Page 61 of Silken Chains
Ksenia’s cold gaze momentarily flickers with something akin to surprise before she masks it with her usual frost. It’s a game to her, but I’m not playing.
I inhale sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Ksenia,” I growl, my patience wearing thin. “Just focus on the wedding! It’s in three days, and I want the entire underworld talking about it.”
Her lips twitch; not quite a smile, more a sardonic curl. “Oh, they’ll talk, alright,” she replies, her voice dripping with unspoken threats. “But remember, Victor, she’s your responsibility. Any misstep, any danger she brings…”
I cut her off, “Don’t fucking test me, Ksenia. She’s soon to be my wife and mine to worry about. Touch her, and you’ll regret it.”
For a split second, surprise flickers across Ksenia’s usually unreadable face.
Then, as quickly as it came, it’s gone, replaced once again by that chilling calm. “As you wish, little brother,” she concedes, though her eyes tell me this conversation is far from over.
Chapter 23
Laura
“WHERE THE hell is this place?”
My mind races, thinking about escape, but the mansion stretches so far that I can’t even see where it ends.
I pull my eyes away from the crazy view outside the big window, right here in this room that Misha, the menacing figure, has me locked in.
Fuck. Is there even a way out of this massive place?
Then, footsteps. My heart kicks up a notch. I whip around, bracing for someone to storm in.
But no one comes.
The footsteps fade out, leaving me alone again. It’s just the maids, chatting in whispers too low to catch, rushing off somewhere fast.
The doorknob rattles as I jiggle it frantically, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my palm against the polished wood in frustration. Turning around, I survey the room again with a growing sense of dread.
“This is crazy,” I say to the empty room. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I shut my eyes, counting to three, half-expecting everything to change.
Three… two… one.
But when I look again, nothing’s different. Still trapped here.
Drawing in a long breath.
“Okay, deep breath,” I mutter, using that old trick I perfected as a kid—deep breathing to stave off panic whenever Dad’s temper flared or when missing Mommy got too much.
But this?
This is a whole new level of crazy. A part of me is actually relieved to be done with David Gardner, but jumping from a sham marriage to being essentially “owned” by the mafia? This is some next-level insanity.
I take in another three deep breaths by the window, then turn to scan the room, and it’s nothing like I expected—it’s actually kind of homey.
Not at all what I’d expect from a mafia lord—if I even know what that’s supposed to look like.
The place is dressed in creams and rich wood tones, with a fireplace you could camp in and a chandelier that catches the light, scattering it like tiny stars against the cream. The sun blasts through the huge windows, throwing gold across everything, lighting up the place like some high-end catalog shoot.
God, how big is this room? It’s at least ten times the size of my own bedroom.
There’s a staircase curving up to the second floor, classy but not over-the-top. I have no intention of exploring upstairs. Who knows what or who I’d find?
No, thank you.
