Page 103 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

And his own brother is to blame.

What am I supposed to feel as I look down at his bruised, battered body where he fell? Guilt? Longing? Fear? Pride? There’s no rulebook in the world that could govern this moment. I couldn’t possibly be ready for something like this.

A quick review of what has happened between me and the man at my feet: he kidnapped me, tortured me, made me fall for him, shot my father, broke my heart. And at the end of all that is a big fat question mark, a glaringTO BE CONTINUED. But I don’t know what happens next in this story. I haven’t known for a very, very long time.

I can hear my father breathing behind me. It’s a nasty, pained, rattling noise, but it’s miles better than no noise at all. I don’t know how he’s clinging to life. I’m just grateful that he is. I’ve done the best I can to keep his heart beating, though I have next to nothing to work with. I tore my T-shirt into shreds and tried to pad the bullet wound to slow the bleeding, with middling success.

He fell asleep just a few short minutes before Vito was thrown in here. Now, I’m standing between the two of them, wondering how the hell—orif—we will ever emerge from this cell alive.

Vito mumbles something. I crouch down and put my face next to his mouth, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“Serg … Sergio …” he rasps in the voice of a dying man.

“Save your energy,” I tell him. My own voice comes out strangled and desperate. So many things are warring inside of me that it’s impossible to know how I’m supposed to sound. I hate this man; I love him; I blame him; I need him.

He grabs my hand and tries to squeeze, but there’s no strength left in his grip. I remember how solid he felt escorting me from my bedroom to the great room on the first night I was brought up from the dungeon, the night I wore the gold dress. He felt so vibrant with strength that night. Unyielding, like a mountain. Now, he is a ghost of himself. His eyelids flutter open and shut, as if he’s trying and failing to hold onto consciousness. He needs to sleep. I sweep my gaze down his body and note countless cuts, bruises, ragged clothes, torn flesh. They worked him over mercilessly. As with my father, it seems like a miracle that he’s still alive.

Broken men do not die easily, it seems.

“No,” Vito says with a sudden infusion of strength. He adjusts his grip on my hand and—slowly, agonizingly— pulls himself up into a seated position against the wall. His breath grows labored with the effort, but he seems satisfied. Like conquering one simple thing is giving him the bravery to look ahead to the next.

Sighing, I settle into a seat against the wall next to him. I sit there with bated breath until his eyes open again. I’m shivering, I realize—the cell is cold this time of night. I remember well just how cold it can get. But Vito is radiating heat. Consciously or unconsciously, I scoot closer to him and bask in his warmth. His hand has never left mine. Unlike in the woods, though, this is not a possessive grasp. It’s the grasp of a man who doesn’t want to lose the one thing he has left.

Vito lets loose a long, rattling exhalation, then turns to look at me. He’s so pale and forlorn. Like that night in the hallway. I want to kiss his hand again, and I have to suppress the urge.Remember what he’s done. Remember who he is.Somehow, I manage to resist it.

“Sergio told me everything,” he whispers.

“What is everything?”

He takes long pauses between his sentences as he begins to explain in short, halting bursts what happened in the room upstairs with his brother. I don’t know what all of it means, though I can put some of the puzzle pieces together. I don’t suppose it actually matters. He’s not telling me this because I need to know it. He’s telling me because he needs to clear his slate before he dies. It’s the confession of a man at the end of his life. That thought, even more than the cold, makes me shudder.

As he talks, a drop of blood trickles from his forehead down onto his chin. I stare at it as it clings there, catching the moonlight like a brilliant ruby. It is violently beautiful. Just like Vito himself.

Eventually, the story ends. I know everything now. Not that it matters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to me. He reaches up a fragile hand to touch against my cheek. I almost turn away.

But I can’t.

Because the truth staring me in the face can no longer be ignored: I love this man. Or rather, Icouldlove him. There is the possibility for love between us. And not just him—I love Leo, too. And Mateo. And Dante. I love all of them as if they were all unique facets cut into the same gem. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s kind of breaking my brain just thinking about it, but it’s so true that how could I deny it? They broke me in their castle, but when they cracked me wide open, they revealed a Milaya inside of me that could be anything she wanted to be.

I’m not just a Volkov princess anymore. I am what Dante called me as I rode him in the moonlight with a knife held against his throat—I am a queen. I amtheirqueen.

I open my mouth to say those words to Vito. If he is going to die, I want him to die knowing that I am broken just like him, and that our jagged pieces fit together like a puzzle, and that if he dies, part of me will die too. I want to tell him that I forgive him and I want to take his pain away now and forever. I want him to lay his head in my lap and give me the back of his hand to kiss. He can’t die without hearing those words. I can’t let that happen.

But before I can find a place to begin, the cell door clangs open once more. Three men stride in with menace in their faces. They pick me up and drag me out as I scream.

Vito’s eyes don’t leave mine until the very last second. Then the door shuts in my face, and we are separated, and once again, I am alone in the hands of men who want to hurt me.

This time though, I don’t think there will be a happy ending.

I’m still screaming and crying as they carry me through the dungeon space. I see Mateo, Dante, and Leo strung up from chains in the ceiling. Each of them is badly hurt. My tears thicken, my screams grow hoarser. Why is there so much blood at my feet? Why aren’t they looking at me? What is going to happen to them?

There are no answers to be found. There is only pain down here, pain and darkness and hatred.

I assumed they were going to take me upstairs, but instead, they take me down the side hallway that Mateo once took me down. A familiar door is already open, waiting for me. When they hurl me inside and slam it shut, I know just where to turn.

To the confessional screen separating me from whoever is waiting on the other side.

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