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

I’M STILL reeling from her mouth, hot and wild around my cock.

Blyad, I’m craving more, feeling my balls tighten up with the thought of her. The urge to ditch this shit and dive back into bed with her is hitting me hard.

But fuck, Misha rings me up at the Devil’s hour, right before I could get another round with her. Says we’ve snagged a rat, one of Ivan Vasiliev’s sneaky bastards.

As I stride down to the den, my own personal hellhole, the air gets thicker, reeking of fear and sweat. The guards nod at me, their faces grim.

“Boss,” they grunt, stepping aside.

I push open the heavy metal door, and the sound of dripping water and deep groans hit me. It’s a fucking symphony to my ears. This place, with its dark corners and chains hanging from the ceiling, is where I deal with traitors.

Chained to the wall is the traitor. A once-trusted capo, now nothing but a rat. His face is a mess of bruises and blood, barely alive.

“Enjoying your stay, Fyodor?” I sneer.

The sound that comes out of him is a wet, gurgling mess, like a fish gasping for air on dry land. He’s sobbing, blubbering, blood oozing from where his teeth used to be.

“Why? Can’t speak?” I mock him.

Misha’s handiwork is evident. Fyodor’s face is a wreck. His right eye, swollen shut, looks like it’s been worked over with a hammer. The bloodied floor tells a tale of teeth yanked out one by one.

His fingers are all broken, twisted in unnatural angles. Classic Misha—doesn’t hold back, especially not with traitors.

We don’t let rats like Fyodor live.

It’s a sign of weakness, and weakness is something the Bratva can’t afford.

“Son of a bitch, Fyodor. Fifteen million in shipment goods. Drugs, cash, and fucking loyalty,” I spit the words at him.

His tears are streaming now, mixing with the blood and dirt on his face. “You let Ivan and his goons take a piece of us. That’s not how we play.” Rage boils in me, thinking of Laura, how I’m torn from her body because of this mess.

He’s whimpering now, pleading.

I turn to the table, eyeing the knives. There’s a range—from the slender stiletto, perfect for precise cuts, to the hefty cleaver, used for messier jobs. Each tells a story of the Bratva’s dark deeds.

“Should I slice you up, feed you to the dogs, or maybe skin you slowly?” My fingers trace the cold steel of each knife.

Fyodor’s plea comes out garbled, “Pozhaluysta…” He’s begging, but it’s too late for mercy.

I pick up the short knife, feeling its familiar weight.

“What did you think would happen, Fyodor? Betraying the Bratva is a death sentence.” I press the blade against his ear and, with a quick motion, slice it off.

His scream pierces the dank air of the dungeon.

In the Bratva, betrayal is paid in blood and pain. Mercy is a weakness, and loyalty is the only currency.

But still, there are morons like Fyodor who think they can screw over the Bratva and not end up dead.

Fucking idiots.

Then Misha barges in, no fucking knock or anything, snapping me back to the harsh present.

“I’ve got bad news.”

I don’t want to hear bad news. “Talk to me about it later when—”

“Ksenia is here,” he blurts.

Chert poberi, what could Ksenia want at this hour?

I spin around, my glare piercing through him. He’s pointing behind me, but I’m too pissed to care. “Then tell her to f—”

“Hello, brother.”

I wince.

That voice.

My sister.

The tension in the room thickens, and I turn, facing Ksenia. She stands there, all ice queen composure; her eyes, as sharp as daggers, hold a wolf-like power in their gray depths.

She smirks, crossing her arms. “You look like shit. Rough night?”

Ignoring the sounds of Fyodor coughing, crying, shitting, and pissing himself in fear, Ksenia strolls into the dungeon like she owns the place.

This hellhole, where our father used to slice enemies apart, is her playground. At forty-one, six years older than me, she looks at least a decade younger than her age. Ksenia has got this aura—dark, untouchable. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a bun, her silver-gray eyes scanning the room like she’s plotting a war.

“You always had a stomach for this, didn’t you, Ksenia?” I remark, trying to mask my unease.

“Comes with the territory, little brother,” she replies, her gaze landing on Fyodor. “So, this is the rat?”

I don’t even bother asking how she knows. She just does. Always in the loop; that’s Ksenia.

“Yeah, that’s the rat,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “Misha caught him handing over shipment details to Vasiliev’s crew.”

Ksenia circles Fyodor like a predator assessing its prey.

Her eyes don’t betray a thing, but I can’t help but watch her closely as I mention Vasiliev. There’s a history there, buried deep but not forgotten.

“Good. We need to send a message. Can’t have rats thinking they can scurry around without consequences.”

“I know the rules, Ksenia,” I snarl, the memory of her and Ivan Vasiliev flashing through my mind. It’s been over twenty years, but the thought still burns.

Love? More like a cursed pisdec.

She nearly threw everything away for him, even tried to elope. But our father caught wind of it, threatened to kill Ivan if she didn’t leave him and marry Dmitry, the guy he had picked out.

Daughters? To our old man, they’re just chess pieces, nothing more.

Marrying for love? In his world, that’s a damn joke.

She was once young, naive. Now? Ksenia turned into a whole different beast.

“Was about to finish him off before you showed up,” I continue, pushing the memories aside.

Ksenia strides up to Fyodor and grabs a knife off the tray, its blade catching the dim light.

“What a pity. You’ve been a good dog all these years, haven’t you?” she taunts.

With a twisted smirk, she starts slicing into him. Fyodor’s eyes widen in terror as she begins her work, each cut delivered with clinical precision.

His screams echo off the walls; the more he screams, the wider Ksenia’s cold smirk grows.

I cringe watching this shitshow.

“Alright, Ksenia, cut it out…” I hiss.

Damn, I actually feel sorry for Fyodor. Ksenia’s in a nasty mood today.

“You’re turning this into a bloody mess,” I snap quietly.

Dropping the knife, she wipes her bloody hands without a care. She grabs some masking tape, peeling off a strip with a sharp sound.

Without a hint of mercy, she tapes up his nose and mouth, smothering him. His body shakes desperately, trying to suck in air. Ksenia just watches, cold as hell, as Fyodor’s struggles turn into spasms. His legs kick out, a pathetic last dance, and then he’s just a lifeless heap.

I grunt, watching the scene unfold.

“Fuck’s sake Ksenia. What’s the emergency?” I ask through clenched teeth, pushing away any shred of feeling. “Please don’t tell me you’re here just to enjoy a kill,” I say in frustration.

Ksenia turns to me, her eyes like chips of ice. “Relax, little brother, I am just doing the dirty work for you.”

I’m not sure if I believe her. Ksenia’s always been more ruthless than the rest of us, and I’ve seen her do worse without batting an eye.

She pauses, her face losing its usual edge. “It’s Papa. They think he’s had a stroke. He’s finally caved and gone to the hospital.”

My heart sinks, but I mask it with a scowl. “And…?”

“And,” she adds, “he wants you married. ASAP. We need to keep the Bratva strong, Victor. You need to step up as the Pakhan…

“I’m not fucking with that mess again,” I spit out, pissed.

Shit, the last time I talked to Papa, we were arguing about this very thing. Now, the old man’s laid up in a hospital bed, and here I am, still stubborn as ever.

Guilt gnaws at me, but I shove it down.

“Why the hell are we dragging this ancient crap around?” I snap. “Doesn’t mean I have to marry some chick just to prove I’m a badass, Ksenia.”

“Stop bitching, you knew this was your shit to deal with since you were shitting diapers,” Ksenia fires back.

Blyad, I hate it, but my sister is right.

“And I think this time it’s bad,” Ksenia says, dead serious.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?” I snap, pissed off and frustrated.

“There’s a list of candidates. Choose, or we’re all fucked,” she states bluntly.

I rub my temple. “Candidates?”

She flicks a folded paper my way, and I catch it.

Misha’s looking like he wants to be anywhere but here, his eyes flicking back and forth between us.

“Great,” I mutter sarcastically. “Can’t wait to see this parade of princesses.”

Ksenia’s smirk widens. “You’ll get a kick out of them, I’m sure.”

I scan the list, my face screwing up in disgust.

Suka.

“Anastasia Petrova? Her old man’s a money-grubbing sukin syn. And Ekaterina Smirnov? That whole family’s shadier than a night in Moscow.”

Misha chimes in, trying to lighten the mood, “But hey, Ekaterina’s got a hell of an ass, right?”

I shoot Misha a cold look, unamused.

“Victor, they’re solid mafia blood,” Ksenia argues, rolling her eyes.

Fuck, my mind is consumed by thoughts of Laura and the slick, sweet pussy between her thighs.

I toss the list aside. “This is all bullshit. I’m not tying myself to some power-hungry bitch family.”

Ksenia’s in my face now, her tone hard. “It’s not your call. Papa’s dying wish. Choose one and keep the Bratva strong.”

“He is not dying.” I scowl, feeling trapped. “Chert voz’mi, Ksenia. I’m a mob boss, not a fucking matchmaker.

She picks up the list, shoving it at me. “Man up, little brother. This is bigger than your dick. Do it for Papa, for the Bratva.”

“Ksenia, if I am doing this, I am doing it my way.”

“Do you have someone else in mind?” Her eyes pierce through me, searching.

I break her stare, looking at Fyodor’s dead body. Blood drips everywhere, his life snuffed out like a candle. Blyad, if I don’t get this sorted, we’re in deep shit.

News spreads like wildfire here, and if other gangs catch wind that the old man, the Pakhan, is battling health issues, losing his strength, they’ll see it as a weakness, a crack in our armor. Whether I like it or not, these traditions need to be adhered to.

Ksenia’s got a point; the Bratva’s riding on my fucking decisions now.

But hell, I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s hit the nail on the head.

“That’s none of your business,” I growl back at her.

Ksenia turns to leave the room but pauses at the door. “By the way, you have five days to decide who you’re going to marry.”