Page 26 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

Anton and Matvei are lying on the floor of the back area.

They’re dead.

Their hands are tied behind their back and their eyes are wide open in horror. I see a little bit of blood at the rims of their noses and the corners of their lips. They’re so pale, even paler than normal.

The drunkenness has faded away enough that I can feel the full weight of the horror that lands on me like a ton of bricks.

“What—” I start to say, but I don’t have time to even finish the thought before the lead officer pulls a syringe from his belt, walks up to me, and plunges it into my neck.

“Good night, Milaya Volkov,” he says as the world fades to black at an alarming speed. I slump into the arms of whichever cop—though I now realize they are definitely not real police officers—is holding me.

I can feel them pick me up and lay me along the bench on one side of the van. The last thing I see before everything disappears completely is the leering face of the shaggy-haired, pierced cop. He shoves his face in mine and winks. “Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he says with a chuckle. “Your nightmare is just getting started.”

7

Vito

The ride back to the Bianci Castle is silent. Most of our rides have been silent, ever since the night of the raid catastrophe. None of us know what to say. When that is the case, it is better not to say anything at all.

Our world has been upended. But I swore an oath, one that I intend to spend every second for the rest of my life upholding: the Bratva will pay for what they’ve done to my family.

The execution of tonight’s extraction couldn’t have gone any better. This plan was put into motion as we sat in the parking lot of the abandoned gas station two nights ago, still dripping blood, sweat, and tears, only minutes removed from witnessing our father and brother mowed down in a blaze of Russian gunfire.

Mateo’s research steered us well. The leader of the Russian Bratva, Luka Volkov, had a daughter. And she just so happened to be in our city. From there, it was easy work to track her down and select a time to strike. The idiot girl made things so simple for us. Abandoning her guards? Sequestering herself in a hotel room? It was child’s play to don police uniforms and march her out in cuffs.

But I didn’t expect tonight’s twist.

She looks like Audrey.

My mind flashes back to the photo in my nightstand. They have the same dark hair, the same vivid eyes.

No. Now is not the time for weakness, Vito,I grit internally.If you stop, you die. So keep moving. Keep executing the plan.

We arrive at the rear entrance to the castle, the one normally used for bulk deliveries. It has direct access to the basement. I put the car in park and sit for a moment, savoring the silence. My bones are weary already, and yet we still have a long way to go before my oath is completed. Tonight was a success, yes, but only the first of many. The first domino in the line. Soon enough, the big one will fall and I will have Luka Volkov’s blood puddling at my feet.

“She’s a hot little thing,” Leo comments, looking over his shoulder to where the drugged Milaya is sprawled on the bench seat. She is dressed up like a party girl in leather pants and a scrap of white thing for a shirt. I don’t deny that my cock stirred at the sight of her, but it is hardly the time for trivial pleasures like that. Besides, she is the spawn of our enemy. I wouldn’t touch her with a Russian’s dick.

“Maybe we oughta have a little fun before we do what’s next,” Dante suggests with a wild smile.

“No,” I bark at once. “Bring her to the basement.”

So much for enjoying the silence.

I pull the keys out of the ignition, throw open the door, and swing myself out. I take the ramp down and find the spiral staircase that leads the rest of the way to the basement. The air gets damper and cooler as I descend. After the hot, cramped hotel room that we took Milaya from, it is a welcome relief.

At the bottom of the staircase, I step out into a cavernous room. At the far end is an archway, sealed shut by a thick iron gate. That way leads to the council chambers, where my father first laid out the plan that got him killed. It can stay locked for the rest of time, as far as I am concerned.

Between the locked archway and the little cutout from which I have emerged is a panoply of leather and steel devices. Riding crops, fire pokers, blades of every size and heft imaginable. There are chains bolted into the walls and the ceiling, and gas lamps that burn dimly in sconces set along the walls. Between each pair of sconces to my left and to my right, a cell has been cut into the stone, with thick steel doors to muffle the sounds of our inmates on those occasions when the cells are occupied. They have all been empty for some time now. Until tonight.

It is a torture cave, plain and simple. If I sniff closely, I can sense the tang of old blood that has seeped into the rock. The foot soldiers of the Bianci Mafia trade stories about what they have heard taking place down here. It is a place far from the eyes of the law, where we bring our enemies when they refuse to cooperate.

For the next however-long-it-takes, it will house Milaya Volkov, unwilling princess of the Volkov Bratva.

I hear steps coming down the iron staircase. Dante emerges, carrying Milaya’s limp body in his arms like she weighs nothing. She is a petite little thing. Like a fawn, all long limbs and delicate eyes. The barbiturate I injected her with will keep her unconscious for a while yet. I made sure that the dose was strong enough to incapacitate her entirely. The last thing we needed was for her to cause a scene as we took her from the hotel.

But in the grips of the drug, she is limp. Practically dead. Strange thing that I feel a surge of something unexpected when I see the pallor of her face. Surely that is not empathy I am feeling. It can’t be compassion. Those emotions are rusty and unused in me.

I have to remind myself of the facts of the matter: she is the daughter of my enemy and the key to our revenge. That ought to be enough to quiet any misgivings I have about what we are doing.

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