Page 39 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

But what is that thing?

If we bring the Volkov girl into our world the way Mateo and Leo want to do, I know with bone-deep certainty that she will ruin us all. Something about her is poison to men like us. I can sense it, even from here, floors above where she shivers in the dungeon.

And yet, I cannot bear to just dispose of her like Dante suggested. She might be poison, but like any good drug, she makes overdosing on her seem like it’s worth it.

Once again, I am caught in the middle. I feel helpless and dim-witted. This is all wrong in so many ways. We have to figure out what to do, find a common ground to agree on. Otherwise, we’ll tear each other to pieces.

In fact, we’ve already started to do just that.

11

Milaya

When I was young, no older than eight or nine, my father locked me in a closet with a set of lockpicking tools and told me to figure it out myself. He was there to greet me when I emerged, bawling. I was mad at him, but he swept me up in his tightest embrace and told me that he was sorry, this was just how he had to do it. He knew that I would never forget the lesson. Like being thrown in the deep end of the swimming pool, some experiences have to be taught in the harshest way possible so they sear themselves into your brain.

He never did anything like that again though. I think Mom screamed herself blue in the face.How could you do that to our daughter? After everything she went through?The lessons were cut off abruptly. Dad resolved that I would be kept out of his life, as best as the two of them could manage. So off I went to boarding school.

I only ever heard little snippets of Dad’s business. Same with the things that happened just after I was born. I had to piece the story together from tiny overheard scraps of conversation. Something about a cartel, a kidnapping, Irish something. It sounded almost made-up. If I hadn’t seen some of the things I’d seen in my family’s home with my own two eyes, I might not’ve believed it.

But there were things I saw that told me all of it was true. My father was exactly what people whispered he was. And when the housekeeping staff bowed their heads deferentially or scurried out of any room into which he walked, I knew with certainty that his reputation was deserved.

He always loved me, though. He loved me so much that it was tangible. When I let myself out of the closet with the lock picks and he was there waiting for me, I could swear I remember glimpsing a tear in his eye. Just for a moment before he hugged me, and when he set me back down, he was just the same old Dad. Stern but loving, tough but fair. I didn’t want to hug him because I was so mad, but he wasn’t the kind of man you could say no to. He knew how to push my buttons to get what he wanted from me.

If I could see him now, I would hug him and never let go. That’s one of the things you learn as you get older, I think—that your parents are people too and you have to hold onto them for as long as you can. You learn to understand them, to see why they did the things they did to you and for you. Only recently have I begun to appreciate my parents as mentors and role models, rather than just dispensers of cash and discipline.

I can’t hug my dad though. He’s far away, blissfully oblivious at home, and I am locked in the dungeon of some very bad men who want to spill the Volkov blood that’s running through my veins. So I just offer up a silent, “Thanks, Dad,” as I apply just one more ounce of pressure to the bobby pin and the shackles pop loose.

I rub my wrists and ankles to coax some blood flow into my limbs. But I have to move quickly. There’s no telling how much time I have before one of the brothers returns. The thought of it makes me shiver.

It’s funny—when I was on the table, I felt exposed and threatened, especially when Dante ran his knife down my midsection. But I felt safe in the strangest way, too. Like I was a prized painting hung up on a wall, and none of them would dare to touch me in any way that could hurt.

But I know that if I see them now, it won’t be like that. I’ll be just a helpless girl in an unfamiliar place. And they’ll be men—powerful, strong, violent men—who are free to do anything they please to me.

I have no choice. It is either face them out in the open or die as their prisoner. I can only cross my fingers and hope I don’t cross paths with another Bianci brother for the rest of my life.

The locks on the door are easier than the cuffs. Leo was careless when he shut me in here. He didn’t realize that the deadbolt didn’t slide fully into place. So, after I make short work of the bottom lock, I have only to wiggle the deadbolt out just the tiniest bit in order to make my way out.

Sizing it up, I take a deep breath, step back, and then ram into it with my shoulder as hard as I can. “Shit!” I yelp when I hit it. The door is solid, thick steel. I am already bruising from the contact. I hope the noise wasn’t too loud, but I can still hear the echoes of metal on stone reverberating throughout the dungeon beyond. With any luck, the brothers are all far away, and there is no one else in this section of wherever it is that I’m being held.

I take a deep breath once more, back up, and ram it a second time. Again, it aches, rattling my entire skeleton. The muscles of my shoulder are begging for mercy. I don’t have time for that though. An idea occurs to me—I reach over and grab the blanket I’d discarded and wrap it around my upper body as a buffer against the pain of charging forward.

It takes five more charges before the deadbolt finally shimmies all the way out of place. The door swings open, creaking loudly before I can grab it to stop it from making any more noise. I wait a moment inside the cell for the echoes to fade away.

Then I run.

There are too many doors to choose from. The first few I try are all locked. “Shit, shit, shit!” I whimper under my breath. One of these has to be open and lead outdoors. If I can just get to the street, I’ll flag down a passing car, borrow a cell phone, and tell my father where I am. He’ll have men nearby ready to pick me up. Maybe he’s even already missed a check-in from Anton and Matvei and he’s got people out looking for me. It’s entirely possible. For the first time in my life, I pray that my dad is more overbearing than normal.

But as I go down the row of doors, my hope begins to dwindle. Everything is locked. I’m eyeing the spiral staircase at one end of the room, the one that the men always emerged from. I have a creeping feeling that that way leads deeper into the place, which is the last direction I want to go. I want OUT, not IN.

And yet it seems I have no other option. The last door I have yet to try doesn’t budge even a bit. All the ways are locked … except the one that leads me right into the arms of the men who took me.

So be it.

I curse once more under my breath and pull the blanket tighter around myself. There is a long sword-looking thing hanging from a hook on the wall. I grab it and give it a few practice swings. It’s heavy, unwieldy, and I have no earthly clue how to use it. But it’s better than going in naked and unarmed.

I make my way towards the bottom of the staircase. Each step adds another tremor to the pool of nausea in my stomach. I feel like I’m stepping up to the mouth of a volcano and swan-diving in voluntarily. Hopefully, I’ll find another exit on a different floor. But as I reach the stairs and start climbing tentatively, one bare foot at a time, I have a sinking feeling that that will not be the case.

The stairway is long and winding. After so long spent in captivity, my thighs are weak and sore, and I’m quickly out of breath. But I keep moving. I have to. I can’t stop now. I can’t give up. My dad wouldn’t want that. And I made a promise to myself, didn’t I? I swore I would not die in here.

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