Page 42 of Silken Chains
I spin around to face Ksenia, frustration clear on my face.
What the hell is she doing, exposing Eli to all this?
Quickly tuning into my silent plea for discretion, Ksenia dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “Eli’s more aware than you think. We don’t sugarcoat truths in this house,”
Blyad! She’s just eight years old, for crying out loud.
A knot of discomfort twists in my gut.
It’s hard, too damn hard, seeing Eli, this little beacon of innocence, getting a crash course in our brutal reality.
“Hey, Eli, where’s Yuri?” I ask, trying to steer her young mind away from our grim business. I watch her face light up at the mention of her older brother.
Ksenia is already on her phone, her tone curt. “Nina, come pick up Ms. Elizaveta from my office.” There’s a hint of annoyance in her voice. She’s gone through a string of nannies—no surprise, considering Eli’s a whirlwind of energy, always one step ahead.
“Yuri is with Papa. They have biz-ness,” Eli pronounces the word carefully, her young voice trying to mimic our seriousness.
My heart sinks a bit. “Business with Papa” means Yuri, at just eighteen, is already entangled in the Bratva life.
Quiet, serious Yuri, so much like Ksenia—sharp as a tack with numbers, already neck-deep in some of our more complicated dealings. A smart kid, but I can’t help feeling a pang of regret that he’s being pulled into this life so young.
Just then, Nina, the latest in a long line of nannies, rushes into the office. Her face is etched with fear, a clear sign that handling Eli is more than just a regular babysitting gig.
“Forgive me, Madam Ksenia,” she falters, anxiety etched on her face. “Ms. Elizaveta, we must go now.” Her voice shakes with evident fear.
Elizaveta, undeterred by the nanny’s clear anxiety, hops down from her chair with the same bright energy. “Bye, Dyadya Victor! Bye, Mommy!”
After I plant a kiss on Eli’s pink cheeks and watch her scamper away with Nina, I make sure the door is securely shut. Turning back to Ksenia, my anger simmers to the surface.
“Ksusha, this is fucked up. Eli’s just a kid, she shouldn’t be anywhere near this shit. And Yuri? He’s barely more than a kid himself,” I growl, my frustration obvious.
Ksenia’s face is set in stone as she meets my gaze. “They’re Morozovs, Victor. Better they learn what that means now rather than later,” she replies coldly.
I shake my head, disgusted. This is exactly why I am not interested in having children. Bringing a new life into this twisted world, only to see it corrupted?
Hell no. I won’t let my own blood be tainted by this life.
“You’ve always been the sentimental one, Victor,” Ksenia remarks, a hint of disdain in her voice. “You’re going to be a husband and a father soon, leading this Bratva as a Pakhan.”
“I’m not sentimental, Ksenia,” I snap back defensively.
“You are. Haven’t forgotten you crying under the blanket for months when Mama died,” she throws at me, her words sharp as knives.
“I was nine, for fuck’s sake!” I retort, the memory stinging like a fresh wound.
“Morozovs don’t cry, Victor.” She stares piercingly into my eyes. “Even if we’re being skinned alive.”
“Blyad, I’ll rest in my grave, not before!” my father’s voice thunders.
I step into the opulent room, the air thick with tension. This isn’t just any bedroom; it’s a command center, draped in luxury, a testament to the Morozov legacy. And there, in the eye of the storm, is the Pakhan himself, my father, Andrey Morozov.
He’s propped up like a king in exile, all wiry muscle and barely restrained rage. The very picture of a caged beast. Our family doctor, Dr. Petrov—a man as tough as they come, who’s seen more bullet wounds than natural illnesses—stands at the bedside, facing off with the old man.
“Vy dolzhny proyti operatsiyu, Andrey.” His voice is steady, but the Pakhan’s having none of it.
My father’s laugh is a harsh bark. “Operation? I’ll go under the knife when I’m dead, Petrov. Not a moment sooner.”
Dr. Petrov doesn’t back down. “Andrey, keep pushing, and you’ll find yourself in a grave. You think you’re tough? Death doesn’t discriminate. You had a stroke, not a scratch. Act like it.”
