Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 2

THE BUZZ of my phone drags me out of the light sleep I had managed to catch at my desk. A slew of unpaid bills for the store lie scattered around, with numbers that seem to have way too many zeros. Ah, a reminder of another sleepless night trying to figure out how the hell to dig myself out of this financial pit after David, my husband of three years, cleaned out our bank account before disappearing with Polly two months ago.

How does one man manage to be cliche and original at the same time?

Most men have affairs, but not all of them drain your bank account and disappear into the wind with the side chick. As for Polly, I hope she likes her men unreliable and with the personality depth of a puddle.

Groaning, I pick up the phone. An unknown number. Great, probably another creditor or, better yet, a robocall telling me I’ve won a free cruise. Because, you know, three in the morning is prime telemarketing time, right?

“Who’s this?” I answer, voice groggy.

“Ms. Thompson?”

“Yeah, still me. And if you’re trying to sell me something, I’d prefer bankruptcy advice right now,” I retort, one eye on those damned bills.

There’s an unsettling pause.

Suddenly, a chill prickles up my neck. Wait, did they replace David? Dead in a ditch somewhere? 

Or… is that just wishful thinking? God…I’m probably reserving a spot in hell.

“This is the fire department.”

My heart does a weird lurch thing in my chest. A bad sign.

Okay. It’s not about David.

But fuck, why are you calling me at unholy o’clock?

“We’re at Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave. There’s a fire.”

I can’t even muster a sarcastic comeback. That’s new. “My store?” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, which is embarrassing. I clear my throat. “Is it… bad?”

“I think you need to see for yourself.”

I frantically search for something—anything—to wear that isn’t doused in yesterday’s melancholy. I grab the first thing I feel: an old, faded nighty with a cheesy “Seduce me with paragraphs, tease me with prose” print. Damn, I thought I’d thrown this monstrosity out. My fingers snag on a lightweight cardigan, which I drape over myself as an afterthought, more for coverage than warmth. It’s November in New York, after all, and the last thing I need is frostbite in places best left unmentioned.

Living a few blocks away from my store had always been a point of pride. No commute, no morning rush, and the extra savings? That was the cherry on top.

A chilly wind picks up, tossing my hair wildly and making me second-guess the wisdom of those mismatched flip-flops I’d thrown on. Each step feels like an eternity, the chilled air biting at my toes and seeping up the hem of my nighty.

I hustle down the streets, the wind funneling through the urban canyons, forcing me to squint against its force. Every breath is a sharp sting, and I start coughing from the cold air slashing down my throat.

Damnit. It’s like inhaling ice shards.

There’s a low, gravelly laugh up ahead. A guy, definitely drunk and feeling a little too cocky, lurches from a darkened doorway. “Hey there, Cinderella, looking for your prince?” he slurs, leering at me.

“Only if he’s carrying a fire extinguisher,” I snap back, pushing past him.

As I get closer, there’s a distinct smell that hits me. The scent of scorched paper, burned wood, and a lingering, acrid stench that makes my eyes water.

And, well, shit.

My bookstore is charred. Like “There’s not gonna be a sequel” kind of charred.

All those hours, days, years… up in literal smoke.

Fuck.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

This is not happening!

Flames. Everywhere. Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave is an inferno at three a.m. Even the moon hides behind clouds, not wanting to witness the demise of my bookstore. My family’s legacy.

I stand, alone and cold, on the opposite street, with just the firefighters for company. They’re busy, their frantic movements dancing with the cruel, golden flickers that consume every memory of my store.

A firefighter is desperately aiming water at what’s left of my storefront.

Oh, my God.

That holiday window display I’d spent hours on last week? Annihilated. Dad had said it was a wasted effort, but the recent uptick in foot traffic begged to differ. My plans for the Christmas book readings, the New Year’s author meet-and-greet, and even that little corner I’d set aside for kids to dive into their first novels… all up in smoke now. Literal smoke.

Oh God, no.

The wail of sirens grows louder as I near the scene like some morbid alarm clock reminding me this isn’t a nightmare. The gleam of fire trucks pierces through the foggy haze, workers in uniform scrambling everywhere, directing powerful streams at the skeletal remains of what was my everything. Suddenly, a firm hand stops me, an officer’s stern face appearing through the smog.

“You can’t get closer, ma’am.”

I squint at him. “You think?”

He doesn’t seem to appreciate my sarcasm. “Safety protocols.”

“Just wanted a front-row seat to my life going up in smoke,” I quip, even though my heart’s breaking with every water-soaked page that flies by.

The words spill out before I can stop them. His eyes widen briefly before he composes himself.

My eyes sting, not from the smoke, but from the emotions threatening to spill over. “I’m so sorry,” I force out, fighting the urge to break down. I’ve always believed public meltdowns are reserved for dramatic movie scenes and not real life.

Gathering some semblance of dignity, I continue, “I own that… well, what was once a store.”

His eyes mellow for a moment. “Look, I get it. This is awful, and I’m truly sorry,” he says, genuine sympathy evident in his voice. “We only got the call an hour ago. The flames had already taken hold by the time we arrived.”

I nearly snort, but it comes out more like a choked sob. “An hour ago?”

He exhales, obviously trying to maintain patience. “We respond as soon as we’re alerted. It’s never fast enough in situations like these.”

My hands fly to my mouth, pressing against my lips as I attempt to keep the sob trapped inside. The weight of the moment presses down, threatening to crush me.

His posture softens. “I wish there was more we could’ve done.”

Trembling, I fish out my phone from the depths of my bag, almost instinctively wanting to dial David’s number. It’s a force of habit, the kind of thing you do when you’ve been with someone for as long as we were. My thumb hovers over his name. It’s then I remember the ridiculous Post-it note.

Sorry, Laura.

Sorry? You’re sorry?!

You run off with Polly Pocket, empty our bank account, and all I get is a Post-it?!

I imagine that square yellow piece of paper—one stuck so haphazardly near our shoe rack that it took me hours to replace it amidst the chaos he left behind. Oh, and the delightful realization that followed: the emptied bank account, the missing savings—ninety-nine point nine percent of it earned by my own sweat.

Him and my twenty-year-old assistant Polly, enjoying each other’s company behind my unsuspecting back for months. Little Polly, whom I had almost mothered, who couldn’t tell a P&L statement from a grocery list, had betrayed me, too, helping herself to the cash in the bookstore before fleeing with my husband.

How the hell did I miss that?

Recalling it makes my blood boil. David’s face on our wedding day, promising forever. Then, those recent distant eyes. Maybe they weren’t lies. Maybe they were just preludes to that damned Post-it note.

Like a fresh slap, reminding me of all the times I’ve been called “naïve” and “clueless,” especially by my dad. Dad would have a field day with this.

“This is what you get, Laura,” I can almost hear him sneer. “Always trusting everyone, thinking the world’s some bloody fairytale. You never listened, never learned.” He’d always been quick to point out my missteps, every stumble, every blunder. “Your lack of foresight is astounding, Laura.” When David vanished with our life savings, Dad had only one thing to say: “Typical. Trusting a snake and then acting shocked when it bites? That’s on you.” The accusatory tone, the condescending smirk… it’s always the same.

The pain of betrayal by David was one thing, but having to report it to the police was its own circle of hell. The embarrassment of sitting there, recounting my naivety, watching as the officer’s eyes didn’t even flicker with surprise.

“Another case of a runaway spouse,” he’d muttered, scribbling down notes, making me feel like just another statistic, another foolish wife left in the lurch. But what stung most? The officer’s indifference mirrored how Dad would’ve reacted.

Just another day, another Laura mess-up.

With a sigh, I contemplate the train wreck my life’s become, then decide a chat with Serena might just be what the doctor ordered. I scroll to her name in my contacts, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the chaos.

There it is: “Gothic Goddess Ser.” My bestie, emotional anchor, and Paranormal Romance Scribe Extraordinaire.

Ser always knows how to weave a bit of magic into the darkest tales, both in her writing and in real life.

Just seeing her caller ID makes me tear up more.

I instantly realize there are two missed calls and a graveyard of unread texts from her, mostly filled with her raving about some vampire and witch love triangle she’s cooking up. Ever since college, she’s been engrossed in her otherworldly tales. I reminisce about those late-night brainstorming sessions, with me pitching dark, steamy romance scenes and her laughing, her curly hair bouncing as she typed away. James, her partner-in-crime since our uni days, would be somewhere in the background, lost in his political spy drama.

But right now, she doesn’t pick up.

I guess I’ll drop her a message then. Typing is… harder than expected. My fingers hover for a moment, and then I begin, each word a weight off my chest:

“Hey, Ser… Store’s gone. Burned toast style. Could use… idk, that thing where we eat too much ice cream, cry over trashy romcoms, and fart without judgment. Please.”

After I hit “send,” unease hits me.

It’s not just the fire anymore.

There’s a small crowd forming. It’s almost 5.30 a.m. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a figure stands apart from the crowd. A tall, imposing figure stands in the distance. The fog and smoke curl around him, shrouding him in an aura of menace. His head turns, seemingly scanning the onlookers, and my stomach plummets. For a split second, our gazes lock. That look. It’s cold, calculating—like a predator spotting a wounded prey.

His eyes narrow, giving away nothing, yet everything.

And just as quickly as the chill from his gaze seeps into me, he turns and fades into the dark alley.

Just like that, he’s gone.