Page 31 of Silken Chains
“I’m coming,” he announces, his voice rough with desire as he releases himself into my waiting mouth. With one final deepthroat, I drink down every last bit of him.
Chapter 12
Victor
I’M STILL reeling from her mouth, hot and wild around my cock.
Blyad, I’m craving more, feeling my balls tighten up with the thought of her. The urge to ditch this shit and dive back into bed with her is hitting me hard.
But fuck, Misha rings me up at the Devil’s hour, right before I could get another round with her. Says we’ve snagged a rat, one of Ivan Vasiliev’s sneaky bastards.
As I stride down to the den, my own personal hellhole, the air gets thicker, reeking of fear and sweat. The guards nod at me, their faces grim.
“Boss,” they grunt, stepping aside.
I push open the heavy metal door, and the sound of dripping water and deep groans hit me. It’s a fucking symphony to my ears. This place, with its dark corners and chains hanging from the ceiling, is where I deal with traitors.
Chained to the wall is the traitor. A once-trusted capo, now nothing but a rat. His face is a mess of bruises and blood, barely alive.
“Enjoying your stay, Fyodor?” I sneer.
The sound that comes out of him is a wet, gurgling mess, like a fish gasping for air on dry land. He’s sobbing, blubbering, blood oozing from where his teeth used to be.
“Why? Can’t speak?” I mock him.
Misha’s handiwork is evident. Fyodor’s face is a wreck. His right eye, swollen shut, looks like it’s been worked over with a hammer. The bloodied floor tells a tale of teeth yanked out one by one.
His fingers are all broken, twisted in unnatural angles. Classic Misha—doesn’t hold back, especially not with traitors.
We don’t let rats like Fyodor live.
It’s a sign of weakness, and weakness is something the Bratva can’t afford.
“Son of a bitch, Fyodor. Fifteen million in shipment goods. Drugs, cash, and fucking loyalty,” I spit the words at him.
His tears are streaming now, mixing with the blood and dirt on his face. “You let Ivan and his goons take a piece of us. That’s not how we play.” Rage boils in me, thinking of Laura, how I’m torn from her body because of this mess.
He’s whimpering now, pleading.
I turn to the table, eyeing the knives. There’s a range—from the slender stiletto, perfect for precise cuts, to the hefty cleaver, used for messier jobs. Each tells a story of the Bratva’s dark deeds.
“Should I slice you up, feed you to the dogs, or maybe skin you slowly?” My fingers trace the cold steel of each knife.
Fyodor’s plea comes out garbled, “Pozhaluysta…” He’s begging, but it’s too late for mercy.
I pick up the short knife, feeling its familiar weight.
“What did you think would happen, Fyodor? Betraying the Bratva is a death sentence.” I press the blade against his ear and, with a quick motion, slice it off.
His scream pierces the dank air of the dungeon.
In the Bratva, betrayal is paid in blood and pain. Mercy is a weakness, and loyalty is the only currency.
But still, there are morons like Fyodor who think they can screw over the Bratva and not end up dead.
Fucking idiots.
Then Misha barges in, no fucking knock or anything, snapping me back to the harsh present.
