Page 12 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

Mateo is still rubbing his beard as he, Sergio, and I sit in silence. I can always tell when his head is somewhere else. He gets a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s not seeing anything in front of him. When he was a little boy, it was the dreamy look of a bookworm. Now that he has aged and his lanky frame has filled out with muscle, it has a more sinister undertone to it. I think to myself, not for the first time, that I am glad he is on my side.

“I need to learn more about these Russians,” he says after a while. “How they operate, how they move. Know thine enemy and all that.”

“Go, then,” I tell him. “Report back.”

He nods and departs.

Then, it is just Sergio and me. My youngest brother is paler than the rest of us. Along with his gaunt, high cheekbones, it makes those purple eyes look almost supernatural. He is not just an old soul; he is an ancient. Solemn since the day he was born, or so the stories go. Even our maids and wet nurses were afraid of him. Mother thought she had given birth to a demon.

But Father knew better. Father knew that Sergio was born for the Mafia life.

“This won’t end well,” I say to him. The wind outside the window has picked up some. It looks as though it might storm tonight. The fire burns lower but with greater intensity. It casts flickering shadows across the bookshelves.

“I am afraid that I agree with you,” he answers without looking back at me. Like Mateo, he, too, is lost in thought, gazing everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Father’s rage is going to get the best of him.”

At that, he looks up at me. “You think he is too angry.”

“He is tooeverything,” I correct. “Too angry, too vicious, too feared. He thinks it makes him stronger. But it just isolates him. We have no allies. Only this …” I wave a hand around as I look for the right words. “Cult of personality.”

Sergio is still staring at me. He hasn’t blinked. “We can’t show weakness, though. Father understands that. If we show the Russians we are afraid, they will come through the doors like the Visigoths sacking Rome.”

“I am not weak,” I snap.

“No, brother, you are not.”

He taps his fingers against his jaw, an old tic he’s had for as long as I can remember. It means he is deep in thought.

“You fear Father, don’t you?” he asks me suddenly.

Rage surges through me. I clench the fire poker in my hand until my knuckles show white. “I don’t fear a fucking thing in this world,” I tell him.

“Then you hate him.”

I say nothing.

“He took something precious from you. I was young, but I still remember.”

Still, I say nothing.

He shakes his head and snaps himself out of his trance. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. I meant nothing by it.” He bows, strangely enough, like we’re knights in the Middle Ages, instead of trained Mafia killers in the twenty-first century. Then he leaves without another word, following in the footsteps of all our brothers before him.

I stay in the study for a long time after he is gone, tending to the fire with the weapon in my hand and thinking about what Sergio said to me.

You fear Father, don’t you …

Then you hate him?

I fear him. I hate him. I serve him.

Fuck.

Vito

Two Days Later

Two nights after the council meeting, we’re sitting in the VIP booth at a night club. For a change, everyone is in a relatively good mood. Even Dante. He’s got two bottle girls in his lap. One is licking at his neck, the other has her hand buried between his legs. Good for him. That angry bastard could use a good fuck.

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