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

JUST A few hours ago, I slid my mother’s ring on Laura’s finger.

Fuck, my balls tighten thinking of her soft skin, her intoxicating scent. I know what she wants, what her body craves. I can see it in the way she looks at me, the way she shivers under my touch.

I wish I could’ve taken her right there, bent her over the table, and fucked her until she screamed my name. I want to see her come undone, want to feel her tight heat clenching around my cock as she comes over and over again.

But there’s no time for that. I had to send her back to our room, had to rush off to handle this operation tonight.

I have business to take care of, a score to settle.

I glance at my watch impatiently.

Only two more fucking hours of this bullshit left.

All I can think about is getting back to Laura. I need to bury myself inside that perfect pussy; need to make her mine in every way that matters. I want to hear her moan my name, want to feel her nails digging into my back as she begs me not to stop.

I can almost taste her, can almost feel the heat of her skin against mine. It’s driving me crazy, this need, this hunger that only she can satisfy.

When I get back, I’m going to take my time with her. I’m going to worship every inch of that stunning body, going to tease her until she’s a trembling, desperate mess. And then I’m going to make her come so hard she forgets her own name.

I won’t stop until she’s completely wrecked, until she’s ruined for anyone else. I’ll make her mine, body and soul, until there’s no doubt in her mind that she belongs to me and me alone.

I adjust myself discreetly, my cock throbbing at the thought of having her all to myself, no interruptions, no distractions.

Just need to crush this prick Ivan first for daring to cross me. Fucker has no idea who he’s messing with. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be lucky if he still has two rubles to rub together.

Nobody steals from me and gets away with it. Nobody.

My fist clenches, knuckles cracking. I allow myself a small, cruel smile.

Time to end this.

That dumbass. He’s getting crushed because I’m playing the game smarter—hacking the trend, using crypto and the open market like a pro. Thanks to my slick moves in cyberspace, all his territory, supplies, and clients are jumping ship to me. It’s a safer bet with me, and he knows it.

“We know their shifts, their numbers, and now their faces. At five in the morning, they’ll be sluggish. That’s when we fucking strike,” I declare, my gaze fixed on Misha across the table. The knife he’s flipping adds a rhythmic undertone to the tension filling the room. He thrives in moments like this, ready to jump into the fray.

“Yes, boss. Our men are ready to kill,” Misha responds, his grin sharp, eyes alight with the thrill of the impending challenge.

I nod, my attention shifting to the photos in my hand. They’re grainy, taken from a distance, but clear enough. Ivan’s men, twenty-three in total, clustered around a shipment at the docks.

Each one armed, their postures relaxed but ready—a false sense of security they’ve draped around themselves like a cloak. I study their faces, memorize their stances.

“Vasiliev, that fucker, believes he’s untouchable with his pack of rats guarding him,” I spit out with disdain.

Misha leans in, peering at the photos over the expanse of the table. “Underestimating us.”

“Exactly.” I toss the photos down, my mind racing through scenarios. “Pizda.”

Surveying the room, my eyes meet those of my finest men. Warriors who’ve stood by me since the beginning. Without these loyal soldiers, Morozov Bratva would crumble.

Their attire speaks volumes of readiness: black tactical gear, vests bristling with ammo, faces set in determination. Misha’s rallied fifteen, each one a testament to our strength.

“We hit the docks hard and fast. No mercy. We take back what’s ours,” I declare. A unified roar of agreement fills the room.

“Get the transport ready,” I command Boris, catching his gold-haired silhouette nodding back. Quiet yet deadly, he’s a force to be reckoned with.

Everyone starts to clear out, ready for the night’s mission. But Misha hesitates at the door, turning back to me with a serious look. “Are you sure you want to come with us, boss?” His beard, a few days’ growth, gives him a rugged edge.

“Of course.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

“But the wedding….”

“For fuck’s sake, Misha,” I growl, frustration building. I start checking my gun, making sure it’s loaded and ready. “I will not have people thinking I’m a weaker man just because I’m about to get married. This is Bratva, Misha. It fucking means brotherhood. I’m not ruling like some dictator. Every man here is my brother.”

Misha frowns, clearly concerned. “But something may happen.”

His words trail off, and for a moment, my mind wanders to Laura—her large amber eyes, the innocence that seems to wrap around her like a veil. The way she moves, speaks… it stirs something unexpected in me. A distraction I can’t afford right now, not with what’s at stake.

I run a hand over my face, trying to shake off the softness creeping into my thoughts. “Blyad,” I curse under my breath.

This is not me. I’m not supposed to feel this… weakness.

“No!” I snap, sharper than I intended. “I’m going in, and I’m taking back every damn thing they stole from me.”

We park the SUV in the shadows, further in where the night swallows us whole. A prickle of unease worms through me, but I shove it down deep. This is no place for doubt.

We step out into the biting cold, the river’s chill wind cutting through even the toughest layers. My men, faces masked and eyes sharp, wait for my signal.

We move as one toward the dock, silent ghosts in a world of shadow and frost. Vasiliev’s goons are easy to spot, huddled together for warmth, cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the dark.

“So fucking cold,” one of them grumbles, wrapped in a thick hoodie that’s no match for the night’s bite.

“Stop complaining, dickhead,” another snaps back, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the air, a fleeting serpent in the cold.

“This is fucking bullshit! What the hell are we doing here?” the first guy spits out. “I’d rather be at Tally’s bar, pounding my cock into those fresh sluts.”

“Fuck, yeah,” one goon smirks. “Heard the next shipment’s from Moldova. They have some sweet tight cunts.”

“There’s no tomorrow for you,” I mutter under my breath.

Misha catches my eye, a silent understanding passing between us. With a subtle nod, our men spring into action. They’re on the two complainers in a heartbeat, one choked silent with a wire, swift and merciless. Misha, ever the shadow, silences the other with a clean slice across the throat.

No noise, no struggle, just the end.

Quickly, efficiently, we drag their bodies into a dark alley, out of sight. Our group advances, closing in on the abandoned warehouse, the heart of tonight’s operation.

As we edge closer to the warehouse, that initial thrill starts to mix with a gnawing suspicion. Something’s not right. The place is too quiet; the usual signs of guard shifts, the low murmur of voices, the scuff of boots on gravel—all missing. It’s like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.

“Why are there no men by the warehouse?” I murmur to Misha, my voice a whisper against the cold night air.

He shrugs, eyes scanning the darkness. “Maybe Ivan’s got them all inside? Or…”

“Or it’s a trap,” I finish for him, the words tasting like bile in my throat. My hand instinctively tightens around my gun, the metal cold and reassuring against my skin.

We pause, reassessing. My men look to me, waiting for a decision. Every instinct screams that we’re walking into a setup, yet turning back isn’t an option. Not when we’re this close.

“Spread out. Quietly,” I order, my voice low but firm. “Check the perimeter. Something’s off.”

As they fan out, I take a moment to center myself. The lack of guards could mean a number of things—overconfidence on Vasiliev’s part, a strategic move to draw us in, or simply a change in tactics. None of which bode well for us.

The silence is oppressive, the only sound the soft lapping of water against the dock and the distant call of a night bird. It’s unnatural, this quiet, as if even the river knows to tread lightly tonight.

I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched, that Ivan’s somewhere out there, smirking in the shadows. “Played us like a damn fiddle, hasn’t he?” I mutter under my breath, a flash of anger cutting through the unease.

Misha, his face grim under the dim light, shakes his head. “No one. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”

Vanished or waiting—the thought gnaws at me. Out here, every moment we’re not moving, we’re vulnerable.

“Inside, then,” I command, voice low. “But stay sharp.”

Ignoring the knot in my stomach, we press forward. The warehouse door looms before us, open just a crack—a silent invitation or a taunt?

“Boss,” Misha’s hand on my arm halts me, “let’s retreat; this doesn’t look right.”

I pause. “Fuck.” My eyes scan the dark interior, then dart upwards. “Move out now,” I snap, but it’s too late.

Shadows detach from the rooftop, forms becoming clear. An ambush.

Gunfire erupts, a chaotic symphony of shouts and screams, the air punctuated with staccato bursts of Russian curses.

“Pizdets!” one of my men yells as bullets fly.

“Suka!” We’ve been played.