Page 3 of Silken Chains
“My wife… L-Laura,” he stammers. “She owns a bookstore, Thompson Tales on Fifth Ave. It’s worth a lot, maybe not enough to cover my debts. but I could… I could sign it over.”
I tilt my head, my voice heavy with mock curiosity. “A wife? You? Now that’s news. I had my guys check every corner of your life. But married with a wife?”
David pales, eyes darting. “Listen, it’s… I swiped the ‘David Garner’ identity years ago. Who… who knows where the real guy is? Dead, disappeared, whatever. And Laura she… she thinks—”
Misha doesn’t even let David finish, landing a brutal slap across his face.
Another follows.
“Please… no more,” David pleads.
I lean in closer, feeling the tremble of his breath against my skin. “So, tell me, Davey-boy. Does Laura know she’s married to a ghost? That she’s pledged herself to an identity that’s not even real?”
David’s eyes widen in terror. “No, she doesn’t know. She believes in us. In the life we have.”
I laugh. “Technically, she’s not even married, is she? Since David Garner is six feet under somewhere while you parade around in his shoes. And you managed to pull one over on me, huh? That’s a first,” I sneer.
“No, I didn’t mean to—” David’s pale face goes a shade paler.
I scoff, genuinely impressed. “You’re even slimier than I gave you credit for.”
“It’s not like that… with Laura,” he confirms, voice shaky. “She thinks I’m just an accountant, that I… that I lead a simple life.”
Mikhail’s smirk widens. “Accounting for the Morozov Bratva and laundering money on the side. Jesus, she landed a real fucking prince, didn’t she?”
“So, you played her? Slithered your way into her life, pretended to marry her using a dead man’s identity, and kept her clueless about who the real David the dickhead really is?” I sneer, my disgust evident. “Now you want to throw her and her bookstore under the bus for your monumental fuck-ups?”
His voice wavers, almost a whisper. “It wasn’t meant to go this way. Everything just… went to shit.”
Who the fuck is this guy?
David, or whatever his real name is, this sneaky conman, had used another identity for everything.
“And she’s worth… what, two fucking million?” I sneer, circling him slowly like a shark circling its prey before grabbing him by his bloody shirt.
David tries to muster some semblance of dignity, his voice a raspy plea. “It’s a start, Victor. Please. Let me make it right.”
I step back, releasing him. “So, you want me to have your wife and think that all will be forgiven.” I snort. “She must be something else.” I give a mocking whistle.
David’s eyes dart, searching for any sliver of mercy. “That’s all I have for now. The bookstore’s profitable, and… and she can offer… other things.”
“Other things?” My voice is a dangerous snarl, my grip tightening on the collar of his pathetic shirt, yanking him toward me. I hiss, every word dripping venom, “Two fucking million down the drain, and you think a store and some ‘other things’ from your pretty fake wife will settle it?”
“Believe me, she is…” David’s lips tug upward in a sly smile, revealing a darkness he thinks he’s hiding, “a beauty.”
Motherfucking creep.
It would be so easy to just off this two-bit conman. Sure.
But killing him?
That’s just inviting unnecessary heat, and I’ve got enough of that already. Besides, Rivington Street’s got enough dead bodies without us adding to the tally. The fucking police have their panties in a bunch trying to pin us on some cartel shootouts…on Rivington Street, of all places. Everyone knows that’s junkie central, not our playground.
I laugh.
Fucking hell, the idea that we’d deal in flesh. As if I’d stoop so low. But let’s get one thing straight: I might run a tight ship, but the whole flesh market? Nah, that’s not our style.
What am I? The heir to the Morozov Bratva.
