Page 81 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

He’s got his head bowed a little bit like he’s afraid to look me in the eye. I notice with distaste that he has crumbs nestled between his chins and his fingers are slick with Cheeto dust. “Jorge,” I reply calmly.

“To what do we owe the, eh, the pleasure?” he asks nervously. His hands are clasped in front of his waist, but I can see that they are trembling.

“My men tell me that you are short this month,” I say simply.

He blanches. “It’s a, you know, it’s a crazy time of year, yes? No—not, um—not much business,sí.”

I step close to the man, though the smell of body odor hits my nose like an unwelcome heat wave, and drop my voice low. “Do you think that my father took the rules with him when he died?”

“Oh no, sir, I just saying that—”

“No. I am the don, Jorge. And I have come to collect what I am owed. I do not like these trips. I do not intend to linger here.”

He nods, too scared for words now. His eyes keep flitting over my shoulder to look through the door. No doubt he can see my men waiting outside. He is too dumb to realize that I am the one he most needs to fear.

“I get it for you now,sí?Wait right there, sir.” Turning, he hustles back behind the counter, presses a button to open the drawer, and empties it of cash. He snaps a grimy rubber band around the stack before coming back and pressing the bills into my waiting hand.

“That is better,” I tell him. “Do not be late again.”

“Of course not, sir.”

I start to turn to leave, but as I do, I see the little boy peering through the crack of the door that leads to the employees-only area in the back. He looks just like Jorge, I see. Perhaps a nephew or a son.

A thought occurs to me, apropos of nothing: I have become just like my father. How many times did I accompany him on errands like this?“Watch me and learn, Vito,”he would say before we entered.“A don must make the right impression.”And then he would storm inside and leave quivering fools in his wake, their money fattening his pocket or their sworn loyalty bolstering his empire.

Here I am, finding myself playing that same part without even consciously trying. I catch sight of my reflection in the theft prevention mirror that hangs over the cash register. It is not Vito Bianci looking back—it is Giovanni I see in my face. The angry V of my eyebrows, the storm swirling in my eyes … it is him.Iam him.

I sigh and rub a thumb across my temple. Whether I am in the castle or out in the city, it seems that I cannot escape my ghosts. I thought I saw Milaya in every woman on the drive over, and now that I am here, I am seeing my father in dirty mirror reflections. No doubt Sergio is lingering just out of the corner of my eye. I shudder.

Turning back, I pull a few hundred-dollar bills from the money that Jorge just surrendered to me. I slap them down onto the counter. Jorge looks up at me fearfully.

“Buy the kid some shoes,” I tell him wearily. “He’ll get ringworm if he keeps running around this filthy store barefoot.”

Then I leave before I get any other stupid ideas.

* * *

I keep my thoughts to myself for the rest of the day. Stop after stop, I am greeted like a king. My father would have rejoiced in the adulation, the fear he inspired.

It just makes me feel sick.

But it cannot be helped. If I am to keep this kingdom together, I must show my face around our territory and remind people why they choose to follow me. Whether out of self-preservation or mere financial self-interest, I make sure to push the buttons that need pushing, pay the homage that needs paying, solidify the bonds that hold the whole thing in place. Various underlings, minor crime lords, and gang leaders greet me, toast me, and request my help with this or that as I sweep through the city. I dole out favors and call them in. I make calls and take them.

In short, I do what I was born to do.

And through it all, I keep my eyes rooted firmly forward, so I don’t catch another unwanted reflection of myself and the demons that live inside of me.

“What’s next?” I ask Umberto. He is a young sergeant and the organizer of today’s little excursion.

“Only one more stop, sir,” he answers promptly. “A stash house in Koreatown.” He’s sharp-eyed and competent, which I am appreciating more than usual right now. I left home buzzing with energy. But now, I just feel deflated, so it is nice to have someone else I can rely on to handle things on my behalf.

“Let’s go then,” I say. For the umpteenth time that day, my team piles into their cars and we depart. I follow Umberto’s lead through the city.

A few minutes into the drive, I notice that there is a motorcyclist who has been following us turn after turn. In my rear-view mirror, I can make out that it is a younger-looking man, perhaps in his twenties or thirties. He has dark, tousled hair, but the bandana tied around his nose and mouth keeps me from seeing much beyond the pale expanse of his forehead. I frown and open the walkie-talkie function on my cell phone.

“Umberto.”

“Yes, sir?” comes the immediate reply.

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