Page 46 of Velvet Chains
I glance at Laura again. She looks so innocent, so guileless. But I know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving.
Time to get some fucking answers.
“You seem deep in thought,” she remarks, catching my eye. “Penny for them?”
I scoff. “My thoughts are worth a hell of a lot more than a penny, wife.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a fondness to it. “Of course. How could I forget? The great Victor Morozov, always so priceless.”
“Damn right,” I mutter, but my heart’s not in it.
It’s a short drive to The Regal Roost, a high-end breakfast spot known for its decadent waffles and imported coffee.
The memory hits me unexpectedly as we pull up to The Regal Roost. This place has been here for decades, a staple of my childhood. Papa and Mama used to bring us here on special occasions, a rare treat in a life that was often chaotic and unpredictable.
I remember the way Mama’s face would light up as she savored her favorite Belgian waffles, the way Papa would laugh and wipe whipped cream from her nose. For a few precious hours, we were just a normal family enjoying a meal together. No talk of business or enemies, no worries about who might be plotting against us.
It was in those moments that I first understood what love looked like. The way Papa looked at Mama like she was the only thing that mattered in the world. The way she leaned into him, trusting and content.
But now, with Laura…
No. Stop it. This isn’t about love. It’s about getting answers.
I shake off the memories as Misha opens the car door. Laura steps out, her eyes widening as she takes in the grand facade of the restaurant.
“Wow. This place looks amazing,” she breathes.
“This is a place where my parents used to bring us when we were kids…”
Suka! Why am I sharing this.
She flashes me a smile, her face flushed with excitement. It’s the same look Mama used to get, that pure, unbridled joy at the simple pleasures in life.
Fuck. Focus, Victor. You have a job to do.
And if buttering her up with gourmet food is what it takes to get her talking, then so be it.
Misha opens the door for her. She smiles at him, bright and warm, and I feel an irrational surge of irritation.
Get it together, Morozov. She’s just a means to an end. Nothing more.
But as I follow her into the restaurant, watching her eyes widen with wonder, I’m not so sure anymore.
Fuck. What is this woman doing to me?
Chapter 20
Victor
I WATCH as Laura devours the last piece of her Belgian waffle, topped with a mountain of whipped cream, fresh strawberries, and a drizzle of chocolate sauce. She’s already polished off a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
What the hell? Has she been starving herself all this time?
She looks up at me, a contented smile on her face, and I realize I’m smiling back.
No. Stop it.
“So, enjoying the food?” she asks, syrup lingering on her lips.
