Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 25

GRIGORI’S HUNCHED across from us, thinking he’s the big shot with his backup goons spread around. They’re eyeing us like we’re some Sunday school boys they can push over.

Big mistake.

Misha and Ari flank me, muscles tensed, ready to leap into action. We’re not just big; we’re a damn fortress, and these clowns are about to replace out.

Vasiliev’s crew plays it cautious, never bunching up their top dogs in one spot—clever, but not clever enough. Here I am, arms crossed, looking every bit the brute I am known to be. My fists itch for a fight, hidden but ready. I’ve got a rep that makes grown men piss their pants, and though they’ve got numbers, we’ve got the might.

“Listen up, Grigori…” I lean in, my gaze boring into him like a drill. My hand casually rests on the table, inches from the concealed gun underneath. “You and your merry band of fuckups better start singing a different tune. We’re not here for pleasantries.” I sit back, my eyes cold. “I’m here to give you a choice. Return what you stole, or brace for the storm.”

Grigori’s sneer stretches across his face like he’s king of the world, his goons forming a half-moon barrier around us. The tension in the air is thick, like we’re on the edge of a knife.

I see him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“Fucking kidding me?” Grigori spits, his voice oozing contempt. “You three think you own us? Vasiliev rules these streets, Morozov, not your pathetic excuse of a family.”

“The Morozovs don’t fuck around,” I sneer, my gaze sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Six decades, our family’s ruled these shit-stained streets. Our legacy’s built on blood, iron, loyalty. Everyone and their mother know we’ve got the biggest, baddest army around.”

I glance around, scanning Grigori’s men with a mocking grin. “Ari here,” I nod toward the giant by my side, “could take your pathetic crew down solo. No sweat.”

Grigori’s jaw clenches, a vein throbbing at his temple. He knows he’s cornered, but he’s not the type to go down without a fight.

“Morozov,” he snarls, his voice rough like gravel, “you think you can just walk in here and dictate terms?”

My reply is a cold smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I don’t think, Grigori. I know.”

He’s a beast of a man, muscle-bound and battle-hardened, but in this moment, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. It’s a subtle crack in his armor, but it’s all I need.

Misha, standing like a silent ghost at my back, lets out a soft, derisive snort. Ari, the human equivalent of a war machine, stares at Grigori with a look that could curdle blood.

“Listen, I don’t have time to waste with you cockroaches,” I growl, irritation seething through my words. “You have until the end of this week to return the cargo,” I say. Moving forward, I plant my hands on the table and loom over them. The muscles in my forearms flex as I dig my fingers into the polished wood, leaving no doubt that I mean business.

My mind keeps going back to Laura. I left her at home to come deal with these fucking morons. The thought of her there, alone with Ksenia, makes my jaw clench. Ksenia’s not exactly known for her warm and fuzzy personality.

“Consider this your only warning.” I shoot a glance at Misha, catching the slight nod he gives, a clear signal he’s ready to unleash hell if needed. His fingers inch subtly toward the gun hidden under his jacket.

Grigori bristles, his men tensing up, hands inching toward concealed weapons. I can feel the violence in the air, a storm ready to break.

“Watch your mouth, Morozov,” Grigori warns, his eyes flashing danger. “We’ve got enough firepower here to turn you and your boys into Swiss cheese.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “You think firepower’s enough? You think guns make you strong?” I stand, towering over the table, imposing and unyielding. “It’s not the weapons, Grigori. It’s the will to use them. And believe me, we’ve got the will.”

I’d relish the thought of rearranging your face, but I’m not about to ruin my look with your blood today.

Misha shifts, a barely perceptible movement, but enough to send a clear message to Grigori’s men. Ari cracks his neck, an ominous sound in the tense silence.

Grigori’s laugh is forced, a feeble attempt to regain some ground. “Big words, Morozov. But words won’t save you.”

I stand, towering over the table. “We’ll be in touch, Grigori. Tell fucking Ivan Vasiliev to return what’s ours or brace for hell. This is your only warning.”

As we turn to leave the restaurant, I can feel Grigori’s eyes burning into our backs.

Misha’s right beside me, his voice low. “This is going to turn ugly.”

I nod, feeling the inevitable clash brewing. “We’ll hit them where it hurts. They want war, they’ll get it.”

“We’ve got the men ready, boss. Locked, loaded, and waiting for your word. This is more than a skirmish; it’s a declaration. They won’t know what hit them,” Misha assures me.

“We strike fast, no mercy,” I instruct Ari. “Ivan Vasiliev should pay for stealing from us.”

Morozovs never kneel, especially not before fucking Vasiliev or any other pretender.

I glance at my watch. “Blyad. It’s almost time.” I spit out a curse. Laura’s face flashes in my mind. “Let’s go,” I command. “It’s time to introduce my wife-to-be to the family. She won’t stand a chance with them by herself.”

The car cuts through the New York night like a knife, the streets outside a blur of shadows and neon. Ari’s eyes are glued to the road, but I can tell he’s ready to turn this car into a battering ram if he spots any of Vasiliev’s rats tailing us. Misha’s got his hawk eyes going, too, scanning every alleyway and corner like he’s expecting a bomb to go off.

“So, back to the house, huh?” Misha finally says, a smirk in his voice. I can almost hear the bastard grinning without looking.

I grunt, staring out the window. “Yeah, thrilled beyond words.”

“It’s tradition, boss,” Ari chimes in, sounding like he’s quoting from some ancient Bratva bible. “Pakhan’s gonna be pissin’ himself with joy.”

I scoff at that. “Screw tradition. He’s just trying to put me in a box.”

Misha lets out this low chuckle, thinking he’s got it all figured out. “It’s about the image, boss. Shows we’re solid.”

I watch him from the shadows in the back, his fingers dancing over the blade he’s toying with—a clear sign he’s mulling over something serious.

“You sure about this, boss?” He’s not asking about the Vasiliev or the dinner.

It’s about her—Laura.

Everyone’s been on my case about her like I owe them an explanation.

“She’s not just some girl,” I finally spit out. “She’s a debt being paid.”

“Right, boss.”

I send him a glare. “Watch it. Brother.”

He smirks, unfazed. “You’ve been all about her since the day we tracked her down.”

A warning look is all I give him. Misha’s been in the trenches with me for a decade, the only guy I really trust, but he’s still my underboss. He doesn’t fear anyone, not even the pakhan. Honesty is his thing, and it’s usually welcome—just not now.

“Look, like I say, she’s practical.”

Misha looks at me with a wink. “Right. Very practical. Tell me, was it also very practical to drag her to your suite?”

My stare could freeze hell over, but Misha, he’s got the guts to meet it. He knows he can. He’s seen the darkest corners of our world, owes his life to my old man. But his loyalty doesn’t give him a free pass today.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “You spying on me now?”

“Just making sure you’re not slipping, boss. With a girl like that, you never know. She could turn your world upside down.”

I run a hand through my hair. “What pisses me off is you doubting my call.”

He snorts. “Just watching your back, boss.” Misha’s smirk fades into something more serious as he turns his attention back to the road. “Your safety comes first.”

I’ve always trusted Misha. Since we were just kids—me at five and him at seven—when my father introduced us and gave us toy guns to play with. We’d run around, pretending to be characters from “Jonny Quest,” thinking we were on some big adventure, fighting bad guys and saving the day.

Those days are long gone, but the bond we built has never faded. Now, we’re dealing with real dangers, not just make-believe. But it’s like nothing’s really changed between us. Misha’s still got my back, just like he did when we were shooting at imaginary villains in the backyard. It’s us against the world, just like it’s always been.

The car moves smoother, the city sounds are a distant echo now. I can’t help but think about Laura, how bringing her into this mess is a gamble.

“I’m not looking to get tied down, married, or chained to anyone. Laura’s just here for a year, a straightforward business transaction, nothing more.” I start to justify my actions, questioning why I even feel the need to.

Misha snorts. “Sure, boss.”

I’m about to retort when he shifts the topic. “Speaking of which, I’ve got news on that piece of shit, Dave Jankowski.”

I lean forward, interest spiked. “Where is the bastard?” I crack my knuckles.

Misha turns around from the front seat, angling in a bit so I catch every word clearly. “That rat’s back, roaming around New York,” he says. “And guess what? He’s been lurking around Laura’s apartment.”

My brow furrows. “What the hell is he after now?”

Misha shrugs, his gaze hard. “We’re not sure yet, boss. Seems like he’s got more dirty secrets up his sleeve.”

The thought of him near Laura sets off a storm inside me, raw and raging.

“If that suka so much as breathes in her direction, I want him six feet under. Clear?”