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

I STRIDE into the main house; the place reeks of luxury and old money. But, as always, it’s as tense as a coiled spring. My father hates an audience. He keeps his circle tight, only a handful of soldiers he trusts. The rest is just sprawling land and this goddamn mansion.

Ksenia’s holed up in her office, a command center that mirrors the severity of our world. Stark, functional, with the kind of affluence that speaks more of power than comfort. A large, imposing table anchors the room, a chandelier overhead casting stark shadows across the walls.

She’s surrounded by a mountain of paperwork, the logistical brain behind our operations. Her mind is like a steel trap, especially when it comes to finances. She can sniff out discrepancies in the books faster than a hound.

“Building a paper fortress, Ksenia?” I jest as I enter.

Without missing a beat, she retorts, “Trying to keep the empire afloat. What do you want?”

I lean casually against the wall, observing her dissect the financial chaos. “Just checking in. How’s the balance sheet looking?”

Ksenia glances up, her gaze sharp. “We’re bleeding funds, Victor. You should pay more attention; that fifteen million dollars in cargo can’t just disappear. We need to handle this.”

“Suka!” A deep curse rumbles in my throat. “Misha and I are on it. Ivan’s got to sit on it before they can repack the stuff and move it. Can’t risk it getting sniffed out.”

Ksenia’s response is noncommittal, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the paperwork.

I probe further, “You still got a thing for Ivan Vasiliev?”

“Don’t be an idiot, little brother,” she snaps, shooting me a withering glare before turning her attention back to the mountain of paperwork. “Just keep your jokes to yourself. I’m not in the mood.”

“Just double-checking—” Suddenly, I go silent, a faint noise catching my ear. It’s barely there, but in our world, even the slightest sound can mean trouble.

Ksenia’s expression instantly shifts to one of ice-cold alertness.

I tread quietly toward the bookshelf, every sense on edge, ready for anything. In a swift move, I pull back a book, yelling, “Gotcha!”

“Ahhhhhh!!” The high-pitched scream of a little girl pierces the tension, quickly dissolving into giggles.

“Dyadya Victor, you scared me!” Elizaveta exclaims, her beautiful gray eyes wide—the same eyes that Ksenia and I share.

I can’t help but chuckle at her shock. “Sneaking around isn’t safe, Eli. You shouldn’t be listening in on grown-up talk.”

She smirks, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “But I did so well! Mommy and you didn’t even know I was here for so long!”

Seeing her so proud, I can’t resist giving her a big hug, lifting her off the ground. I plant a kiss on her cheek, feeling a surge of affection for this bright spark in our often-grim world.

“You’re too clever for your own good, kiddo.”

Eli giggles, wrapping her small arms around my neck. “I want to be smart like Mommy and strong like you, Dyadya Victor.”

I set her down on a chair, ruffling her hair. “You’re already on your way, trust me. But remember, being smart means knowing when to keep out of trouble.”

“Dyadya Victor, who is Ivan Vasi… Vasiliev?” she stumbles over the name, trying to get her tongue around the unfamiliar sounds. “Is he a bad guy, Dyadya Victor?

Shit. She heard everything. I shoot a side-eye at Ksenia.

“Well, he’s our enemy!” Ksenia declares matter-of-factly.

Elizaveta’s eyes widen, forming an “O” shape with her mouth. “Did our enemy steal from us?”

“No, Mommy and I were just joking, Eli,” I quickly say, trying to shield her from the harsher truths of our world.

“Yes, he did,” my sister interjects, her voice firm.

I spin around to face Ksenia, frustration clear on my face.

What the hell is she doing, exposing Eli to all this?

Quickly tuning into my silent plea for discretion, Ksenia dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “Eli’s more aware than you think. We don’t sugarcoat truths in this house,”

Blyad! She’s just eight years old, for crying out loud.

A knot of discomfort twists in my gut.

It’s hard, too damn hard, seeing Eli, this little beacon of innocence, getting a crash course in our brutal reality.

“Hey, Eli, where’s Yuri?” I ask, trying to steer her young mind away from our grim business. I watch her face light up at the mention of her older brother.

Ksenia is already on her phone, her tone curt. “Nina, come pick up Ms. Elizaveta from my office.” There’s a hint of annoyance in her voice. She’s gone through a string of nannies—no surprise, considering Eli’s a whirlwind of energy, always one step ahead.

“Yuri is with Papa. They have biz-ness,” Eli pronounces the word carefully, her young voice trying to mimic our seriousness.

My heart sinks a bit. “Business with Papa” means Yuri, at just eighteen, is already entangled in the Bratva life.

Quiet, serious Yuri, so much like Ksenia—sharp as a tack with numbers, already neck-deep in some of our more complicated dealings. A smart kid, but I can’t help feeling a pang of regret that he’s being pulled into this life so young.

Just then, Nina, the latest in a long line of nannies, rushes into the office. Her face is etched with fear, a clear sign that handling Eli is more than just a regular babysitting gig.

“Forgive me, Madam Ksenia,” she falters, anxiety etched on her face. “Ms. Elizaveta, we must go now.” Her voice shakes with evident fear.

Elizaveta, undeterred by the nanny’s clear anxiety, hops down from her chair with the same bright energy. “Bye, Dyadya Victor! Bye, Mommy!”

After I plant a kiss on Eli’s pink cheeks and watch her scamper away with Nina, I make sure the door is securely shut. Turning back to Ksenia, my anger simmers to the surface.

“Ksusha, this is fucked up. Eli’s just a kid, she shouldn’t be anywhere near this shit. And Yuri? He’s barely more than a kid himself,” I growl, my frustration obvious.

Ksenia’s face is set in stone as she meets my gaze. “They’re Morozovs, Victor. Better they learn what that means now rather than later,” she replies coldly.

I shake my head, disgusted. This is exactly why I am not interested in having children. Bringing a new life into this twisted world, only to see it corrupted?

Hell no. I won’t let my own blood be tainted by this life.

“You’ve always been the sentimental one, Victor,” Ksenia remarks, a hint of disdain in her voice. “You’re going to be a husband and a father soon, leading this Bratva as a Pakhan.”

“I’m not sentimental, Ksenia,” I snap back defensively.

“You are. Haven’t forgotten you crying under the blanket for months when Mama died,” she throws at me, her words sharp as knives.

“I was nine, for fuck’s sake!” I retort, the memory stinging like a fresh wound.

“Morozovs don’t cry, Victor.” She stares piercingly into my eyes. “Even if we’re being skinned alive.”

“Blyad, I’ll rest in my grave, not before!” my father’s voice thunders.

I step into the opulent room, the air thick with tension. This isn’t just any bedroom; it’s a command center, draped in luxury, a testament to the Morozov legacy. And there, in the eye of the storm, is the Pakhan himself, my father, Andrey Morozov.

He’s propped up like a king in exile, all wiry muscle and barely restrained rage. The very picture of a caged beast. Our family doctor, Dr. Petrov—a man as tough as they come, who’s seen more bullet wounds than natural illnesses—stands at the bedside, facing off with the old man.

“Vy dolzhny proyti operatsiyu, Andrey.” His voice is steady, but the Pakhan’s having none of it.

My father’s laugh is a harsh bark. “Operation? I’ll go under the knife when I’m dead, Petrov. Not a moment sooner.”

Dr. Petrov doesn’t back down. “Andrey, keep pushing, and you’ll find yourself in a grave. You think you’re tough? Death doesn’t discriminate. You had a stroke, not a scratch. Act like it.”

“I built this empire on blood and iron, not by cowering under sheets,” my father retorts.

The doctor’s stance remains firm, like a rock against the tide. “This isn’t about fear; it’s about sense. You’re playing a fool’s game, challenging death like this.”

The air is thick with the clash of two titanic wills.

Petrov, a man who’s stared down the worst, isn’t about to be cowed by even the Pakhan’s fury. He is no ordinary doctor; this is a man who’s been part of our lives, part of the Bratva’s fabric since I was just a kid.

He runs his hands over his thick gray hair. With his rugged handsomeness and eyes that carry a hint of sadness, he is a figure who commands respect. In his late fifties, he is still well-built, a reminder of his days within the Bratva before he chose the path of healing over bloodshed. You can tell from one look that this man isn’t someone to be taken lightly. His presence in a room is as commanding as any seasoned soldier.

I remember him, even from when I was just a boy—always there, a constant in the turbulent sea of our lives. He’d stitch us up, set broken bones, never once flinching at the brutal reality of our world. But it was more than that. Petrov chose to be a healer in a world where violence was the language. He’s seen the worst we have to offer, yet he chose to save lives rather than take them.

Now, as he stands before the Pakhan, there’s a heavy tension. It’s the kind of respect born from years in the trenches together, yet now on opposing sides of this particular battle.

For fuck’s sake.

I clear my throat, stepping closer. “Papa, the doctor’s right. We need you in command, not courting death over pride.”

My father’s eyes, fierce as ever, turn to me. “Victor, you worry about the Bratva. I’ll worry about me.”

Petrov’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Victor’s right, Andrey. Your pride might just kill you before your enemies do.”

“My enemies will tear apart everything I’ve built if they see any weakness,” he grunts. He tries to stand, a futile show of strength that falls flat. His body rebels and it’s like watching a king lose his crown.

Blyad.

It hurts somewhere deep inside me, but I’m not about to let it show.

“Then let them see strength through me,” I counter, my voice hard. “As long as I’m here, the Bratva is secure. But if you don’t go through with this operation…”

My father’s eyes narrow, assessing. “I’m not stepping back until you’re at the helm, Victor. Married, settled. The Pakhan needs an heir, not just a title.”

My jaw tightens. This old-school thinking, it’s a noose around our necks.

“Fine. If that’s what it takes,” I shoot back, my voice cold. “But the bride will be my choice. No debates. And heir talk can wait. I’ll deal with it when I’m damn well ready.”

A grudging respect flickers in my father’s eyes. “Always fucking hard-headed, aren’t you? Fine, choose your bride. But she must be strong enough to stand beside the Morozov name.”

“Don’t worry about the Morozov name, Papa. Just focus on not kicking the bucket too soon. I’ve got the bride part covered,” I shoot back with a wry grin.

Petrov shakes his head. “You two are cut from the same stubborn cloth.”

“He’s my son, after all. Did you expect any less?” my father retorts with a faint smirk, his tone a blend of pride and challenge. “When I was your age, I was already married with you kids, leading legions in the Bratva,” he boasts, his voice tinged with pride. “You’ve got big shoes to fill, Victor. Let’s see how you measure up.”

I roll my eyes at my father’s backhanded compliment.

In his world, words are weapons, not tools for encouragement. It’s always about being tougher, stronger, more feared.

“You know, Papa, while you’re busy reminiscing, I’ve been expanding the Bratva’s reach,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “We’re not just thugs on the street anymore. We’ve got construction projects, hotels, housing—a whole damn empire under our belt.”

He gives me a skeptical look, as if challenging me to prove my worth. “Expanding, huh? Just don’t forget, son, it’s not just about building empires. It’s about holding onto them.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten. You think those territories were handed to us on a silver platter? It took some… persuasive methods to secure them.”

My father’s lips twitch in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes are hard. “Just don’t lose sight of what’s important. This family, our name—that’s your first priority.”

I can feel my patience wearing thin. “I know what’s at stake, Papa. I’m not some green kid anymore.” He’s about to retort, but I cut him off. “Yeah, Papa, history lessons some other time. Right now, just don’t give Petrov a heart attack, okay?”

Winking at Petrov, I say, “He’s all yours now. Good luck,” and quickly exit the room.

Stepping into the hallway, I exhale deeply, a mix of worry and frustration for my father weighing on me.

Don’t be a pussy, Victor.

Vulnerability doesn’t have a place in our home.

It takes me back to when Mama died. Ksenia and I… we weren’t allowed to cry, not even as we watched her life slip away in that sudden, brutal car crash. It was swift, they said, as if that lessened the agony.

Papa stood there, his face an impenetrable mask, expecting us to be as unyielding. Tears were for the weak, and Morozovs were never weak. Even as a kid, I knew better than to let my guard down. That moment… it changed us, hardened us. In the Morozov household, grief, fear, pain—they were to be locked away, out of sight.

Now, facing the reality of my father’s frailty, those old, unyielding rules still hold.

No cracks in the armor, not now, not ever.

I smash the “call” button, and he’s there like a shot.

“Misha, there’s something I need done,” I tell him. “Gather a team; someone needs a little… persuasion.”