Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 4

CLUB V

The bass thumps in my chest as I stride into the club, my footsteps in sync with the heartbeat of this place. It’s mine, after all—every plush seat, every polished glass, every drop of top-shelf liquor. And by the looks of it tonight, every scantily clad woman with a predatory gleam in her eye. The grand chandeliers cast a dim glow, making the gold and marble décor glint.

“Victor!” one calls out, a sultry redhead in a dress that leaves very little to the imagination. She runs a finger along the curve of her collarbone, batting eyelashes thick with mascara.

Ignoring her is as easy as breathing.

Another, a leggy blond with a neckline plunging to the navel, sidles up, offering her most practiced pout. “Victor, a drink?” she purrs, tracing a finger along my forearm.

“No, not today,” I retort, brushing her off, my attention already elsewhere.

As I make my way, I can hear the chorus of disappointed sighs and the muttered curses from the rejected. The women in this joint might look like they stepped out of a high-end magazine, but they’re vultures, each one of them. The gold-plated counters, the shimmering drapes, and the chandeliers—all flaunting the obscene amounts of cash that flow through Club V every damn night. We’re talking a few hundred grand on booze alone, and don’t get me started on what these depraved souls spend on their drug fixes.

I might own this place, but I’d be damned if I give these gold-diggers even a whiff of what they want. They’re after one thing: a quick ticket to the high life on my dime.

Not happening. Ever.

“All good, boss?” A deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. Luka, my club manager, stands beside me. A solid wall of a man in his early 30s, wearing a slick black suit that stretches a bit too tight across his broad shoulders. The glare from his bald head is almost as sharp as the predatory glint in his eyes. But beneath that exterior, the guy’s got a head for numbers and runs this place tighter than a drum.

“Everything running smoothly?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“Like clockwork,” Luka rumbles, adjusting his thick gold chain. “VIP section’s filled up, and the new shipment’s in the back. We’re gonna make a fucking killing tonight.”

“Language, Luka. We’re businessmen, not street thugs.” I smirk, taking a sip of my drink.

He snorts. “Says the man who could snap someone in two without breaking a sweat.”

I arch an eyebrow, not rising to the bait. “Anything else?”

Luka glances around, ensuring we’re not overheard. “Got a tip-off. Feds might be snooping around. Might want to keep the backroom activities low-key tonight.”

I nod. “Thanks for the heads up. Just make sure the patrons are happy and our earnings remain sky-high. As for our… other business, we can always resume tomorrow.”

The deep beats of the club pulse around me; my gaze narrows, meticulously scanning the crowd. It doesn’t take long for me to pick them out. Two men, dressed a bit too sharply, sipping on their overpriced vodka and feigning interest in the women around them. Their eyes, however, are firmly locked on me, tracking my every move. Fucking undercover feds, I’m sure of it. I’ve been in this game long enough to spot a rat, and these guys reek of it.

“Fucking Vasiliev,” I mutter under my breath. The tip-off had to be from him. Only Ivan Vasiliev would be low enough to send the feds my way in the middle of a goddamn Friday night. It’s a move straight out of his playbook. Subtle but unmistakable. He might have climbed his way to the top through sheer ruthlessness, but I was born into this life. And while he was busy building his empire, I was learning the trade—every dirty trick, every nuance.

A waiter swings by, offering drinks from a tray. I wave him off and continue to survey my domain. Club V is my fortress, my ground, and nobody, especially not Ivan or his snitches, is going to challenge that.

Grabbing my drink, I make my move. Walking with purpose, I head straight toward the two undercover agents, deciding to play this my way.

“Gentlemen,” I greet them, my voice dripping with faux warmth. “Enjoying your night?”

They exchange a glance, clearly not expecting the direct approach. Good. Keep them on their toes.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a bad comb-over, forces a smile. “Just a night out with the boys. Heard this place was the best in town.”

“Indeed, it is,” I reply with a smirk. “Just remember to play nice. We have a strict policy against unwanted… attention.”

The second one, younger, with nervous eyes, clears his throat. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

With a nod, I leave them be, heading back to the heart of my club.

Let them stew on that.

Let Ivan stew on that, the suka.

If they want a war, I’m ready. Always have been.

Taking a swig of my drink, I lounge in the VIP area, elevated just enough to look down on all the peasants grinding away on the dance floor. It’s quieter up here, shielded from the rabble by my muscle—the security team that guards the entrance.

The layout’s clean and minimalistic—black leather couches, dim blue lights, and a private bar with the most expensive shit money can buy. Not that the décor matters; it’s all about power. From here, I can scope out everyone. The bottom-feeders, the leeches, the bloodsuckers. The cartel bosses, with their flashy suits and heavy gold chains, thinking they own the place. A few of them shoot impatient glances my way, itching for a chat. But today? Nahuy.

Not in the mood.

Let them wait.

The game’s all about patience, after all.

A sudden vibration of my phone shatters my peace, an annoying buzz in my pocket. Yanking it out, the screen flashes a message so stark it almost makes me laugh.

Misha: David’s gone. Gathering his shit. You’ll have it in twenty-four hours.

I laugh. What a fucking surprise.

And, of course, the damn old bookstore goes up in flames a day after David signs it over.

Typical, the cowardly shit, slinking away from the messes he makes. After stirring up a goddamn hornet’s nest, he has the balls to just slip away?

Oh, I’ll hunt him down, alright, drag him back by his hair if I have to. He’s up to his neck in this, and I swear I’ll make him drown in it. Because no one, absolutely no one, fucks with Victor Morozov and walks away breathing.

And as for Laura, she’s collateral now.

Blyad.

Trailing Laura this morning was supposed to be straightforward, but shit, she caught me off guard.

I didn’t expect her to be breathtaking.

My mind reels back to this morning: She’s running, cheeks red, breath steaming out in the cold like an exhaust pipe. Her auburn hair’s a wild cascade, making me itch to yank it back to see those eyes cloud with desire as she moans.

I shadow her, hungry for another glimpse. But damn, she looks more beautiful, with those tear-filled eyes, staring at the ashes of that dump she called a bookstore—pathetically beautiful.

I almost feel bad. Almost.

Honestly, I could’ve paid for ten of those trashy stores with what I make in an hour. I didn’t need that bookstore; it was peanuts to the empire I built. But debt? It’s a matter of principle. As my old man, the Pakhan, would always drill into my head: “Never let a debt go unpaid, especially if it’s owed to you.”

The very thought of her has my heart pounding uncontrollably, and the unwanted surge of blood has my cock straining against my slacks.

Fucking inconvenient.

I slam back my vodka, hoping to drown the itch to get another look at her.

“Chert voz’mi,” I swear under my breath.

Glancing downward, I scan the swarm of bodies in my club. It’s just another Friday night, meant for some fun. But hell, no one’s stirring any wicked urges in me tonight.

What’s wrong with me?

Out of nowhere, a form draws my attention — the radiant hue of auburn locks, a body’s curve I’d recognize anywhere.

No way, is that…?

It’s her.

My eyebrows pull together seeing what she’s wearing.

Oh, sweet mother of God.

That dress on her?

Fuck, it’s like it’s vacuum-sealed onto her, every damn curve popping out and begging for attention. Too tight around her tits and ass, like she’s wearing it just to screw with me.

What the hell is she doing here?

“Victor,” a sultry voice slinks into my ear like oil over water.

Fucking Eleni, always in my VIP area. I swear she’s either got dirt on my guys, or she just knows how to play them right.

She never misses a Friday night, despite how fucking livid her father, Costas Theodorou of the notorious Theodorou Greece mafia clan, would be if he found out she’s dancing in my club. Tonight, she’s decked out in gold, trying her hardest to outshine everything else.

“Missed me?” she purrs. Her cold, entitled hand makes its way to my groin.

No fucking way. Fucking her once was all it took to know she was more in love with her own voice than anything else. And by anything, I mean anything.

“I missed you,” she drawls, her Greek accent thick and intentional.

I pry her hand off, holding back the urge to snap. “Not now, Eleni. Fuck off.”

She pouts, looking all wounded. What a performance. “You’re such an ass, Victor.”

I smirk. “You knew that when you climbed into bed with me.”

But she’s already become background noise because my attention’s riveted on her—the unexpected guest in the tight red dress and her many shots of whiskey.

Laura.

A thrill surges within me.