggling.
The smile stays on my face, but something must give me away.
Because a few minutes later, Trifon slides his hand around my waist and murmurs in my ear, “You’re about five seconds away from faking a phone call, aren’t you?”
I glance up at him. “You’re not wrong.”
