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

NOW, WHAT the hell am I supposed to do?

I’m royally screwed.

I stand up and pace around my apartment like a caged animal, the walls closing in on me. Every nook and cranny feels tainted with memories of David.

My mind is a whirlwind, thoughts colliding and spiraling out of control.

I want to scream, to release this pent-up anger.

The thought of strangling David, watching the shock in his eyes, is both terrifying and satisfying. I hate that he’s reduced me to this—to violent fantasies and bitter resentment.

“Rot in hell!”

My feet carry me to a corner that I’ve ignored for too long, a space filled with his belongings that I never dared to touch.

Screw you!

Frustrated, I start rummaging through his stuff, things I’ve avoided touching since he left.

I open drawers, flip through papers, searching for… something. Anything that could give me a clue to the question: Why me?

I dig deeper until my hands find a folder tucked away, hidden under a pile of his old sweatshirts. My fingers tremble as I pull it out. The folder is thick, bulging with papers, and as I flip it open, my heart drops.

Jesus.

They’re letters, unopened, addressed to me, from the insurance company. My breath catches in my throat as I tear through them, one after the other. Notices of missed payments, warnings, final reminders.

Like a hammer blow to my gut. David had been hiding these from me all along.

The bastard planned it all—to screw me over, swipe my savings, let the shop’s insurance slide into oblivion.

Laur, you’ve been duped big time. But why?

My hands clench into fists, the paper crinkling under my grip. I want to scream, to let out this storm brewing inside me.

I tear through the damn letters, my hands shaking with a fury I can barely contain. “Fuck this!” I yell into the silence of my cramped apartment.

I thought I knew David, but he’s been playing me all along. I remember the first time he walked into Thompson Tales, that innocent look in his eyes.

How could someone so seemingly sweet screw me over like this?

“You son of a bitch,” I mutter, venom lacing my voice. I lash out at the pile of his things shoved into the corner—a mess of boxes he had told me never to touch. A black case skids across the floor, opening with a clatter, revealing its hollow insides—an empty gun case.

“Jesus Christ…” A sharp breath escapes me, my mind racing. “What the hell was he mixed up in?”

I slump against the wall. Eyes wide open.

Who the fuck did I marry?

All those late nights he came home, claiming he was entertaining clients.

What clients? What was he really doing?

My mind’s a whirlwind of questions with no damn answers. Every late night, every mysterious phone call—it all adds up to a picture I don’t want to see.

How could I have been so blind?

The taste of iron floods my mouth as I bite down on my lip. “What did you get me into, David?” I whisper to the empty room.

I need answers, and I need them now. I stand up, the urge to tear through every corner of this place overwhelming me. I start with his desk, pulling open drawers with reckless abandon, papers and pens flying. Nothing but old receipts and useless junk.

I move to his closet, yanking clothes off hangers, tossing shoes aside. Then, buried at the back, I find it—a briefcase I’ve never seen before. My hands tremble as I work the clasps, the metallic clicks far too loud in the silence of the room. The case opens with a sigh, revealing its contents. Inside, there are more papers, documents with names and numbers that make no sense.

Among the sea of papers, something catches my eye. “Is… that a diary?” I whisper to myself. Its cover is a deep color of old blood.

Picking it up, it feels like a relic in my hands, with edges that look like it’s worn from years of clandestine handling. I crack it open, the spine creaking with the sound of secrets long buried. The musty scent of old paper and ink hits me, the kind of smell that tells stories of backroom deals and hushed conversations.

“It’s… a ledger.” My hands tremble as I sift through the papers. My eyes strain to decipher the scrawled handwriting, names and figures dancing before me in an indecipherable waltz of crime and currency.

It’s a ledger, alright, but not for some mom-and-pop store—this is a meticulous record of illicit transactions.

“Vasiliev Corp… What the hell?” I mutter to myself. The entries are dizzying in their scope: accounts of smuggled contraband and lists of bribes paid out to silhouetted figures with code names. There are amounts that could buy small countries, all casually noted next to dates and cryptic references.

It’s David’s handwriting that stands out in the newer entries, unmistakable and bold. I trace the lines with a trembling finger, each word a nail in the coffin of the life I thought I knew.

He’s been cataloging everything—kilos of drugs, payoffs, and dirty money that’s flowed through this mysterious Vasiliev Corp.

My breath hitches in my throat as I stare at the ledger, its contents a barrage of criminal shorthand.

“Ivan… Ivan…?” I attempt, the name feeling alien. “Vasi..liev ?” I’m butchering the pronunciation, but there’s no one to correct me, just the silent accusation of ink on paper.

“Klinika… Some clinic thing,” I murmur, noticing a bunch of clinics getting weirdly big deliveries. Then there are these names, big shots in the government, scribbled next to crazy amounts of cash. “Half a million,” I whisper, “for what? Keeping quiet? Playing along?”

“Oh, my God.” Suddenly, it all clicks.

The pages are a catalog of corruption, and David’s meticulous entries grow clearer, his neat script cataloging each transaction. “Transport completion,” one entry reads, followed by a sum that could buy silence or worse.

There’s a note: “Assassination completion—one hundred and twenty thousand,” and a name that could headline any newspaper.

“Fuck me,” I breathe out, the reality hitting me hard. David wasn’t just hiding letters. He was hiding a whole other life.

I close the ledger with a snap, sinking back onto the floor, the briefcase splayed open in front of me. The reality of David’s world is hitting hard on me. This was no regular accounting book; it was a ledger of secrets and sins. The kind of book that could get a person killed.

“Is this who you really were all along?” I whisper, my hands trembling as I clutch the ledger.

What do I do with this? Go to the cops?

The realization that I’m holding possibly incriminating evidence makes me want to drop it as if it were on fire.

I pry up the loose floorboard I discovered by accident last summer and never fixed—a perfect hiding spot. The ledger slides in, just fitting into this secret compartment. I replace the board and drag the small side table over it, a makeshift seal over a Pandora’s box of troubles.

Should I tell Serena? No, this feels too dangerous.

Now what? The question circles in my head like a vulture. I can’t just sit here.

I start pacing, my gaze darting around the room, landing on the slightly ajar window.

A shiver rolls down between my shoulder blades. I don’t remember opening it. I shuffle across the room and slam the window shut. Curtains drawn, I turn back to the room, a fortress against prying eyes.

Then, the sound of my phone vibrating on my table shatters the quiet apartment.

“Jesus!” My heart leaps into my throat. I march over to the table, my pulse racing. The phone’s screen flashes an unknown number. Warily, I hit “answer,” pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” My voice is a whisper, tension winding tight in my chest.

Silence greets me, just the distant noise of traffic. It’s creepy, like someone’s watching, waiting.

“Hello? Who is this?” I’m getting annoyed now, my voice rising.

Still nothing. It’s like they’re playing some sick game.

“Why are you calling?” I snap, louder. “What do you want?”

Then, just like that, they hang up. The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, a knot of fear in my gut.

Who the hell was that?

With the phone still in my hand, it vibrates with an incoming call. Annoyed and on edge, I answer without even glancing at the caller ID. “Look, you freak, if you think scaring me is…” My voice trails off as I recognize the voice on the other end. It’s Mr. Henderson, my landlord.

“M-Mr. Henderson?” My face heats up with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I start, but he interrupts.

“I’ve seen your shop, Laura. It’s a disaster. What’s happening? Have you filed the insurance claim?” His voice is stern, demanding.

I wince, rubbing my temple. “Mr. Henderson, I… I need more time. There’s been a complication.” The words feel heavy, laden with unspoken truths about David’s betrayal.

He coughs, a deep, rattling sound. “I’ll be in town tomorrow. We need to talk. Face to face.” The line goes dead before I can respond.

I stare at the phone, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Then, the unknown number flashes again.

“Hello?” I answer, exasperation bleeding into my tone.

A pause, then a familiar voice sends a shiver down my spine. “Run.”

“Da-David?”

Before I have a chance to process the call, a chilling sensation creeps over me. A shadow stretches across the floor, growing larger, inching closer.

Holy hell, who’s that?

I turn, but it’s too late.

A large hand, swift and sure, clamps down over my mouth, silencing the scream that’s building in my throat.