Page 61 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“It will be,” I confirm, watching her face. “We need a second private clinic for our people.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Your people?”
“Bratva members and their families. People who can’t go to regular hospitals without raising questions.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “You said this will be your second?”
I nod, guiding her further inside. “That night, the clinic was too far. We had no choice but to take Valentin to the general hospital—and the shootout that followed? It put civilians at risk. It nearly got him killed. I realized then—we needed a second, more central location. This is it.”
I lead her through what will be the reception, into a hallway lined with examination rooms—some already equipped with basic medical supplies, others still empty.
“This is impressive,” she says, running her fingers along a stainless steel counter. “But why show me?”
This is the moment. I step closer, watching her reaction carefully.
“Because I want you to run it.”
She goes still, her eyes widening. “What?”
“You’re a doctor, Yulia. A damn good one, from what I’ve seen. You saved Nadya with barely any supplies at all. Imagine what you could do with a fully equipped facility.”
“You want me to work for you?” She sounds incredulous, but there’s something else in her voice.
Interest.
“With me,” I correct. “Not for me. This would be your clinic. Your domain. I provide the resources, you provide the expertise.”
She walks further into the room, turning in a slow circle as she takes it all in. “I’d have full medical autonomy? No interference?”
“Within reason. My people need discretion, not police involvement. But medically? It’s your call.”
“And staffing?”
“You’d build your own team. People you trust, but we’ll vet you who you interview before they come to you.”
She turns away, and for a moment I think I’ve miscalculated. Then I see her shoulders straighten, her spine align—the posture of a doctor making a diagnosis, not a prisoner weighing an offer.
“I’d need proper equipment,” she says, and my chest tightens with something like hope. “Full lab capabilities. At least ten beds for overnight stays. And a surgical suite.”
“Done.”
She spins back to face me. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice softer now. “Why would you do this for me?”
I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “Because you’re wasted sitting around my house. Because you’re a doctor—it’s in your blood. And because...”
“Because what?” she prompts when I hesitate.
“Because you deserve something that’s yours. Something no one can take away. I want to see you happy, Yulia.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for the trap, the catch. Finding none.
“When can I start?” she asks, and the smile that breaks across her face is so genuine, so unguarded, that it hits me like a physical blow.
This is her. The real Yulia. Not the angry captive or the sad daughter. This is her essence—passionate, determined, brilliant.
