Page 107 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

31

Milaya

One Year Later

For the first time in what feels like a freaking eternity, I’m finally alone. It’s a little weird though. Like when you’ve been somewhere loud, a concert or a bar or whatever, for a long time, and then you leave and your ears are still ringing. No one else is in this small, sunny little room with me—I’ve checked half a dozen times already—and yet I still feel their presence as if they’re hiding just out of sight.

Dad has barely left my side since we got back, and I’ve barely left his. He’s getting a little too old to be taking bullet wounds like that. But Luka Volkov is a tough old bastard, as hard to kill as can be. It’d require more than one measly shot to take him down. He’s been scowling at nurses and snapping at my mom’s insistence that he take things easy. The first day they let him out of the hospital bed to give walking a shot, he tried to throw the walker they gave him through a nearby open window. “I don’t need a fucking walker,” he muttered. “Walkers are for babies and cripples. I’m neither. Now get out of my way and let me stretch my legs.”

I just laughed at that. What else was there to do? Dad is Dad. Dad will always be Dad, for better or for worse. I think I’m finally learning to accept that. Can’t have light without the darkness after all, right?

The Bianci brothers haven’t left my side either. They’ve stuck to me like shadows, each in their own peculiar way. Leo lounges wherever he pleases, Mateo and Vito situate themselves like sentries in the corner of whatever room I’m currently occupying, and Dante just does Dante stuff in my vicinity. It’s funny—in so many ways, they are completely different men than they were when I met them. And yet, like my dad, they are also completely the same. They have just become more themselves, if that makes any sense at all.

But as unique as the men in my life are from one another, they all have one thing in common: they won’t leave me alone. I normally don’t mind it. After years of being an only child and then a little bit of a studious loner at college, it’s actually been a refreshing change of pace to have company all the time. Especially when they’re pretty easy on the eyes.

Right now though, I’m savoring the rare moment of silence and stillness. None of Mateo’s heavy sighs or Leo’s absentminded murmuring fills the air. None of Vito’s “hmms” or Dad’s old-man grumbles. None of the clinking and clacking of the nunchucks that Dante bought for himself.

“Nunchuks?!” I asked in amazement. “Do you think you’re a Ninja Turtle or something? Here, just take your knife back.” But he refused to take it, the stubborn psychopath. He said it was mine now, that it had a new master. I corrected him and said I was actually a “mistress” and that he should call me by my proper title. In response, Dante just grinned wolfishly and tried to grab my ass while I skipped away, laughing.

They’re all outside waiting for me. But I need a moment before I go out there. I look up into the mirror of the vanity at which I’m seated. It’s still a strange sight to see makeup on my face and artfully woven braids in my hair. The makeup artists and hairdressers did a fabulous job, I gotta say. I look downright regal, with diamonds dripping from my ears and dark strokes of mascara making the luminescent greens of my eyes really shine.

Anastasia was mad that I didn’t let her do my makeup, but I told her that this was a wedding, not a rave, so we’d better leave it to the professionals. It was a little hard at first to mend things with her. It took a lot of crying together before we found our footing again. But I’m glad we did. She may be a blonde bombshell party girl, but she’smyblonde bombshell party girl, and my best friend. I know she’ll feel guilty forever, though I really do hope she finds a way to move past it. Everything has worked out well for pretty much everyone. Besides, I understand why she did what she did. It was an impossible situation that she was forced into. Anyone else would have done the same. I’ve forgiven her. Mostly because I’ve learned that life is far too short and fragile to live with hatred held so close to your heart.

I turn this way and that in the mirror. It’s nice to allow myself a little bit of narcissism. Lord knows everyone else in my life has that in spades. I caught Leo using my tweezers to pluck his eyebrows the other day, for crying out loud! He even had the gall to tell me to leave him alone while he finished. And Vito gets exceedingly grumpy if I interrupt his workout routine. Those men make me roll my eyes sometimes, I swear.

This moment is about me though. As soon as I pass through the doors behind me, I’ll be rejoining the world. Out there, there are other people to care about, other people I love. But in here, I am all by myself. Just me, Milaya Volkov. No titles, no responsibilities, no burdens hefted on my shoulders. Just the faint smell of jasmine and soft peals of string music from the stereo system. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it. I breathe, I sit, I feel the warmth flowing throughout my body.

There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever find this peace again. During all those nights spent shivering in a cell, I almost forgot how it felt to be warm and safe and calm. I lived in fear, the fear of a mouse in the underbrush when he senses an owl overhead. So many times, I came close to giving up. But I held on. I made it out. I made things better.

I open my eyes. Once upon a time, I would have been critical of every tiny flaw in my appearance. Now though, all I see is what I am: a queen. A warrior. A survivor. A fighter. I know I can do anything, because I have already done everything. I went to hell and stabbed the devil in the eye. After that, what is left to frighten me? Not a damn thing, is the answer.

I’m proud of what I’ve done, even the parts that are drenched in blood and tears. Our scars are what mark us as unique, after all. I’ve come to think of my scars as the stitching that holds me together. I’ve got my stories on my skin; that’s what makes me who I am. I like that this dress shows that. It’s strapless and sleeveless, so that the paleness of my skin glows against the pure white of the fabric. I run my hand down the skirts, savoring how fine and delicate it feels against my fingertips. This, too, once seemed like an impossibility. And now, I am moments away from stepping out of my life and into a happily ever after that I never dreamed of.

A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. “Yes?” I call.

“It’s me,” rumbles a deep voice.

I’d know that voice anywhere. Rising, I walk over to the door, turn the handle, and open it maybe just a quarter of an inch. “You, sir, are most definitely not supposed to be here,” I reprimand playfully.

“I’m not coming in,” Vito answers, “so no rules are being broken.”

“Well, no peeking,” I snap. “And don’t let anyone else see either.”

“About that …” interjects Mateo’s voice.

“You’ll have to forgive us, princess,” adds Dante.

Leo finishes, “We’ve never been much good with rules anyway.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. So much for my peaceful solitude. “I’m still not opening the door, you know.”

“We wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing.”

“Mhmm. Color me skeptical.”

Dante chimes in, “Such little faith! Hey, I could still steal a car if you wanna ditch these guys and elope to Vegas or something.”

I hear a rustle and the thump of one of the brothers punching the other in the arm.

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