Page 10 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

“If I may,” I begin. I look to Father, who inclines his head perhaps just a degree. “The dominance of the Bratva on the East Coast has been unchallenged for over two decades now. But only recently have they begun to extend their influence to our side of the country. Make no mistake—these are dangerous men, led by a dangerous man. We would be foolish to take them lightly.”

“No one is taking them lightly, brother,” interrupts Mateo. He has been silent since the beginning of the meeting, brooding as he always does. I have no doubt that he has been war-gaming in his head, running through endless permutations of the potential outcomes. He has always brandished his intellect like a weapon. Even when we were young, he took to chess over brawling in the yard. Mother encouraged his reading, even his piano playing.

But he was taught to kill, just the same as the rest of us. My father didn’t care how smart each of us was or wasn’t. We were the Bianci children. And that meant it was our birthright to be baptized in blood.

Mateo continues, “Three stash houses struck in the last four months. A dozen good men killed. Even the blindest among us understands that the Russians are here with malicious intentions, and they will not be leaving anytime soon. They are capable of doing what they threaten. Ask the LeClerc Cartel. They tried to hurt the Volkovs. It did not end well for them.”

I can see Sergio nodding. Dante has gone back to cleaning his nails with his knife. Leo is gazing absentmindedly into the middle distance. Probably daydreaming about whatever piece of pussy he has waiting for him up in his bedroom. The rest of the lieutenants also seem to be in agreement.

I nod slowly too. Mateo is right. The Volkov Bratva demands our full attention—and our caution.

But my father does not agree. He slams the metal tip of his cane against the stones. It echoes throughout the chamber. “Fuck that,” he growls. “I will not sit back and let some Russian pigs rub their slime over everything I’ve built with my bare fucking hands.”

“No one is saying that—” I start to argue, but when he whirls on me with a crazed gleam in his eyes, I fall silent and sigh.

“Wetake the fight tothem,” he snarls. “We don’t wait. They don’t get to decide what happens next. I do. That’s why I’m Giovanni Bianci, and they are mangy Russian dogs.”

I draw in a deep breath. The air in here is cold and damp. I feel it seeping into my lungs, my bloodstream, like I am molding from the inside out. I shudder. I hate this fucking room.

“I don’t think that is wise, Father,” I say after a long pause.

“What do you think is wise then, son?” he replies. His voice is thick with sarcasm.

I must tread lightly here, or else I will just piss him off further. “We need to see what they have in mind. If they want to nibble at the northern edges of our territory, fine. Who cares? Little will be lost. If they have grander ambitions—well, then we respond accordingly.”

“No.” His answer is quick and brutally efficient, like a knife swipe across the throat. “You are the eldest. You will take your brothers and your men and you will strike at them tonight. Kill every Bratva bastard in the fucking county.”

“But Father, don’t you think—“

“That’s an order.”

I fall silent once again, brooding. My mind flashes back to the picture of the girl in my bedside table. Another monument to his cruelty. He has not changed who he is in the years since that sin. He has only become more himself.

This time, it might kill us all.

“As you wish, Father,” I tell him. I only say that to appease him for now.

I have no intention of doing what he wants.

* * *

“As you wish, Father,”Dante mimics in a high-pitched voice. “You coward.”

“Watch your fucking tongue, brother, or I will cut it out and nail it to the wall so we can all watch it for you.”

“Quit bickering like little schoolgirls,” Mateo sighs. He is rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he sinks into one of the overstuffed armchairs scattered around the upstairs library.

All five of us have retreated here and shut the door behind us. This is the room we use to talk about plans that we don’t want to come to Father’s attention. From up here, we can hear anyone climbing up the stairs long before they are close enough to make out our conversation.

I am seated by the fire, stirring it with a poker. Dante is playing five-finger fillet on the desk, over and over again, jabbing between his spread fingers with the tip of his knife in rapid-fire fashion. Leo is sprawled on the bearskin rug, lazily flipping a coin between his knuckles. Sergio is leaning against the doorframe, deep in thought.

“Don’t piss me off,” I warn Mateo. I can’t fucking stand when he tries to act all holier-than-thou. He already got on my nerves when he interrupted me in the meeting. Of course I’m not taking the Volkov threat lightly. What kind of moron does he think I am? But no, in Mateo’s world, he is the philosopher-king, and everyone else is just a stupid little pauper who should be worshipping at the feet of his great intellect.

Leo props himself up on one elbow. He is no doubt irritated that I called us into this meeting instead of letting him go back to his room to play grab-ass with some whore. But he is needed here, just like the rest of us, so we can figure out what the hell we are going to do about this suicide mission that Father has thrown at our feet.

“What if we just do what he wants, bring him back a few Russian scalps, and call it a day?”

“Idiot,” Mateo groans.

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