Page 90 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

And though I stand at the tail end of ten years of whispered knifings, surreptitious struggles in dark alleyways across the country—the normal tic and tac of power struggles between the men who seek to rule the underworld—one thought stands out above all the rest of the din in my mind:

I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t care about any of it. I don’t care about being don or the boundaries of my empire or the politics of American crime lords. I don’t care about my money, my status, my reputation.

All I care about is the memory of Milaya’s lips pressing against the back of my hand. That hazy, half-remembered moment is the only thing that has made my heart stir since the night I set Audrey free and told her to run.

I haven’t stopped since that night. I kept doing what I was told, training to become the man I am today. And what has it earned me? Nothing but pain. I close my eyes and see Roberto’s dead, gaping face and I feel a clench of agony seize hold of my innards. Countless good men have died. As don, my throne rests upon that heap of bodies. They died for me, for what I represent. And as far as I am concerned, that means they died needlessly.

I wonder if Luka Volkov has ever had the thoughts I am having now. He has ruled his corner of the world with an iron fist for nearly twenty-five years. I search his face, but he betrays nothing. In fact, he hasn’t said a word since we brought him in here. He shows no fear; he does not tremble or beg for mercy. Does that make him a fool or a hero? I can’t fucking decide.

The time for that is long gone, however. Whether I did them enthusiastically or not, the things that brought us here on this collision course were done. There can be no turning back.

“Luka Volkov,” I begin in the same formal tone that my father used to start council meetings for as long as I can remember. “You stand before us as an enemy. You wear the blood of my uncle, my father, and my brother on your hands. As payment for their deaths, it falls to me to claim your life as forfeit.” My brothers are arranged on either side of me. None of them blink or say a word. Each of us has a hand on the guns tucked into the back of our pants or holstered at our sides. When I issue the command, Luka Volkov will perish like a dog.

This is the moment for him to ask for an alternative. We will not give it to him, of course. The laws of our family dictate what happens next. But he owes it to his daughter, to his wife, to his empire to ask, doesn’t he?

And yet, he does not ask. He does not beg.

Instead, he laughs.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he snarls. “I didn’t kill your family. I don’t give a shit about your family.” He points at Milaya, standing a few yards off to the side behind us and looking like this is the worst day of her life. “I came here to rescue my daughter. Not to pay for your imaginary accusations. If you kill me, you will all die too. You would be a fool not to realize that.”

Mateo speaks up. “Do you think we would let that happen?”

Luka’s eyes shift smoothly from my face to Mateo’s as he answers, “I don’t think you have a choice, Bianci.”

“Enough of this!” Dante interrupts. He rips his gun out from the back of his pants and swivels it up to aim at Luka’s head.

To his credit, Luka doesn’t flinch. He stares calmly down the barrel of the gun. “That would be a very grave mistake,” he says.

“Dante,” I warn. My younger brother is fidgeting with rage and aggression like an angry dog held back only by a thin chain leash. He is moments away from snapping.

The tension is unbearable for all of us. Even Leo looks uncomfortable. As well-trained as we all are, some moments are too much to swallow with ease. It feels like we are all choking, suffocating on grief and rage and confusion.

Dante reluctantly lets his gun hand fall back down by his side and steps backwards to rejoin our semicircle pinning Luka against the fireplace.

Satisfied that we have not yet reached our boiling point, I turn my attention back to Luka. “How can you say you are not responsible for the deaths of my family?” I ask him.

“Your father was a sick man,” he tells me. “Twisted and broken, long before you were old enough to realize that truth. But I did not kill him. I did not kill your uncle, either, though I wish I had. He came to me years ago to broker a deal betraying your father. I did what a good don should do: beat him and returned him to the man who raised you for punishment. I had no interest in a coup. I was content with my life. With my family. I did not want a war.”

“Bullshit,” I say. I meant for it to be a seething roar, but somewhere between my brain and my lips, the message was confused. It comes out instead as the disbelieving gasp of a man who is finally seeing things in a clear light for the first time. “I saw my father find his brother’s body. I was there. We all were. We saw his grief.”

Luka shakes his head sadly. “You saw the playacting of a psychopath. Your father was the one who killed his brother. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Bullshit,” I say again. “That’s not right. That’s not true.”

The Volkov don shrugs. “It is the unvarnished truth. What you do with it is your choice. But,” he continues, “if you are going to kill me, do it quickly. If not, I would like to return home with my daughter.”

I can sense Milaya’s presence in the corner, but internally, I am reeling. My world has been battered again and again over the last few days. The man standing in front of me does not seem to be lying. But if he truly came for nothing more than to retrieve his daughter, why would he attack my stash house? Why would he kill my father and brother to begin with? Why would he start a war he clearly has no interest in fighting?

It can’t be true.

“No,” I say. I raise my gun and point it at him. “You are lying. For that and for your other crimes, you will die now.”

I unlock the safety and set my sights right between his eyes. Around me, my brothers do the same. Four guns aimed to kill the man who destroyed our family. At long last, we are united in purpose and intention. Brothers again.

My finger rests on the trigger. It takes five pounds of pressure to fire a bullet. I apply four. One pound separating Luka Volkov from the end of his life. “On my command,” I tell my brothers. “Three. Two. One …”

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