Page 62 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
And I want more of it. More of her.
“As soon as you’re ready,” I tell her. “Tomorrow, if you want.”
Chapter 15 - Yulia
I stand in the reception area of my new clinic—my clinic—and let that sink in for a moment. By the end of my first week at the clinic, I’ve memorized this place like the back of my hand.
It’s smaller than I’m used to with its’ tighter rooms, fewer staff, and limited supplies. But strangely, that makes it easier to manage around here. I don’t have to tiptoe around fragile egos or bureaucracy. There’s no department head breathing down my neck, no politics, no power games.
Just people.
Real people.
And I’m in charge of them all.
It sounds nuts to even think about, in all honesty. Just six weeks ago, I was his prisoner. And now I’m what? His business partner? His doctor?
Still his wife,technically, but something’s shifted between us.
The clinic isn’t fully operational yet, but word travels fast in Bratva circles. The clinic runs on a skeleton crew; Just me, a nurse named Marina, and a receptionist who speaks four languages and looks like he could break a man’s neck as easily as he books appointments. Trifon suggested both of them, but I made the final call.
“Doctor Fyodorov,” the receptionist calls as I finish saying goodbye to my last patient. “Car accident coming in. Five minutes.”
“Prep Exam Room 2. And call Marina back if she’s left.”
When the “accident” victim arrives, I know immediately it’s code for a gunshot wound. He’s pale, bleeding through a makeshift bandage, supported by two of his brothers.
“Get him on the table,” I say, already shifting into trauma mode. “Marina, start an IV. Bullet tray.”
It’s not my first GSW. You don’t work at Mass General without seeing your share of blood. But it’s the first time I’m handling one alone—no trauma team, no stocked ER, no backup.
Just me.
And somehow, that’s exhilarating.
Fortunately for the guy, the bullet missed the major vessels. I clean, extract the bullet, and suture up the wound. His brothers hover until I snap at them to back off.
“She’s tough,” one mutters in Russian. I pretend not to understand, but it hits me somewhere deep. I guess because I never acknowledged it to myself, but he is right. Iamtough.
Running a place like this with mobsters for patients isn’t for the weak of heart. But, day by day, I’m falling in love with my god damn job. As they leave, one of the men presses something into my hand—a small, ornate wooden box. Inside is a delicate gold bracelet. I try to return it, but he shakes his head.
“For doctor,” he insists. “For helping brother.”
I should refuse it because I fear that it’s probably stolen. But the sincerity in his eyes stops me. This is their currency—not just money, but loyalty, gratitude.
I’m starting to understand how this world works.
By noon, I’ve already treated three patients—a knife wound, a broken finger, and a toddler with an ear infection. The contrast gives me whiplash. One minute, I’m stitching up a hulkof a man with a million tattoos. And the other? I’m making silly faces at a chubby-cheeked little girl while I check her ears.
By the end of my first two weeks here, I’ve treated Bratva captains and their children, girlfriends and pregnant wives, old women who kiss my cheeks and leave bags of homemade piroshki, and men who kill for a living.
They’re not all soldiers and enforcers. Not all guns and blood.
There are wives. Children. Parents. People caught in the crossfire who have nowhere else to go, who would be turned away, or flagged, at a regular ER. Here, they’re seen, treated, and respected.
And somehow, I’m part of that.
It still goes against everything I thought I wanted. But when I’m in the exam room, none of that matters.
