Page 43 of Silken Chains
“I built this empire on blood and iron, not by cowering under sheets,” my father retorts.
The doctor’s stance remains firm, like a rock against the tide. “This isn’t about fear; it’s about sense. You’re playing a fool’s game, challenging death like this.”
The air is thick with the clash of two titanic wills.
Petrov, a man who’s stared down the worst, isn’t about to be cowed by even the Pakhan’s fury. He is no ordinary doctor; this is a man who’s been part of our lives, part of the Bratva’s fabric since I was just a kid.
He runs his hands over his thick gray hair. With his rugged handsomeness and eyes that carry a hint of sadness, he is a figure who commands respect. In his late fifties, he is still well-built, a reminder of his days within the Bratva before he chose the path of healing over bloodshed. You can tell from one look that this man isn’t someone to be taken lightly. His presence in a room is as commanding as any seasoned soldier.
I remember him, even from when I was just a boy—always there, a constant in the turbulent sea of our lives. He’d stitch us up, set broken bones, never once flinching at the brutal reality of our world. But it was more than that. Petrov chose to be a healer in a world where violence was the language. He’s seen the worst we have to offer, yet he chose to save lives rather than take them.
Now, as he stands before the Pakhan, there’s a heavy tension. It’s the kind of respect born from years in the trenches together, yet now on opposing sides of this particular battle.
For fuck’s sake.
I clear my throat, stepping closer. “Papa, the doctor’s right. We need you in command, not courting death over pride.”
My father’s eyes, fierce as ever, turn to me. “Victor, you worry about the Bratva. I’ll worry about me.”
Petrov’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Victor’s right, Andrey. Your pride might just kill you before your enemies do.”
“My enemies will tear apart everything I’ve built if they see any weakness,” he grunts. He tries to stand, a futile show of strength that falls flat. His body rebels and it’s like watching a king lose his crown.
Blyad.
It hurts somewhere deep inside me, but I’m not about to let it show.
“Then let them see strength through me,” I counter, my voice hard. “As long as I’m here, the Bratva is secure. But if you don’t go through with this operation…”
My father’s eyes narrow, assessing. “I’m not stepping back until you’re at the helm, Victor. Married, settled. The Pakhan needs an heir, not just a title.”
My jaw tightens. This old-school thinking, it’s a noose around our necks.
“Fine. If that’s what it takes,” I shoot back, my voice cold. “But the bride will be my choice. No debates. And heir talk can wait. I’ll deal with it when I’m damn well ready.”
A grudging respect flickers in my father’s eyes. “Always fucking hard-headed, aren’t you? Fine, choose your bride. But she must be strong enough to stand beside the Morozov name.”
“Don’t worry about the Morozov name, Papa. Just focus on not kicking the bucket too soon. I’ve got the bride part covered,” I shoot back with a wry grin.
Petrov shakes his head. “You two are cut from the same stubborn cloth.”
“He’s my son, after all. Did you expect any less?” my father retorts with a faint smirk, his tone a blend of pride and challenge. “When I was your age, I was already married with you kids, leading legions in the Bratva,” he boasts, his voice tinged with pride. “You’ve got big shoes to fill, Victor. Let’s see how you measure up.”
I roll my eyes at my father’s backhanded compliment.
In his world, words are weapons, not tools for encouragement. It’s always about being tougher, stronger, more feared.
“You know, Papa, while you’re busy reminiscing, I’ve been expanding the Bratva’s reach,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “We’re not just thugs on the street anymore. We’ve got construction projects, hotels, housing—a whole damn empire under our belt.”
He gives me a skeptical look, as if challenging me to prove my worth. “Expanding, huh? Just don’t forget, son, it’s not just about building empires. It’s about holding onto them.”
“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten. You think those territories were handed to us on a silver platter? It took some… persuasive methods to secure them.”
My father’s lips twitch in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes are hard. “Just don’t lose sight of what’s important. This family, our name—that’s your first priority.”
I can feel my patience wearing thin. “I know what’s at stake, Papa. I’m not some green kid anymore.” He’s about to retort, but I cut him off. “Yeah, Papa, history lessons some other time. Right now, just don’t give Petrov a heart attack, okay?”
Winking at Petrov, I say, “He’s all yours now. Good luck,” and quickly exit the room.
