Page 2 of Silken Chains
“YOU UNDERSTAND what that means, don’t you, Dave, David, or whatever the fuck you call yourself?” My voice is a cold, hard slap in the silence of the warehouse, even over the echoing sound of Misha’s open palm colliding with David’s flesh again and again.
Tied to a wooden chair, David is rendered helpless, trapped with no way out. David’s cheek sports a fresh, blooming red handprint; his lips spit blood with each cruel contact of skin against skin. His whimpering is sickening. But it’s the tears, the trembling chin of his that truly irk me.
Weakness has no place in this world he ventured into.
“I-I understand, Victor, I…” he stammers, his voice trembling like the rest of him. But Misha’s laughter, an evil soundtrack to David’s humiliation, cuts him off.
“Oh, he understands, Victor. He understands he’s fucked.” Misha chortles, his mirth dark and filled with disdain. His next slap is harder, and David’s head snaps to the side.
“The forty-eight hours you were given are up, David. And what do we have? Excuses,” I spit the words at him, venom dripping from every syllable.
David’s futile attempt to compose himself is pathetic. “The market crashed. I-I couldn’t do anything. I need more time. Please.” His plea is desperate, almost as desperate as the situation he’s in.
“The market,” I echo, my voice a mocking dagger. “Seems like the market has more balls than you.”
I watch David’s face crumble. But really, what the hell did he think would happen? He snatched the Morozov Bratva’s cash, tried playing trader, and botched it. No one is this stupid to think they can get away alive from that.
“You think you’re clever, huh, suka?” I sneer, my tone dripping with disdain. “Skimming off the top for two years, playing with the Morozov Bratva’s money. My money! But two million? Blyad! Have you lost your fucking mind?”
David’s eyes dart frantically, the weight of his betrayal pressing him further into his own grave. His usual confident smirk is now replaced with a trembling lip.
“Victor, please, I thought—”
“You thought?” I cut in, laughing coldly. “You thought you could steal from us, and we wouldn’t notice? Should’ve stuck to your day job as an accountant, you fucking cockroach.”
He swallows hard, the prominent gulp visible against the pale canvas of his terrified throat.
“It was a bad trade, Victor. I can fix this.”
I step closer, invading his space, making him feel the magnitude of his fuck-up.
“Fix this? You’re two million in the hole, pizdec. You’re going to find out what happens when you cross the Morozov Bratva.”
Without warning, my fist shoots out, crashing into David’s stomach with enough force to send both him and the chair he’s tied to flying backward. The thud echoes in the room, and he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. He spits out blood, his pretty-boy face now distorted, swelling up, making him look like a grotesque parody of his former self.
“Look at you, blin. Once a suave little shit, now just a broken, bloody conman,” I sneer, looking down at him with disdain.
He’s gasping, eyes filled with terror. “Victor, I swear, I can get the money back.”
I lean down, letting him see the cold rage in my eyes. “David, you think money is all I want from you? No. I want you to understand what it feels like to truly fuck with the Morozov Bratva.
His voice trembles, desperation evident. “Victor, please. I have a plan. Just give me a chance.”
I chuckle, the sound dripping with derision. “A chance? Like the one you had with our money? No, suka. No more games. You remember Ari?”
I gesture to the shadowy figure standing in the corner. The man steps forward, a wicked blade glinting in his hand. David‘s eyes widen in recognition and horror.
“Ari specializes in… reminders,” I say, my voice laden with malice. “And he’s going to give you one you’ll never forget.”
A sharp whistle slices through the tension. From the dimmest corner of the warehouse, the hulking shadow of Yuri moves closer. I’m a tall guy, six feet five, and tower over most.
But Ari?
Even I have to admit that next to him, I feel like a kid looking up at his dad. He’s a beast. Every step he takes is calculated; his towering figure looms like a specter.
David gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Wait, Victor… I can give you something else…”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Oh? Do tell.”
