Page 31 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

“I—I think you have the wrong person,” I whimper. “I’m a nobody. You don’t want me here.”

He laughs again, that horrible grating sound, and shakes his head. “No, I think you are exactly who we want here. You are the key to it all.”

“The key to what?” I ask, but he just lays that leather-gloved finger over my lips once more. Bringing his other hand above the table into my line of sight, he lays the tip of his knife delicately against my exposed throat.

My breath quickens. So it’ll be a fast death, then. If he so much as sneezes, he’s going to sever every major artery that connects my brain to the rest of me. At this point, death is looking like my best way out, though. It’d be practically merciful. The alternatives are far more nauseating.

Keeping a careful grip on the knife, the man begins to move it down my body. His touch is light enough to just graze without slicing, which seems like a miracle, given how masterfully he was sharpening the knife before walking over to me. I feel the cold metal, like the pinprick of a needle, move from my throat, tracing down the length of my collarbone. He stops at my shoulder and reverses course, taking it instead between my breasts. There, he pauses for a moment. Grinning wickedly at me, he picks up the knife and taps it teasingly, once on each nipple. They’re already rock-hard from the horrible and strange combination of things assaulting my brain: the drugs I was injected with, how insanely good-looking this tattooed freak is, how naked I am, the chill in the air. Arousal and fear course through my bloodstream. I can feel my pulse behind my eyes. I try to close them, but the man grips my chin and shakes my head.

“Look at me,” he orders, and when he says it in that growly baritone, I have no choice but to obey. Hell, Iwantto obey. I want to make him happy. Not just because he can kill me at a moment’s notice, but because something in me responds to that subtle note in his voice. The tone that says, “I own you now.”

I open my eyes and stare into his. He puts the tip of the blade back on my chest, right between my breasts, and resumes dragging it downwards. He passes my belly button, passes my bikini tan line, headed for where my legs meet.

I try to squirm and squeeze my thighs together, but the chains tighten on the table and prevent me from getting anywhere.

“Nuh-uh,” he admonishes, still smiling. “I never told you you could move.”

I am hot and cold all at once. I am scared and turned on all at once. I don’t know what’s happening, but I can’t look away from the man’s vicious honey eyes.

The knife starts to move again, further south, it’s almost at my …

“Dante!”

The voice cuts in from somewhere behind my head. I can’t see who spoke. But I can hear the pounding footsteps of a massive man striding forward quickly and shoving the knife-bearer—Dante, he called him—hard in the chest. Dante stumbles backwards as this new man moves into my field of vision.

I recognize him too, in the quick glimpse of his face I get before he pushes Dante up against a wall. This is the lead cop, the one who drugged me. The two men start arguing back and forth in a flowing foreign language. I think it’s Italian they’re speaking, though I’m not sure. I am only familiar with the icy spikes of my father’s native Russian. My mother refused to teach me Italian. She said that she and I were both Volkov women now. Italian was merely a relic of her past.

I wish I knew it now, though, so I could understand what these devils are saying to each other. It’s clearly a heated argument of some sort. I can only make out random words here and there amidst the fast-paced flow.

Until I hear, clear as day in the midst of it—Milaya Volkov.

They said my name.

That means they know who I am.

As soon as the words leave Dante’s lips, the two men freeze. They both turn to look at me as one. They know right away what I heard, what I understood. The new man turns to look at Dante. He doesn’t bother with Italian anymore. All he says is, “You fucking fool.” Dante merely scowls and plops himself back onto the stool he was sitting on when I first woke up.

The new man sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted, with dark purple rings under his eyes. “I told you not to touch her,” he snaps. “I come down and what do I find you doing? Playing with that stupid knife.”

“She had questions, Vito,” the tattooed man replies. “I was merely answering them for her. In a manner of speaking.”

“We agreed that—”

“Where am I?” I interrupt. I’m shivering with cold and pain and fear, but the questions in my head are still burning. Who are these men? What do they want from me?

Vito turns to fix me with another cold glare. He has a sharp nose—“aquiline” is a word I remember from one of my mandatory history classes freshman year. It was the Roman ideal, back in the old days. He, too, is as beautiful as Dante. They must be brothers, I realize. I don’t know how I didn’t see it last night in the hotel room—maybe because I was far too drunk. But they have the same nose, the same high cheekbones, the same dark hair, though Dante wears his far longer and messier.

Also like his brother, Vito doesn’t seem at all interested in answering my questions. “I cannot tell you anything yet. Only this: if you cooperate with us, you won’t be harmed.”

“And if I don’t?” I fire back, sounding far bolder than I feel.

“If you don’t …” He shrugs tiredly. “I can make no promises about what will happen if you don’t.”

I swallow past a throat that is still so dry and pained. “Will you hurt me?”

He hesitates, searching my face. For what, I don’t know. I don’t know whether he finds what he’s looking for or not, either. In the end, he just shrugs once more. “If you don’t cooperate willingly, I will do what I have to do until you change your mind and give me what I want.”

“What is it that you want?” I ask.

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