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

“WHERE THE hell is this place?”

My mind races, thinking about escape, but the mansion stretches so far that I can’t even see where it ends.

I pull my eyes away from the crazy view outside the big window, right here in this room that Misha, the menacing figure, has me locked in.

Fuck. Is there even a way out of this massive place?

Then, footsteps. My heart kicks up a notch. I whip around, bracing for someone to storm in.

But no one comes.

The footsteps fade out, leaving me alone again. It’s just the maids, chatting in whispers too low to catch, rushing off somewhere fast.

The doorknob rattles as I jiggle it frantically, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my palm against the polished wood in frustration. Turning around, I survey the room again with a growing sense of dread.

“This is crazy,” I say to the empty room. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

I shut my eyes, counting to three, half-expecting everything to change.

Three… two… one.

But when I look again, nothing’s different. Still trapped here.

Drawing in a long breath.

“Okay, deep breath,” I mutter, using that old trick I perfected as a kid—deep breathing to stave off panic whenever Dad’s temper flared or when missing Mommy got too much.

But this?

This is a whole new level of crazy. A part of me is actually relieved to be done with David Gardner, but jumping from a sham marriage to being essentially “owned” by the mafia? This is some next-level insanity.

I take in another three deep breaths by the window, then turn to scan the room, and it’s nothing like I expected—it’s actually kind of homey.

Not at all what I’d expect from a mafia lord—if I even know what that’s supposed to look like.

The place is dressed in creams and rich wood tones, with a fireplace you could camp in and a chandelier that catches the light, scattering it like tiny stars against the cream. The sun blasts through the huge windows, throwing gold across everything, lighting up the place like some high-end catalog shoot.

God, how big is this room? It’s at least ten times the size of my own bedroom.

There’s a staircase curving up to the second floor, classy but not over-the-top. I have no intention of exploring upstairs. Who knows what or who I’d find?

No, thank you.

I let myself fall into one of the couches, and it’s like landing on a cloud—if clouds were made of the most expensive materials on earth.

I flash back to Victor’s stone-cold business face as he slides the contract across to me. “Read it, understand it.”

“Sure thing, jerk,” I mutter, not like he is here to spank me.

Good God, Laur, you shouldn’t wish for that.

Stress is written all over me; I can feel it in the weight of my chest. I rub my temples, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, looking at the contract still clutched in my hand, its stark black letters spelling my new destiny.

Labeling me officially as “Contractual Spouse of Victor Morozov under Morozov Bratva Terms.”

I scoff. “Contractual spouse or glorified hostage?”

But it’s not just about me.

Serena’s safety is the real contract here, the one that’s written in blood, not ink.

“Fuckers!” I spit out.

The way Misha talked about Serena… his words were chillingly precise. He knew their Friday routine, down to the damn hour they’d be at Target picking up whatever for little Lucas.

This isn’t a joke, not some scare tactic. They know. They actually know where she is, and they’re not above dragging her into this hell.

I have to do this. For Serena, for her family. Because if I don’t…

The contract crumples in my fist, knuckles blanching. Just thinking about the risk to Serena and her family amps up my anxiety.

“God, I really messed up,” I mutter, feeling like my chest is trapped in a tight grip, making it hard to breathe without letting tears escape. “If they get hurt because of me… I don’t even know how I’d live with that.”

Every fiber of my being is jittery, teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

“Just get through it, Laura,” I mumble, pressing a hand against my chest, trying to quell the rising panic before I flip through the contract, determined to grasp every rule set to dominate my life.

I recline, the couch’s cushions a small comfort as I stretch the contract before me, the tiny print blurring into lines of my impending reality.

Seriously?

“Okay, listen to this one,” I announce to the empty room. “The clause here states that I am granted the liberty of leaving the house for a maximum duration of not more than five hours at a time.”

How generous of them!

“Great, I feel like Cinderella, if Cinderella was trapped in a mafia tale with no fairy godmother in sight,” I grumble, chewing on my nail.

Sitting up straighter, I continue to read out loud, “Furthermore, such outings are subject to prior approval and shall be accompanied at all times by no less than one (1) designated security personnel.

“Because, you know, heaven forbid I try to enjoy a latte in peace.” I snort.

Letting out a long, slow breath, I feel my shoulders drop as the tension drains away.

I thought I’d be locked up in a dungeon; instead, I’m allowed to see my friends and family?

Should I be grateful?

I turn the page, and for a moment, my thoughts can’t keep pace with what I’m seeing. Printed clearly, a condition so outrageous, it sends my mind spinning.

My gaze snaps back to the words, sure I’ve misread.

But no, the numbers glare back at me, bold and unyielding.

“This has to be a joke.” I slap a hand over my mouth, shocked. After a beat, I pull the contract closer, trying to make sense of the crazy figure printed on it.

Monthly Allowance and Shopping Provision Clause

“The Husband agrees to provide The Wife with a monthly allowance of Two Hundred Thousand Dollars ($200,000) for her personal use and shopping needs, in line with his status. A personal account will be set up for The Wife, with a payment card for full access to these funds, deposited on the first business day of each month.”

My hand flies to my face, rubbing my eyes once, twice, thrice, as if that could somehow change the numbers on the page.

“In line with his status?” I echo, my voice a mix of incredulity and a slight hint of amusement.

“Does that mean diamond-studded toothpicks and gold-plated… what, everything?”

I let out a low, mocking laugh, shaking my head with a bemused chuckle.

Well, if this isn’t a whole new level of madness, I don’t know what is. My brain is struggling to make sense of this.

This has to be a typo, right? Yet, I doubt they’d make a mistake like this.

“Is this their idea of pocket money?” I whisper. “Two hundred grand? Shopping for what, a small country?” I half-shout, disbelief making my eyes widen. I reread the clause, but it stubbornly remains the same.

Rubbing my eyes again, I lean closer, as if proximity could somehow alter the reality of the figures before me.

“This is real,” I utter, reading the clause again and then once more for good measure. My hand unconsciously covers my mouth as I let out a low whistle, the absurdity of it all making my head spin.

“And here I was, worrying about paying rent on time,” I say with a laugh that’s more disbelief than amusement. The thought of that kind of money, just for me, every month, is wilder than anything I could’ve imagined. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe where numbers have lost all meaning.

Shaking my head, I push the contract aside for a moment, needing a break from its surreal promises. “Well, at least shopping won’t be an issue,” I quip.

As my pulse races, I try to steady my breath, not wanting my heart to burst through. “Calm down, Laur,” I whisper, urging calmness into the chaos of my thoughts.

My focus returns to the contract.

“You shall not ask anything about Morozov Corp’s business,” I read out loud.

Ha, like I’d ever want to ask about his business!

What do I care about how many people he’s offed or how many women he’s kidnapped to play house with?

Ridiculous.

Then my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I can feel my face heat up, reading the next line:

“Both parties, by signing below, agree to share living quarters in the same room. This setup is part of the agreement and must be followed for the entire length of the contract.”

“Wait, you mean we’re sharing a room?” Panic flares up, half-tempted to yank at my hair, a desperate move to keep from spiraling. But I force my hands down, clenching them into fists instead.

And then, the grand finale of absurdity hits me. My eyes snag on the last line.

“Both parties agree not to develop romantic feelings or engage in a love relationship.”

I laugh sharply. “Yeah, right, as if I’d fall for my captor,” I say, rolling my eyes. The entire situation is just absurd—the lavish allowance, the strict rules, and now, a clause about not falling in love. “Only in a mafia contract would love be listed like a grocery item,” I whisper under my breath, shaking my head in disbelief.

But this whole thing… It’s not as dire as I feared, though.

All of a sudden, the door creaks open unannounced.

First, it’s the scent that hits me—a mix of jasmine and something fiercely expensive—it’s her. 

My head snaps up, my entire body going rigid as she strides in.

My mind races, trying to place her in the Morozov family puzzle, but my thoughts scatter as she stands before me.

She enters with measured steps, her stare drilling into me, icy and sharp.

“Don’t do that,” she snaps, catching me biting my nails again.

I jerk my hands away, feeling like a kid caught stealing cookies. “So-sorry,” I stammer, dropping my hands to my lap.

Damn, she’s terrifying.

Her gaze sweeps over me, cold and calculating, from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet. I feel her taking inventory, noting every detail, every reaction. Finally, landing on the contract sprawled across my lap.

“Looks like you’ve hit the jackpot, haven’t you?” she remarks, a sardonic edge to her voice.

Caught off guard, I fidget uncomfortably. “Uh, well… I wasn’t exactly expecting this,” I admit, voice a notch too high.

She’s got me feeling smaller than small. My nails find my lip in a nervous tic.

“Drop that nasty habit,” she says, her gaze slicing through me, taking stock of every twitch and flinch. With a casual flick, she locks her arms across her chest.

My hands fall to my sides, quick and obedient, shrinking under her stare.

Fucking great, now she’s channeling my dad.

I bite back a curse, yanking my hand from my mouth like it’s suddenly gone rogue.

Then, Ksenia snaps her fingers, and the door swings open. In stride a bunch of women dressed in gray, white, and black.

A tall, stunning blond charges in, gripping her makeup kit as if it’s her armor, her heels clicking on the floor like gunfire. Right on her heels, another woman, her hair yanked back into a strict bun, drags a rack brimming with dresses.

“What… now?” I ask, turning back to Ksenia for some clue… any clue.

Ksenia gives me a disapproving look. “Time for a bath. You look like something we’d scrape off the floor.” She nods at the maids to take action.

…And whose brilliant idea was it to kidnap me, huh?

Before my mind even has a chance to catch up, I’m suddenly being dragged by a group of women who seem to know their way around my body, stripping me down like I’m just another task on their to-do list.

This can’t be happening.

“Wait, what the hell?” My voice spikes in alarm, clutching at the robe I’m barely in.

Suddenly, I’m swarmed by hands, quick and practiced, stripping away my clothes with alarming efficiency.

“Stop!” The command bursts from me, filling the room, but it’s futile—I’m left standing there, completely naked.

“What the hell is this?” I scream, my voice trembling with fear and anger as I try to cover myself with shaking hands.

“I see why Victor likes you,” Ksenia smirks, her eyes scanning my naked body with amusement.

This woman is pure evil.

I cannot believe this. Left standing naked, the focus of a room full of strangers.

“Make her presentable,” Ksenia commands, her tone dismissive, like I’m nothing more than a project.

“Da, mem,” one of the maids responds, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Hey, let me go!” I struggle, but it’s like trying to shake off steel grips. “This is insane; do you hear me?” Fury and shock mix in my veins. “You can’t do this!” I yell. “What is all of this for?” I manage to sputter out in confusion.

Suddenly, a bathrobe is thrown over me, a brief reprieve from the exposure. But before I can even tie the sash, I’m being pulled upstairs by two maids, each holding an arm, their grip firm.

“Get your hands off me!” I demand, my feet dragging against the plush carpet as I’m herded upstairs like cattle. “Fucking stop this madness!”

“Presentable for what?” The words stumble out, confusion and anger swirling as I turn my attention back to Ksenia. I press for answers as we ascend the grand staircase. “Answer me! For what?”

“For the Pakhan,” she says casually as she flips through dresses with the blond woman by her side. “You’re meeting our father tonight.”

The word “father” echoes in my head, mingling with the ominous title “Pakhan.”

Meaning… boss of bosses.

My mind races, trying to piece together this new, terrifying reality.

Yeah, I read enough mafia romance to learn the meaning of these words. Didn’t know it was educational! I think to myself, rolling my eyes.

And fantastic. Just how many fucking bogeymen am I scheduled to meet today?

“The wedding is in three days,” Ksenia announces coldly, a statement that sends my heart into a freefall. “And you have a lot to learn.”

“Okay, someone’s got to tell me what’s going on here. Please.” My plea is desperate, the situation spiraling beyond my grasp. “I didn’t think the wedding would be so soon!”

Crap! How did I end up here?

Ksenia strides over; she smells like power.

When she comes too close to me, I flinch.

“You’re not telling anyone about the contract you have with Victor,” she hisses close to my face. “Not a single soul, you understand?”

My eyes snap wide, and for a second, I can’t find the words. I purse my lips, trying to wrap my head around what she’s saying. “Yes, ma’am,” slips out.

Stepping back, Ksenia watches me silently before finally speaking up again. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t know what my brother sees in you,” she sneers.

“Just try not to die before the contract is up.”