Page 9 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

Like the sin I am holding in my hands. This picture and the bloodstained story behind it was the first time I saw clearly how wrong my father could be. But at least in those days he was tempered by logic.

Now, there is nothing holding him back.

The grandfather clock tolls in the corner of my bedroom. I sigh, bring the picture to my lips, and kiss it softly before I return it to its hidden resting place.

I grab my gun, my knife, my watch. Then I descend into the depths of the castle.

It is time for the meeting.

* * *

“Two decades of this shit! Twenty fucking years! I will not tolerate another goddamn second of those pig-fuck Russians infringing on my territory. Do you understand?”

My father is frothing at the mouth, literally. When he says “pig-fuck,” his spit flies across the cool, dank air and lands with a spatter on the flagstones that make up the floor.

My gaze rakes around the room. There are thirteen of us here. My father, myself, my four brothers, and his seven lieutenants. I occupy myself during my father’s rant by imagining how many men we have slaughtered in total. The number is astronomical. We could build another castle with the bodies and fill a moat around its perimeter with their blood.

The eyes of each man here look the same. Furtive, in that they glance into the corners of the room again and again, constantly assessing for threats. But also steady, steely, in the way that only the eyes of a man who has killed a person with his bare hands can be.

As my father’s eldest and heir apparent, I am seated directly to his right. I have put on a stoic face while he rants and raves. It is best not to betray any inclination whatsoever as to what I might be thinking. My father’s lieutenants are loyal and battle-tested, of course, or else they would not be in here. But there is nothing like proximity to power to build a taste for it. I know damn well that, when my time comes, I will have to prove my right to the Bianci throne.

Fortunately, I am well-prepared for that.

My eyes settle on Dante, seated directly across the circle from me. He is slouched low in his seat, picking at his fingernails with a knife blade that he should not have brought into the council room. Technically, weapons are forbidden in here. But Dante has never been one for rules. His hair is long and shaggy, and the piercings in his lip and eyebrow reflect the light from the candles that sit in wall sconces on all sides. He clearly isn’t paying a lick of attention to Father’s speech. I have no doubt that his insolence will draw Father’s fury soon enough.

As if he heard me thinking, my father swivels towards Dante. He has to lean heavily on his cane these days. One bad leg from an assassination attempt has left him with a pronounced limp. But his fire has not diminished even a bit.

“Dante!” he roars.

Dante doesn’t even flinch. Nor does he look up. That is a mistake. If there is one thing my father cannot stand, it is disrespect.

With a flash of movement faster than any of us expected from him, Father unsheathes the knife he keeps at his side and leaps to Dante. The knife flies through the air and stops only when its tip is pressed up against the soft underside of Dante’s chin. He digs it in deep enough that, even from here, I can see a bejeweled bead of blood slide down the blade.

Dante still has not moved a muscle.

Finally, he looks up into my father’s face, held just inches from his and roiling with the kind of tempestuous fury that only Giovanni Bianci is capable of. “Stab me, Father,” he says lazily. “I’d prefer that to hearing any more of this bullshit fucking meeting.”

A few of the stupider men chuckle. The wise ones say nothing, do nothing. I see the lines of tension in my father’s hands and neck. He knows that Dante does not respond to threats. Dante, of all the killers in this room, is the least afraid of death. He welcomes it with open arms. Something broke in him when Mother died. There is not much sanity left behind his amber eyes.

“Father,” mutters Sergio, seated to Dante’s left. The two of them are twins, physically identical in every way, other than that Sergio’s eyes are a shocking violet. But in terms of their temperament, the two couldn’t be farther apart. Whereas Dante is wild, reckless, unhinged, Sergio is the exact opposite. He is calm and composed no matter what he faces. Of all of the Bianci brothers, I know that Father loves Sergio the most. I may be the oldest, but Sergio is the one Father would choose to take his place if he could.

“Do not get involved,” Father snaps to Sergio. He hasn’t moved the knife from Dante’s neck.

As we watch in frozen silence, Dante leans forward and grabs Father’s hand. He pulls the knife closer to his throat, leaving a red slice in its wake. The drop of blood turns into a small but steady trickle.

“Do it,” he hisses. His eyes are wild. “Cut my fucking throat right here.”

“Father,” Sergio says again. He reaches across and puts his hand on top of Dante’s, which is resting on top of my father’s, still gripping the handle of the knife. “Let it go.”

Silence. The chamber seems to hold its breath, as if the castle around us were a living organism.

Then Father growls and rips the knife away from both of them. He sheathes it again and staggers back to his seat, leaning heavily on his cane. Settling back into his seat with a flourish, he looks again around the room.

And just like that, it is as if nothing ever happened. No outburst. No knife drawn on his own son.

Nothing.

It is time to restore some semblance of order to this meeting, which has been utterly derailed by Father’s short temper. That responsibility falls to me.

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