Page 4 of Silken Chains
Not some lowlife from Brighton Beach.
I don’t need to stoop to the basest levels of criminality. I have standards, derr’mo.
The next second, Mikhail’s hand collides with David’s face, a smack so ferocious that blood fills David’s mouth instantly. I can almost hear the tear of flesh, his cheek brutally grating against the sharp edges of his teeth.
Misha is really enjoying this.
David’s wriggling around like a damned fish out of water, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, ropes cutting into his wrists. Misha, that beast, just stands there wiping David’s blood from his knuckles onto his pants as if he’s brushing off some dirt.
Sure, I’ve got the height, but Misha? He’s built like a fucking tank. Those scars, the scruffy beard, they’ve seen more shit than the sewers of this city. But it’s those hawk-like eyes, piercing and calculating, that make men piss their pants. Right now, they’re drilling into David, and not in a kind way.
“Thought you’d just waltz outta this one with that stupid smirk, huh?” Misha says, every word dripping with an amusement that could freeze hell.
David’s reduced to a sniveling mess, the cocky bastard from earlier gone, replaced by this… puddle.
“You fucked up big time, David,” I chime in, my grin wide, enjoying every damn second. “Where’s the girl?” I ask.
David’s choking back sobs, spitting out words between gasps. “She’s… She’s at Thompson Tales. Fifth Ave.”
Fuck, I love money, always have.
And if I can squeeze out every last dime from that bookstore and have a bit of fun with the woman running it?
I wonder if Laura will break as easily.
“What… what are you going to do with her?” David barely gets the words out, his voice more air than sound.
Misha just eyes David with a look that promises pain. “We’ll do whatever the fuck we want, David. Playtime’s just beginning.” He stands, straightening his suit like he’s preparing for a business meeting. “Stay the fuck in town.” Without another word, he’s out the door.
David, still on the floor, his voice strained, mutters, “You’re all fucking monsters. Laura doesn’t deserve this shit.”
This bastard’s more fucked in the head than I thought. Who offers up their “wife” to bail out of their fuck-ups, then acts like he fucking cares?
I’m inches away from slamming my boot into his face. Holding back, I lean down, my voice a deadly whisper as I say, “When you dance with demons, David, expect to get burned.”
That girl’s in for a world of hurt, and she doesn’t even know it.
Chapter 2
Laura
THE BUZZ of my phone drags me out of the light sleep I had managed to catch at my desk. A slew of unpaid bills for the store lie scattered around, with numbers that seem to have way too many zeros. Ah, a reminder of another sleepless night trying to figure out how the hell to dig myself out of this financial pit after David, my husband of three years, cleaned out our bank account before disappearing with Polly two months ago.
How does one man manage to be cliche and original at the same time?
Most men have affairs, but not all of them drain your bank account and disappear into the wind with the side chick. As for Polly, I hope she likes her men unreliable and with the personality depth of a puddle.
Groaning, I pick up the phone. An unknown number. Great, probably another creditor or, better yet, a robocall telling me I’ve won a free cruise. Because, you know, three in the morning is prime telemarketing time, right?
“Who’s this?” I answer, voice groggy.
“Ms. Thompson?”
“Yeah, still me. And if you’re trying to sell me something, I’d prefer bankruptcy advice right now,” I retort, one eye on those damned bills.
There’s an unsettling pause.
Suddenly, a chill prickles up my neck. Wait, did they find David? Dead in a ditch somewhere?
