Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter Two - Chiara

The delicate clink of fine silverware against porcelain fills the intimate room, mingling with the soft hum of conversation in the restaurant. I sit across from Serge Sharov, his sharp blue eyes fixed on me, their piercing intensity making it hard to look away. The private dining room of this Michelin-starred restaurant was undoubtedly his idea. He thrives on control, and this setting is no exception.

I reach for my wine glass, swirling the rich red liquid before taking a sip. “You know, Serge, you could’ve just taken me to a café like a normal person. This feels… excessive.”

His smirk is faint but unmistakable. “You’re not exactly a normal person, Chiara. Excess suits you.”

I roll my eyes, setting the glass down with a soft thud. “Flattery doesn’t suit you , Sharov. Let’s cut the small talk. What is it that you want?”

“Straight to the point.” His voice is calm, teasing even. He leans back in his chair, exuding a confidence that’s both infuriating and magnetic. “We’ll get there. Eventually.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “You dragged me here for a reason, didn’t you? Or is this just your way of gloating about winning a card game?”

His grin widens. “That was satisfying, I won’t lie, but no. There’s more to this.”

“Then spit it out.” I narrow my eyes, tapping my fingers lightly against the table. “Sharovs don’t do anything without a motive. So, what is yours?”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead taking his time to sip his drink. It’s deliberate, calculated, like he wants me to stew in the silence. Finally, he sets his glass down and leans forward, his elbows resting on the table.

“Expansion,” he says simply, the word hanging in the air like a challenge.

I raise an eyebrow. “Expansion?”

Serge nods. “The Bratva is expanding its resorts business in Europe. We already have key locations in several countries, but Italy… Italy is a different beast. It requires finesse, local connections, someone who understands the landscape. Someone like you.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and incredulous. “You think I’m just going to hand over my family’s interests to the Sharovs? You really are bold.”

“I prefer to think of it as practical.” His tone is casual, but his eyes hold a glint of something more. “Hear me out. Bratva will invest sixty percent, but we’ll take fifty-five of the profit. Your family business gets five percent more profit than if you went solo. It’s a good deal, Chiara.”

I stare at him, trying to gauge his intentions. “Why Italy? You could’ve picked anywhere else.”

“Italy is lucrative, and your family still holds influence there despite everything. Besides”—he leans in closer, his voice lowering—“I like the idea of us working together.”

My chest tightens, a mix of annoyance and something I can’t quite name. “So, this isn’t just about business, is it?”

“Everything is about business,” he says smoothly, though the faint curve of his lips suggests otherwise.

I take another sip of wine, needing a moment to think. The offer is undeniably good. My family could use the boost, and aligning with the Bratva—while risky—might actually stabilize our operations. But it’s Serge Sharov. Partnering with him means playing a dangerous game, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to lose again.

“What’s in it for you?” I ask finally, my voice steady.

He tilts his head, studying me. “I already told you. Expansion. Profits. A foothold in Italy. It’s mutually beneficial, Chiara. You win, I win.”

I narrow my eyes. “You don’t do anything mutually beneficial. What’s the catch?”

His grin is wolfish, sending a shiver down my spine. “The catch is you’ll have to deal with me. Think you can handle that?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again, though my irritation is palpable. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet, here you are,” he counters, his smirk unwavering.

“It’s a good deal,” I say, forcing a smile to mask the rising tension inside me. “Except for one small detail—you know, your older brother murdering my father. Doesn’t exactly make you the ideal business partner, does it?”

His smirk vanishes, replaced by a hardened expression that sends a chill through me. The change in his demeanor is swift, almost frightening, and yet I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

Serge leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his blue eyes colder than ever. “Let’s not rewrite history, Chiara,” he says, his voice low and edged with steel. “Your father wasn’t exactly innocent. Or did you forget that he murdered my uncle in cold blood?”

My chest tightens, but I manage to keep my composure. This is what it always comes back to—the bloody history between our families, the endless cycle of revenge and loss. “I didn’t forget,” I say evenly, though the memory stings. “My father is dead now, thanks to you Sharovs. I guess you’d call that progress?”

He straightens, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grim smile. “The war is over, Chiara. What matters now is what comes next. Progress, as you said. I didn’t invite you to dinner to rehash old grievances. I came here with an opportunity. Take it or don’t. Your choice.”

I feel a flicker of anger at his dismissive tone, but I swallow it down. “If I don’t?” I challenge. “What happens then?”

His gaze locks on to mine, unyielding. “Then nothing changes for me. The Bratva will move forward with or without you. The only difference is whether the Vinci name gets to stand alongside us—or fade further into obscurity.”

His words sting, not because of their sharpness but because there’s truth to them. Ever since my family’s downfall, we’ve been clawing our way back to relevance, and the road has been anything but easy. Aligning with the Sharovs could secure our place again, but at what cost?

“Progress,” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue. “That’s all you care about?”

His jaw tightens slightly, though his expression remains impassive. “It’s what I’ve been taught to care about. Survival depends on it.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy in the air. Finally, I lean back, folding my arms across my chest. “You’re ruthless, you know that?”

His lips curl into a faint smirk, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So are you. That’s why this could work.”

The audacity of his confidence almost makes me laugh, but instead, I shake my head. “I’ll think about it,” I repeat, this time with more finality.

“You do that.” He reaches for his glass, lifting it in a casual toast. “Just don’t take too long. Progress waits for no one.”

As I watch him take a sip, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being pulled into a game where the rules are his and the stakes are higher than I’d like to admit.

The air between us shifts as Serge’s gaze lingers on me, sharp and assessing. He’s entirely too comfortable in his own skin, too confident in the way he speaks as if everything he says is absolute. It’s infuriating and yet… I can’t deny the magnetic pull of his presence.

I lean back slightly, letting the silence stretch, trying to regain some semblance of control. “You talk about progress like it’s a religion. Is that all this is to you, Serge, just business?”

His smirk deepens, a flicker of something darker dancing in his eyes. “Business, family, power—they’re all intertwined. I’m a realist, Chiara. Sentiment doesn’t build empires.”

The jab is subtle, but it lands, twisting something inside me. He’s the embodiment of everything I hate about the Sharovs—their cold, calculated nature, their ability to destroy lives with a single decision. Yet here I am, seated across from him, listening to his every word like it’s a challenge I can’t walk away from.

“You’re relentless,” I say, my tone lighter than I feel. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

He chuckles, low and rough. “I think it does. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still be here.”

My jaw tightens, but I force a calm smile. “Or maybe I’m here because I want to understand what makes you tick. Sharovs are such fascinating creatures, after all.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. The movement is casual, but the intensity in his gaze isn’t. “Careful, Chiara. Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Satisfaction brought it back,” I retort, matching his tone.

He laughs, a genuine sound that takes me off guard. For a fleeting moment, he seems almost… human. Not the calculated Sharov prince, not the enemy of my family, but a man. Just a man.

“I like your fire,” he admits, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s rare to meet someone who doesn’t wilt under pressure.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, though my guard remains firmly in place. “Don’t mistake fire for recklessness. I know what I’m doing.”

His grin returns, sharp and predatory. “Do you? Because it feels like you’re still deciding whether to play this game with me.”

“It’s not a game,” I snap, the words slipping out before I can stop them. His eyebrows lift, amused by my sudden outburst. I take a breath, steadying myself. “Not for me, anyway.”

“Then what is it for you?” he asks, his tone genuinely curious.

The question catches me off guard. I don’t have an answer—at least not one I’m willing to share. He must see the hesitation in my eyes because he leans back, giving me space to collect myself.

“Think about it,” he says, his voice softer now, almost inviting. “What do you really want, Chiara? Not just for your family, but for yourself?”

I freeze, his words hitting closer to home than I’d like. It’s a question I’ve avoided for years, burying it under the weight of duty and revenge. But Serge doesn’t wait for an answer. He finishes his drink, sets the glass down with a deliberate clink , and stands.

“Progress waits for no one,” he repeats, giving me one last lingering look before turning to leave.

I sit there long after he’s gone, the echo of his words ringing in my ears. The room feels colder, emptier without his presence, but my resolve hardens.

If Serge thinks he can manipulate me into playing his game, he’s mistaken. I’ll play, but by my rules. This isn’t just about progress. It’s about survival—and in the end, only one of us will come out on top.

***

Two hours later, the door to my hotel room clicks shut, and the silence presses in immediately. My heels echo against the polished floor as I stride toward the window, the glittering lights of Monaco mocking me with their carefree brilliance. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, rage bubbling beneath the surface.

I drop my purse on the desk and notice a small glass figurine—one of those complimentary ornaments hotels think adds charm. My fingers curl around it, trembling.

His voice echoes in my head.

Progress waits for no one.

The image of Serge’s calm, smug expression flashes before me, and the dam breaks. With a guttural cry, I fling the figurine across the room. It collides with the mirror above the dresser, shattering the glass into a thousand sharp fragments that rain onto the floor. My chest heaves as I grip the edge of the desk, my vision blurred with fury and tears.

“Bastards,” I mutter under my breath. “Every last one of them.”

The sound of rushed footsteps reaches my ears, and the door swings open. Dante strides in, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his voice low but firm as he shuts the door behind him.

I turn to him, my breathing uneven. “I can’t do this,” I snap, gesturing to the broken mirror. “They took everything from me, Dante. My father. My family’s legacy. And now Serge Sharov has the audacity to talk about progress as if it absolves them of their crimes?”

Dante approaches cautiously, his gaze softening as he takes in my state. “Chiara,” he says gently, “you need to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I shout, my voice cracking. “They think they’ve won. That they can control everything, everyone. Well, I won’t let them. I won’t.”

Dante closes the distance between us, his hands resting on my shoulders to steady me. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice steady. “I understand your anger. I feel it too, but this?” He gestures to the shattered glass. “This won’t bring him back.”

Tears prick my eyes, but I force them back, refusing to let them fall. “I hate them, Dante,” I whisper. “I hate them so much.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And that’s why you need to think strategically.”

I frown, my chest still tight. “Strategically?”

Dante steps back, crossing his arms. “This could be your opportunity,” he says, his tone deliberate. “You’re right. The Sharovs have done unforgivable things to our family. This deal Serge is offering? It’s a chance to get close to him. To gain his trust.”

I stiffen, my mind racing as his meaning sinks in. “Then what?”

He tilts his head, his eyes hardening. “Then you do what they did to us. An eye for an eye, Chiara. A life for a life.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. I feel my breath hitch as I consider them. The idea of Serge Sharov paying for my father’s death is tempting, almost intoxicating. The thought of getting close to him, of playing his game, makes my stomach churn.

“What if it doesn’t work?” I ask quietly.

Dante’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then we adapt. You’re the only one who can get close enough to make it happen. You have the strength, Chiara, and you have me. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

I glance at the shattered mirror, the jagged pieces reflecting distorted fragments of myself. The fury, the pain, the grief—it’s all there, staring back at me. Slowly, I straighten, the fire in my chest no longer threatening to consume me but sharpening into something cold and focused.

“Fine,” I say, my voice steady. “I’ll play his game. I’ll give him the partnership he wants.”

Dante nods, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

“I’ll be the one who decides when it ends,” I add, my tone deadly. “And how.”

A small, satisfied smile spreads across Dante’s face. “That’s my girl.”

As he moves to clean up the mess, I step closer to the window, staring out at the twinkling city. The Sharovs think they’ve won, that they’ve broken the Vincis. They have no idea what’s coming for them.

I’ll make sure Serge Sharov learns that the hard way.