Page 14 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

“Father, it’s not wise for us to rush into the enemy’s hands like that,” I say. I try to keep my voice calm and reasonable. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know that he doesn’t give a flying fuck about calm or reason tonight.

He just wants blood.

“It’s not wise, you say?” He clicks his way towards me. His bad leg drags slightly on the ground behind him. His eyes, though, are alive and glistening, reflecting the whirling overhead black lights. He looks ghostly. “You don’t want torush?”

I know he is mocking me, trying to get a rise out of me. If he were anyone else, I would strike him down where he stands.

But he is my father. He is the only man in this entire fucking Mafia who gets to talk to me like that.

So, as much as I despise it, I have to stand there and take it. It is better for me to do this. Mateo would retreat inwards, Leo would blow him off, Dante would stab him in the throat. I am the only one who knows how to deal with Father’s anger.

“Let me tell you something, Vito,” he drawls. “I was a young man when I came into this life. I built everything we have from nothing. From fucking nothing. And along the way, I learned that there are two types of men in this world. There are men you can trust, and men you cannot. What you are telling me right now is that I cannot trust you—none of you—to carry out a simple fucking order. I told you to exterminate the Russians. If you do not do that, you are saying I can’t trust you. And if I can’t trust you, then you are not my son. You are merely an obstacle in my way.”

He breathes in my face. It smells like whiskey. He has been drinking, despite the doctors’ orders to the contrary.

“Do you know what I do to obstacles in my way, Vito? I annihilate them. I eradicate them like goddamn tumors. I will ask you one more time—askyou, because you are my son and my heir, and because I am nothing if not a reasonable man—to go kill the Russians like I want. I don’t have to threaten you. I don’t have to command you. Because you already know full fucking well what will happen if you disobey me.”

He leers in my face even closer. The whiskey stench is overpowering. “I will slit your throat with my own two hands.” He leans back and smiles. “Now then. Shall we go?”

There is silence in the booth. In the corner of my vision, I can see my brothers looking at each other. Sergio gives an imperceptible nod of his head. They all rise to their feet. Father’s smile widens. We follow him down the stairs and out of the club.

I just hope we are not following him to our deaths.

* * *

The castle armory is a cornucopia of guns, ammunition, and explosives. We operate in silence as we prepare for the raid. Each of us has changed into all-black tactical gear and begun stocking up.

I sling a shotgun over my back, stuff a pair of pistols into holsters on each hip, and wrap a belt of grenades around another shoulder. To my left and my right, each of my brothers is doing the same. Only Dante sits back, sharpening his knife again and again. The sound is irritating.

Shhhhhink.

Shhhhhink.

“I think it is sharp enough now,” I snap.

Dante laughs. “It is never sharp enough, Vito,” he replies. “It never will be. Not until I can make the air bleed.” He swings it through the damp air in the room, testing the heft. It must satisfy him, because he smiles wickedly.

“Come,” Sergio says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “It is best not to delay this any longer.”

I sigh and turn my back to Dante as I finish loading up my duffel bag with the rest of my tools for the night.

We pile into the SUVs waiting for us in the driveway at the front of the castle. My father and his lieutenants are in one. My brothers and I are in the second. We have an address, a warehouse in an industrial park outside of the city.

God only knows what we will find there.

The scant intel that we have available suggests a forward contingent of Bratva troops is using the warehouse as a staging area. Beyond that, we know virtually nothing. We don’t know how many men they have, or what is the layout of the building. We don’t know how heavily they are armed, if backup is nearby, if they are aware that we are coming. We are flying completely blind.

My father doesn’t care. He wants only blood. He doesn’t realize that this could end us all.

I feel the anxiety gnawing away in my chest. I don’t like any of this. My whole life has been about learning to control the variables. This, though, is uncontrollable. This is rage-driven. It is not warfare—it is suicide, plain and simple.

I don’t say a word as we cruise down the highway. Soon, we have left downtown Los Angeles behind. The industrial park looms in the distance. It grows larger as we drive farther into the night, a pit of darkness and blocky shadows.

I brood. It is too late to turn back now, I know that much. Father would kill us all with his bare hands before he let us abandon this foolhardy mission.

But how else are we supposed to get out of this alive? This chaotic approach goes against every tactic I’ve ever learned. Every tactic Father has ever taught me, as a matter of fact. What happened to Giovanni Bianci, the master tactician, the Sun Tzu of the Mafia world? He is a raving lunatic now, off to spill blood over some perceived threat that may not even prove to matter.

Christ, I hope that is the case.

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