Page 11 of Silken Chains
Taking a swig of my drink, I lounge in the VIP area, elevated just enough to look down on all the peasants grinding away on the dance floor. It’s quieter up here, shielded from the rabble by my muscle—the security team that guards the entrance.
The layout’s clean and minimalistic—black leather couches, dim blue lights, and a private bar with the most expensive shit money can buy. Not that the décor matters; it’s all about power. From here, I can scope out everyone. The bottom-feeders, the leeches, the bloodsuckers. The cartel bosses, with their flashy suits and heavy gold chains, thinking they own the place. A few of them shoot impatient glances my way, itching for a chat. But today? Nahuy.
Not in the mood.
Let them wait.
The game’s all about patience, after all.
A sudden vibration of my phone shatters my peace, an annoying buzz in my pocket. Yanking it out, the screen flashes a message so stark it almost makes me laugh.
Misha: David’s gone. Gathering his shit. You’ll have it in twenty-four hours.
I laugh. What a fucking surprise.
And, of course, the damn old bookstore goes up in flames a day after David signs it over.
Typical, the cowardly shit, slinking away from the messes he makes. After stirring up a goddamn hornet’s nest, he has the balls to just slip away?
Oh, I’ll hunt him down, alright, drag him back by his hair if I have to. He’s up to his neck in this, and I swear I’ll make him drown in it. Because no one, absolutely no one, fucks with Victor Morozov and walks away breathing.
And as for Laura, she’s collateral now.
Blyad.
Trailing Laura this morning was supposed to be straightforward, but shit, she caught me off guard.
I didn’t expect her to be breathtaking.
My mind reels back to this morning: She’s running, cheeks red, breath steaming out in the cold like an exhaust pipe. Her auburn hair’s a wild cascade, making me itch to yank it back to see those eyes cloud with desire as she moans.
I shadow her, hungry for another glimpse. But damn, she looks more beautiful, with those tear-filled eyes, staring at the ashes of that dump she called a bookstore—pathetically beautiful.
I almost feel bad. Almost.
Honestly, I could’ve paid for ten of those trashy stores with what I make in an hour. I didn’t need that bookstore; it was peanuts to the empire I built. But debt? It’s a matter of principle. As my old man, the Pakhan, would always drill into my head: “Never let a debt go unpaid, especially if it’s owed to you.”
The very thought of her has my heart pounding uncontrollably, and the unwanted surge of blood has my cock straining against my slacks.
Fucking inconvenient.
I slam back my vodka, hoping to drown the itch to get another look at her.
“Chert voz’mi,” I swear under my breath.
Glancing downward, I scan the swarm of bodies in my club. It’s just another Friday night, meant for some fun. But hell, no one’s stirring any wicked urges in me tonight.
What’s wrong with me?
Out of nowhere, a form draws my attention — the radiant hue of auburn locks, a body’s curve I’d recognize anywhere.
No way, is that…?
It’s her.
My eyebrows pull together seeing what she’s wearing.
Oh, sweet mother of God.
