Page 84 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

And, as it has done all day long, the memory makes me shudder.

I bid Roberto goodbye and return home to the castle as fast as I can.

* * *

The first sip of whiskey hitting my tongue is heaven-sent. The second and third are just as good. I can feel the alcohol seeping into my bloodstream and taking the edge off. I loosen my tie and collapse into an armchair in my study.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” Umberto asks. He’s standing ramrod straight at the door, hands folded behind his back, looking at me with a respectful mix of confidence and discretion.

“No,” I say exhaustedly as I slump down, resting the glass tumbler on my chest. “I don’t want to be bothered for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, sir.” He bows and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

When he’s gone, I let out the sigh I’ve been holding back all day long. I feel restless and tired all at the same time. It is an unwelcome combination.

So many things are hanging in the balance right now. Luka, his daughter, my father, my brother, the Russians, the castle—the whole fucking world is waiting on me to make my next move. I have to choose carefully.

I have trained for this my whole life. So why do I feel so lost and helpless? Surely I don’t need my father’s guidance, do I? No, certainly not. In so many ways, I am glad he is dead. He was a monster. I am old enough and man enough now to admit that to myself. I say it out loud to try it on for size. “He was a monster.” It feels good to say, so I keep going, talking out loud to nobody at all. “He was a terrorizer. A predator. He preyed on people too weak to fight back. He drained Mother of her life force. He put nightmares in my head just because he could. Fuck him.”

That last part feels best of all. I say it again. “Fuck him. Fuck my father. May he rot in hell.”

The fiery bloom of anger in my chest makes me sit up straight. I don’t know why now is the time I feel it. Perhaps I am transitioning between stages of grieving or some other such psychological bullshit. Have I really waited thirty-two years to finally give voice to the things I’ve known practically since the day I was born?

Maybe I just never thought to question it before. My father was never good or bad in my eyes—he was just my father. But now that I am walking in his shoes, commanding his empire, I feel like I am at long last in a position to see him for what he was.

And I am in a position to remember the night I first saw that truth clearly.

The night I killed Audrey.

23

Vito

It takes everything I have in me not to scream like a pig at the slaughter when I am awoken from my dream by a hand on my shoulder.

I was dreaming of—NO. Forget it now, Vito,I curse inwardly. I feel wetness at the cuff of my pants and look down to realize that I fell asleep with my whiskey glass in my hand. It fell and shattered on the floor beneath me. The shards crunch under my heel as I look up to see Umberto standing nervously. He has a stricken look on his face and is ashen pale.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the evening,” I growl.

He nods but stays rooted in place. “Sir, I wouldn’t have woken you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

“What’s the fucking emergency?”

“The stash house has been hit.”

* * *

Blood paints the sidewalk, mingled with cracked bricks and shattered windowpanes. Like a war zone in the aftermath of a gunfight, it is eerily empty and quiet. Not a soul moves, other than smoke caught in the wind.

I hold my breath as I step over a dead body and duck underneath the crumbling awning. The smell of burnt hair and coppery blood intensifies the deeper into the place I go.

I was just a few hours shy of being caught up in this. It could have been my body here along with the others littering the concrete floor. But the thought brings me no relief. I am the don—that means these people are my people. These deaths are my deaths. This attack on my property and my business is every bit as painful as an attack on my own self.

Someone is going to fucking pay for this.

But who? How? When? And most of all—why?

I force myself to swallow back those questions and more. There will be time for answers later. For now, I need to see the extent of the damage.

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