Page 13 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

I look to my right. Mateo and Leo are similarly engaged.

But beyond them, seated in the shadows, Sergio is alone and brooding.

I take to my feet with a long sigh, grab two glasses and a bottle of vodka from the table, and stroll over to him.

“Brother,” I say in greeting, collapsing onto the couch next to him. “Drink with me.”

He waves a hand at me. “None for me tonight.”

I pour a glass for him anyway. “Drink the fucking vodka,” I tell him. “What is troubling you?”

“What else? The Russians.”

“Ah.” I frown. I’ve had my hands full with normal business the last few days. I haven’t thought much about the Russian problem since the meeting. Thus far, the stalling tactic has worked, and Father has yet to bring up the topic again. I think we have all been secretly hoping that his rage will burn itself out and it won’t be an issue again. Sergio does not seem so certain. “You think the stalling won’t work much longer.”

“I think we are at the end of that particular rope, Vito.”

“Says who?” I wave my arms around to take in the whole nightclub. “We are rich. We are the kings of this city. Let the Russians play in the valley. Everything that matters is ours.”

“For now,” he murmurs under his breath.

My frown deepens. “What kind of talk is that, Sergio?”

He turns his gaze to me. “It is honest talk,” he replies evenly.

“You sound like Father.”

He laughs. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap.

“Nothing,” he mutters, staring into the depths of the vodka swishing around his glass tumbler. “Nothing at all.”

We fall into an uneasy silence.

It is broken only when I hear a ruckus from down below. Our booth is seated at the top of a spire inside the nightclub, only accessible from a spiral staircase cut into the rising structure. We like this spot for the ease with which we can control all who wish to access us.

But someone is coming now who doesn’t give a damn about what we think we control.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” snarls an ugly, familiar voice.

Father emerges at the top of the staircase, eyes wild, hair mussed. His cane clicks menacingly on the glass floor. To his left and his right stand his lieutenants and bodyguards, a veritable army of them.

“If it isn’t my worthless fucking sons,” he grimaces when he sees us standing there.

I rise to my feet and look at the bottle girls. “Go,” I say. They all slither away down the stairs at once. They know the rules here. They know that they don’t want to stick around for whatever happens next.

“Father …” I begin, tilting my head in greeting.

He glares at me. “Don’t say a fucking word, Vito.”

His eyes sweep around to look at each of us in turn. Mateo, Leo, Dante, Sergio, and I all look back at him, even and measured. We don’t show fear. We don’t show anger. We’ve been trained better than that.

“Tell me something, sons: why do I hear that there are Russians still living and breathing in my fucking city?” He punctuates these last three words with slams of his cane down onto the glass floor. It cracks under the power of the third blow, spiderwebbing outward from the point of impact.

“We are studying the situation,” Mateo answers coolly.

Father spits on the floor. “Bullshit.”

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