Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter One - Serge

The music on the yacht is deafening, a hypnotic mix of deep bass and upbeat tempos designed to keep the crowd in high spirits. The yacht itself is massive, a gleaming white palace on water, complete with tiers of decks and an open bar stocked with every high-end liquor imaginable. Monaco’s glittering skyline twinkles in the distance, blending with the shimmering waves. The scent of saltwater and expensive cologne is heavy in the air.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass as I stand at the edge of the upper deck, watching the revelry below. Roman, my right-hand man and most trusted confidant, leans casually against the railing beside me. His sharp, watchful eyes scan the crowd like a predator assessing potential prey.

“Not a bad way to celebrate,” he says, tipping his glass toward the bustling party. “The meeting went well, and now we’ve got new partners. Feels like a win.”

I nod, sipping my whiskey. It does feel like a win, but I’m not the type to get drunk on success—or anything else for that matter. Roman knows this and doesn’t push. He’s the kind of man who thrives in chaos, and as much as I trust him, I’ve learned to keep an eye on him. He’s loyal, sure, but he also loves a good time.

A sudden flicker of movement catches my attention. My gaze locks on to a familiar figure descending the stairs from the upper deck, and the air around me seems to shift. Chiara Vinci.

It takes a moment for my brain to process the sight of her. Her dark hair is swept back in loose waves, and she’s wearing a sleek, emerald-green dress that clings to her curves in a way that turns heads. She looks… regal, almost untouchable. Except I’ve touched her world in the most brutal way possible.

“Isn’t that…?” Roman trails off, following my gaze. His voice drops, taking on a note of caution. “Chiara Vinci?”

“Looks like it,” I say, my tone deliberately casual.

The Vinci family name is one I’ve heard whispered since I was old enough to understand what it meant to hold power. They ruled Chicago’s underworld for years, their influence spreading like wildfire. Until three years ago.

My eldest brother, Maxim, made sure their reign ended when he killed their father, Don Fernando Vinci. It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t quiet, but it was effective. The Vinci empire collapsed almost overnight, forcing what was left of their family to retreat to Italy. Word was they focused on rebuilding their businesses from a distance, biding their time. Lorenzo Vinci, her brother, now runs their operations.

Then there was Chiara. She wasn’t just a pawn in their game; she was a player in her own right. She held power in her family, though how much, I wasn’t certain. What I did know was that she wasn’t someone to underestimate.

Roman glances at me. “What’s she doing here? Think it’s coincidence?”

I smirk, setting my glass down on a nearby table. “With her? Never.”

Without another word, I step away from the railing and descend the stairs. The party swirls around me—laughter, clinking glasses, bodies moving in rhythm to the music—but my focus is singular. Chiara hasn’t noticed me yet, or if she has, she’s doing an excellent job of ignoring me.

She’s speaking with a man I don’t recognize, her smile polite but distant. Her posture is relaxed, yet I can sense the tension in her shoulders, the careful control she exerts over every movement.

As I approach, her eyes flick to mine. For a split second, something flares in her expression—annoyance, anger, maybe both—but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. She straightens, her smile sharpening like a blade.

“Serge Sharov,” she says, her tone laced with thinly veiled disdain. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I stop a few feet away, letting my gaze sweep over her, taking in every detail. She’s a masterpiece of poise, but I’ve learned to read between the lines. She doesn’t want me here. Good.

“Pleasure? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I reply, my own smile matching hers in its insincerity. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Chiara. Monaco seems… far from home.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow slightly. “I could say the same about you. What brings you to this corner of the world?”

“Business,” I say simply. “The kind that pays well.”

Her companion clears his throat, sensing the tension, and excuses himself. Good timing. Now it’s just the two of us, the crowd fading into background noise.

“Do you always crash parties where you’re not welcome?” she asks, tilting her head.

I chuckle, stepping closer. “It’s a habit of mine. You’d know that if you kept up with current events.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t take the bait. Chiara Vinci isn’t the type to break under pressure, and that’s what makes this so much fun. She might hate me—hell, she probably dreams of putting a bullet between my eyes—but she won’t give me the satisfaction of seeing her lose control.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “We should catch up. It’s been too long.”

Her eyes flash, a dangerous glint sparking in them. “I don’t think we have anything to catch up on, Serge.”

“Oh, I think we do,” I murmur, the corners of my mouth curling upward. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The hum of conversation and the rhythmic pulse of the music fades into the background as Chiara meets my gaze, her green eyes blazing with equal parts challenge and amusement. She raises a single brow, tilting her head in curiosity. “You’re still here, Serge? Should I be flattered or concerned?”

I smirk, stepping closer to where she stands, a drink in one hand and an air of control in the other. “Neither. I’d call it intrigued. You have a way of drawing attention, Chiara.”

She laughs softly, the sound sharp like the edge of a blade. “Funny, I was going to say the same about you. Though I’d argue it’s more because of your tendency to irritate than intrigue.”

I chuckle, unbothered by the jab. “You know, it’s a shame your brother doesn’t send you to negotiate more often. Lorenzo’s predictable. You, on the other hand… you make things interesting.”

She narrows her eyes, her lips curling into a sly smile. “What exactly is it you find so interesting?”

I take a sip of my whiskey, letting her question linger in the air for a moment. Then I meet her gaze again, my grin widening. “Why don’t we find out? Let’s play a game.”

Her brow furrows slightly, her interest piqued. “A game?”

“Poker.” I set my glass down on a nearby table and gesture toward the lounge area, where a group is gathered around a green-felt table. “If you win, you can ask me for anything you want. If I win… the rest of your evening is mine.”

Chiara laughs again, the sound dripping with mockery. “You think you can buy my time with a card game?”

“No,” I say, shrugging. “I think you can’t resist a challenge.”

Her lips press together, and for a moment, she seems to weigh her options. Then she lifts her chin, her smile sharp and daring. “Fine. Don’t cry when you lose.”

As we approach the table, a man steps forward from the shadows, his dark eyes scanning me with suspicion. Dante. Chiara’s loyal lieutenant. He was her father’s right hand before his death, and now he serves her with the same blind devotion. I don’t like him.

“Chiara,” Dante says, his voice low and even. “This isn’t necessary. You don’t need to waste your time with him.”

Her eyes flick to Dante briefly before returning to me. “Relax, Dante. It’s just a game.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he steps back, his jaw tight. Good. The last thing I need is his interference.

We sit at the table, and the dealer shuffles the cards. The game begins slowly, the first few rounds more about testing the waters than making bold moves. But as the night wears on, the tension between us grows.

Chiara is good. I’ll give her that. She plays with a calculating edge, her eyes betraying nothing as she places her bets. But I’m better. Years of navigating high-stakes deals and life-or-death negotiations have made me a master at reading people. Chiara is all tells and no substance.

The final hand comes down to just the two of us. She places her bet, sliding her chips forward with a smirk. “Your move, Sharov.”

I glance at my cards, then at her. Slowly, I match her bet and raise it. “All in.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t falter. She matches my raise, and the cards are revealed.

A royal flush. My victory.

The room erupts into murmurs and laughter, and someone from the crowd—a Russian, judging by his accent—quips, “Not the first time Vinci is losing to a Sharov.”

Chiara’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t lose her composure. Instead, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, her gaze locked on mine. “Congratulations, Serge. It seems you’ve won. What now?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Now, you keep your end of the deal. The rest of your evening belongs to me.”

Dante steps forward again, his expression dark. “This isn’t a good idea, Chiara.”

She waves him off, standing gracefully. “Relax, Dante. It’s just an evening.”

The words are meant to sound casual, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides. She’s daring, but she’s not invincible. That’s what makes this game so much fun.

Chiara turns to face me fully, her chin lifting in defiance as if daring me to say something more. Her poise is admirable, a carefully constructed shield meant to hide any cracks in her armor. It’s a game we’re both well-versed in, but tonight, I’m determined to gain the upper hand.

Dante remains rooted nearby, his gaze darting between us, frustration simmering beneath his controlled demeanor. “One evening,” he mutters, his voice low but laced with warning. “Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, Sharov.”

I don’t bother to hide my smirk. “Trust me, Dante, I’m well aware.”

Chiara steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished deck of the yacht. “If you’re so eager for my company, Serge,” she says smoothly, “then let’s make this worth my while. What do you propose for our illustrious evening?”

There it is—that spark. She’s baiting me, trying to assert control over the situation. It’s almost endearing how hard she tries. Almost.

“I have a few ideas,” I reply, my voice calm, measured. “First, let’s enjoy the moment. Monaco’s charm is fleeting, after all.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, skepticism flashing across her face before she schools her expression into one of detached amusement. “Then lead the way, Maestro. Let’s see if you can deliver.”

Dante’s displeasure is palpable, but Chiara ignores him, her focus entirely on me. I offer her my arm, a mockingly polite gesture, and she hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking it. Her touch is light, cautious, as if she’s testing the waters.

“Enjoy your evening, Dante,” I say over my shoulder, my tone dripping with condescension. His jaw tightens, but he stays put, his loyalty to Chiara keeping him from making a scene. It’s almost too easy to rile him up, but I save that for another time. Tonight, my focus is solely on her.

As we move through the glittering crowd, the weight of curious stares follows us. The Vinci heiress and the youngest Sharov brother—a pairing no one saw coming. I can feel the whispers trailing in our wake, the unspoken questions about what could possibly bring two feuding families together.

Chiara, ever the performer, plays her role perfectly. Her smile is charming but calculated, her laughter light but controlled. She leans into me just enough to make it convincing, but not so much that anyone could mistake this for anything other than a strategic alliance.

It’s intoxicating, watching her maneuver through the room with such precision. She’s a masterpiece of contradictions—bold yet cautious, fiery yet restrained. I can’t decide if I want to dismantle her defenses or admire them from afar.

As the night deepens, I catch her stealing a glance at me, her eyes flickering with something I can’t quite place. Curiosity? Wariness? Perhaps both. It’s a reminder that this isn’t just a game of power—it’s a battle of wills.

I fully intend to win.