Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 3

YAAAWN…

I drag my hands over my weary eyes as a massive yawn takes over.

Sunlight bleeds through the haze, revealing the blackened ruins of what was once Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave. Exhaustion tugs at my eyes, and every muscle in my body aches with a weariness that’s more than just physical.

God, I look like a dumpster fire—fitting, given the circumstances.

I squint against the blinding glare, taking in the twisted metal, the scorched wood, and the smell. That pungent, burned smell. “That was my future,” I mutter, as if saying it out loud makes any difference.

A firefighter, still finishing up, glances my way, then quickly looks away.

Pity?

Yeah, no need. I’ve got a full stock of that in my inventory.

I reach for my coffee, cold and bitter, much like my life at this moment.

Suddenly, the cup slips, splashing its contents over my shirt.

“Great, just great!” I snap, the liquid’s cold sting a perfect metaphor for my luck. I toss the empty cup aside, rubbing at the stain as if I could erase this mishap along with my string of bad luck.

“Of course,” I grimace. Damnit, this sums up the day. “Why not add coffee stains to the mix?”

Deciding a closer look at the smoldering aftermath of my “future” is necessary, I head toward the entrance. Spotting a firefighter conferring with his team, I take a deep breath and interrupt. “Can I go in?” My voice cracks, nausea rising in my throat.

He turns to me, eyes sizing up the clear desperation on my face. After what feels like an eternity, he says, “You the owner?”

I nod, swallowing hard.

Pushing through the haze and fatigue, I wait for his response. This guy, looking all rugged intensity, seems like he’s straight out of an action movie poster—hardened by fire, eyes a shade too penetrating.

He gives me the once-over, eyes lingering a tad too long on the unfortunate coffee stain splashed across my shirt’s audacious print: “Seduce me with paragraphs, tease me with prose.” Oh, and let’s not forget the fashion debacle down south—mismatched flip-flops.

Stellar.

His gruff response breaks through my internal cringe-fest.

“You can head in with me,” he rumbles, “but hands off. Still figuring out this mess.”

The moment I step over the threshold, the atmosphere changes. Sounds echo oddly—water drips, beams groan in protest, and there’s the distant hum of police radios. Shadows play tricks, making the destroyed sections of the shop morph into grotesque shapes.

Tip-toeing through, I reach what was once a vibrant romance aisle. Those stories, filled with heated glances and stolen kisses, now burned to ashes. From a distance, someone yells, “Clear on this side!” and I see a firefighter passing by, giving me a nod. I take it as an all-clear sign.

“You know,” I turn to the rugged action-hero lookalike, “I didn’t envision my day starting like this.” I’m holding in tears that are about to roll down my cheeks.

He nods, an understanding look in his eyes. “We’re doing our best to handle the situation. But I must say, considering the circumstances, you’re handling this remarkably well.”

I let out a sardonic laugh. “What can I say? Guess I’m just trying to keep it together.”

He glances around the charred remnants of the shop. “It’s tough, especially when it’s something close to your heart. We see it often, but it doesn’t get easier.”

Sighing, I admit, “It’s more than just a shop. It’s memories, history… my life?”

There’s an unexpected gentleness in his eyes now. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Before I can respond, a voice crackles on his radio, pulling his attention. “Got it,” he responds, giving me a last measured look before heading back to his crew. I’m left amidst the ruins.

Glancing at what’s left of a wall, memories flash. There once stood wooden shelves and that unmistakably vintage table. Oh, that table. Grandpa’s proud purchase from a Brooklyn flea market back when opening this shop was just a wild idea. Seems like “vintage” wasn’t fireproof. Who knew?

It was also Mrs. Anderson’s favorite corner, where the latest mystery book and a steaming cup of tea were her trusty companions. She’d sink into the stories, living them as vividly as her tea steeped next to her.

Now, the firefighters are the main characters in this tragic play, moving around what remains of my family’s legacy. I squint around; yeah, it’s not looking promising. There’s a chatter of officers, sounds of radios, and the footsteps of firefighters doing… firefighter things, I guess.

I laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s that or cry. This place, bursting with stories and dreams, has turned into a place where officers now gather clues instead of kids gathering for story hour.

And the smell, God, the smell.

Burned pages and wet wood, a parody of the old and comforting aroma of well-loved books and ancient dust that used to welcome me every day.

It’s just wrong, all of it.

I feel like I am caught in a bad joke where everything dear to me is the punchline. It’s tragic, sarcastic, and oh-so-New-York all at once.

I hold my breath.

The harsh remnants below me press into my skin, reminding me sharply, painfully, ironically, of every lost possibility that once lived here. It’s not just a building that’s in ruins; it’s memories, it’s legacies, it’s my damned life.

This moment, right after a catastrophe, everything is too loud yet eerily silent, settles around me. The wailing sirens, the bystanders murmuring—it all becomes a muffled backdrop to the chaotic symphony playing in my head.

Thoughts like, “Why didn’t I upgrade the fire system?”

Thoughts like, “This store was my family’s legacy.”

Thoughts like, “How do I break it to Dad without ending up in the family doghouse?”

Thoughts like, “I need a drink so strong it could perhaps put me to sleep for a million years.”

A crunch of debris under boots snatches me from my brewing storm of thoughts.

Footsteps.

I turn, half-expecting it to be him, but it’s the firefighter instead, bearing the weary look of one who’s seen too much yet has to keep on.

Snap out of it, Laura. It’s been two months. The man’s gone, and wishing won’t drag him through that door.

“Ms…?” He trails off, checking his clipboard.

“Thompson. Laura Anne Thompson,” I fill in, and his eyes flit over the ruins, making a silent tally of despair.

“Ms. Thompson, we suspect the fire started from the pantry area,” he continues, glancing toward the dark, ash-coated room where I used to sneak snacks during the slow hours. “Our preliminary investigation suggests an electrical fault might’ve triggered it. We found some faulty wiring, quite ancient, running through the place.”

So, it wasn’t the ghosts of old authors or a grudge-bearing rival bookstore. It was something as mundane as decayed wires deciding to bow out with a spark.

He glances around one more time before locking eyes with me. “We’re still investigating, but you might want to contact your insurance company. Provide them with the initial replaceings; it will expedite the claim process.”

His words clang around my head like loose change.

Insurance. Claims. Dad.

My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. “Thank you… Officer…?”

“Bennett. Firefighter Bennett,” he replies, with a nod.

I give him a weak smile, grappling for composure. “Thank you, Bennett. I appreciate your efforts.”

He seems to sense my internal struggle. “Fires are destructive, Ms. Thompson, but they can also pave the way for new beginnings. Thompson Tales of Fifth Ave might rise from these ashes, stronger.”

His words should be a comfort, but all I can think of is the impending call to my father, the dance of disappointment, and the blame game.

“Yeah,” I answer, attempting to inject some optimism into my voice, “a phoenix, right? Rises from the ashes and all that.”

Bennett smiles, a gesture that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, filled with the somber knowledge of things lost and battles fought. “Exactly. Take care, Ms. Thompson. If there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Damnit, I need some fresh air.

I stumble out of my charred shop, only to spot bystanders with phones out, snapping pictures and shooting videos. Great, just what I need—the paparazzi moment I never asked for. Because apparently, having your life go up in smoke isn’t enough; it needs to go viral, too. Talk about hitting rock bottom with an audience.

Great, Laura, now what?

I chew on my nails, a nervous tic I’ve never managed to shake. Dad’s going to replace out, and the thought of breaking the news about the store? That’s a conversation I’m not looking forward to.

Fuck.

Then, my eyes get caught on something else. A sleek, dark sedan, far too luxurious for this part of town, sits conspicuously across the street… It screams money, looking like it took a wrong turn from Park Avenue and ended up in my less-than-glamorous neighborhood. My store’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen this car model, not once. It’s positioned perfectly, like it has a front-row seat to my downfall.

“Enjoying the view?” I quip under my breath, my voice laced with bitterness.

As if on cue, there’s a click. Someone’s emerging.

But before I can put a face to the mysterious car owner, Serena’s voice cuts through the fog. “Lu Lu! Holy hell, are you okay?”

Turning, I replace my best friend Serena hurrying toward me, her vibrant curls bouncing with each step. Her face is a mix of concern and shock. “Ser,” I croak out, tears threatening to spill, “it’s all… just gone.”

She wraps me in a hug, a warm protective cocoon against the world’s cruelties. “We got you, LuLu. Oh, my God. Thank God you are okay.”

Pulling away, I glance back toward the sedan, but all I see is an empty parking spot. The car vanished.

“Was there…?” I start, pointing vaguely to where the sedan had been.

Serena follows my gaze, her brows knitting in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

The pit in my stomach grows. “Nothing, it’s just… Never mind.”