Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 1

Three months ago

“YOU UNDERSTAND what that means, don’t you, Dave, David, or whatever the fuck you call yourself?” My voice is a cold, hard slap in the silence of the warehouse, even over the echoing sound of Misha’s open palm colliding with David’s flesh again and again.

Tied to a wooden chair, David is rendered helpless, trapped with no way out. David’s cheek sports a fresh, blooming red handprint; his lips spit blood with each cruel contact of skin against skin. His whimpering is sickening. But it’s the tears, the trembling chin of his that truly irk me.

Weakness has no place in this world he ventured into.

“I-I understand, Victor, I…” he stammers, his voice trembling like the rest of him. But Misha’s laughter, an evil soundtrack to David’s humiliation, cuts him off.

“Oh, he understands, Victor. He understands he’s fucked.” Misha chortles, his mirth dark and filled with disdain. His next slap is harder, and David’s head snaps to the side.

“The forty-eight hours you were given are up, David. And what do we have? Excuses,” I spit the words at him, venom dripping from every syllable.

David’s futile attempt to compose himself is pathetic. “The market crashed. I-I couldn’t do anything. I need more time. Please.” His plea is desperate, almost as desperate as the situation he’s in.

“The market,” I echo, my voice a mocking dagger. “Seems like the market has more balls than you.”

I watch David’s face crumble. But really, what the hell did he think would happen? He snatched the Morozov Bratva’s cash, tried playing trader, and botched it. No one is this stupid to think they can get away alive from that.

“You think you’re clever, huh, suka?” I sneer, my tone dripping with disdain. “Skimming off the top for two years, playing with the Morozov Bratva’s money. My money! But two million? Blyad! Have you lost your fucking mind?”

David’s eyes dart frantically, the weight of his betrayal pressing him further into his own grave. His usual confident smirk is now replaced with a trembling lip.

“Victor, please, I thought—”

“You thought?” I cut in, laughing coldly. “You thought you could steal from us, and we wouldn’t notice? Should’ve stuck to your day job as an accountant, you fucking cockroach.”

He swallows hard, the prominent gulp visible against the pale canvas of his terrified throat.

“It was a bad trade, Victor. I can fix this.”

I step closer, invading his space, making him feel the magnitude of his fuck-up.

“Fix this? You’re two million in the hole, pizdec. You’re going to replace out what happens when you cross the Morozov Bratva.”

Without warning, my fist shoots out, crashing into David’s stomach with enough force to send both him and the chair he’s tied to flying backward. The thud echoes in the room, and he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. He spits out blood, his pretty-boy face now distorted, swelling up, making him look like a grotesque parody of his former self.

“Look at you, blin. Once a suave little shit, now just a broken, bloody conman,” I sneer, looking down at him with disdain.

He’s gasping, eyes filled with terror. “Victor, I swear, I can get the money back.”

I lean down, letting him see the cold rage in my eyes. “David, you think money is all I want from you? No. I want you to understand what it feels like to truly fuck with the Morozov Bratva.

His voice trembles, desperation evident. “Victor, please. I have a plan. Just give me a chance.”

I chuckle, the sound dripping with derision. “A chance? Like the one you had with our money? No, suka. No more games. You remember Ari?”

I gesture to the shadowy figure standing in the corner. The man steps forward, a wicked blade glinting in his hand. David‘s eyes widen in recognition and horror.

“Ari specializes in… reminders,” I say, my voice laden with malice. “And he’s going to give you one you’ll never forget.”

A sharp whistle slices through the tension. From the dimmest corner of the warehouse, the hulking shadow of Yuri moves closer. I’m a tall guy, six feet five, and tower over most.

But Ari?

Even I have to admit that next to him, I feel like a kid looking up at his dad. He’s a beast. Every step he takes is calculated; his towering figure looms like a specter.

David gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Wait, Victor… I can give you something else…”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Oh? Do tell.”

“My wife… L-Laura,” he stammers. “She owns a bookstore, Thompson Tales on Fifth Ave. It’s worth a lot, maybe not enough to cover my debts. but I could… I could sign it over.”

I tilt my head, my voice heavy with mock curiosity. “A wife? You? Now that’s news. I had my guys check every corner of your life. But married with a wife?”

David pales, eyes darting. “Listen, it’s… I swiped the ‘David Garner’ identity years ago. Who… who knows where the real guy is? Dead, disappeared, whatever. And Laura she… she thinks—”

Misha doesn’t even let David finish, landing a brutal slap across his face.

Another follows.

“Please… no more,” David pleads.

I lean in closer, feeling the tremble of his breath against my skin. “So, tell me, Davey-boy. Does Laura know she’s married to a ghost? That she’s pledged herself to an identity that’s not even real?”

David’s eyes widen in terror. “No, she doesn’t know. She believes in us. In the life we have.”

I laugh. “Technically, she’s not even married, is she? Since David Garner is six feet under somewhere while you parade around in his shoes. And you managed to pull one over on me, huh? That’s a first,” I sneer.

“No, I didn’t mean to—” David’s pale face goes a shade paler.

I scoff, genuinely impressed. “You’re even slimier than I gave you credit for.”

“It’s not like that… with Laura,” he confirms, voice shaky. “She thinks I’m just an accountant, that I… that I lead a simple life.”

Mikhail’s smirk widens. “Accounting for the Morozov Bratva and laundering money on the side. Jesus, she landed a real fucking prince, didn’t she?”

“So, you played her? Slithered your way into her life, pretended to marry her using a dead man’s identity, and kept her clueless about who the real David the dickhead really is?” I sneer, my disgust evident. “Now you want to throw her and her bookstore under the bus for your monumental fuck-ups?”

His voice wavers, almost a whisper. “It wasn’t meant to go this way. Everything just… went to shit.”

Who the fuck is this guy?

David, or whatever his real name is, this sneaky conman, had used another identity for everything.

“And she’s worth… what, two fucking million?” I sneer, circling him slowly like a shark circling its prey before grabbing him by his bloody shirt.

David tries to muster some semblance of dignity, his voice a raspy plea. “It’s a start, Victor. Please. Let me make it right.”

I step back, releasing him. “So, you want me to have your wife and think that all will be forgiven.” I snort. “She must be something else.” I give a mocking whistle.

David’s eyes dart, searching for any sliver of mercy. “That’s all I have for now. The bookstore’s profitable, and… and she can offer… other things.”

“Other things?” My voice is a dangerous snarl, my grip tightening on the collar of his pathetic shirt, yanking him toward me. I hiss, every word dripping venom, “Two fucking million down the drain, and you think a store and some ‘other things’ from your pretty fake wife will settle it?”

“Believe me, she is…” David’s lips tug upward in a sly smile, revealing a darkness he thinks he’s hiding, “a beauty.”

Motherfucking creep.

It would be so easy to just off this two-bit conman. Sure.

But killing him?

That’s just inviting unnecessary heat, and I’ve got enough of that already. Besides, Rivington Street’s got enough dead bodies without us adding to the tally. The fucking police have their panties in a bunch trying to pin us on some cartel shootouts…on Rivington Street, of all places. Everyone knows that’s junkie central, not our playground.

I laugh.

Fucking hell, the idea that we’d deal in flesh. As if I’d stoop so low. But let’s get one thing straight: I might run a tight ship, but the whole flesh market? Nah, that’s not our style.

What am I? The heir to the Morozov Bratva.

Not some lowlife from Brighton Beach.

I don’t need to stoop to the basest levels of criminality. I have standards, derr’mo.

The next second, Mikhail’s hand collides with David’s face, a smack so ferocious that blood fills David’s mouth instantly. I can almost hear the tear of flesh, his cheek brutally grating against the sharp edges of his teeth.

Misha is really enjoying this.

David’s wriggling around like a damned fish out of water, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, ropes cutting into his wrists. Misha, that beast, just stands there wiping David’s blood from his knuckles onto his pants as if he’s brushing off some dirt.

Sure, I’ve got the height, but Misha? He’s built like a fucking tank. Those scars, the scruffy beard, they’ve seen more shit than the sewers of this city. But it’s those hawk-like eyes, piercing and calculating, that make men piss their pants. Right now, they’re drilling into David, and not in a kind way.

“Thought you’d just waltz outta this one with that stupid smirk, huh?” Misha says, every word dripping with an amusement that could freeze hell.

David’s reduced to a sniveling mess, the cocky bastard from earlier gone, replaced by this… puddle.

“You fucked up big time, David,” I chime in, my grin wide, enjoying every damn second. “Where’s the girl?” I ask.

David’s choking back sobs, spitting out words between gasps. “She’s… She’s at Thompson Tales. Fifth Ave.”

Fuck, I love money, always have.

And if I can squeeze out every last dime from that bookstore and have a bit of fun with the woman running it?

I wonder if Laura will break as easily.

“What… what are you going to do with her?” David barely gets the words out, his voice more air than sound.

Misha just eyes David with a look that promises pain. “We’ll do whatever the fuck we want, David. Playtime’s just beginning.” He stands, straightening his suit like he’s preparing for a business meeting. “Stay the fuck in town.” Without another word, he’s out the door.

David, still on the floor, his voice strained, mutters, “You’re all fucking monsters. Laura doesn’t deserve this shit.”

This bastard’s more fucked in the head than I thought. Who offers up their “wife” to bail out of their fuck-ups, then acts like he fucking cares?

I’m inches away from slamming my boot into his face. Holding back, I lean down, my voice a deadly whisper as I say, “When you dance with demons, David, expect to get burned.”

That girl’s in for a world of hurt, and she doesn’t even know it.