Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter Four - Chiara

The steady hum of the jet fills the cabin, blending with the occasional clink of glass as I swirl the wine in my hand. The deep red liquid catches the dim light overhead, shimmering like liquid fire.

My gaze drifts to the endless expanse of clouds outside the window, but my mind isn’t as tranquil as the view. Dante sits across from me, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. He’s been quiet for a while, watching, waiting. I can feel the weight of his judgment, though he hasn’t voiced it yet.

When he finally clears his throat, it cuts through the cabin’s quiet like a knife. “What do you think Lorenzo would say if he finds out about this little… arrangement?”

His voice carries the exact note of disapproval I expected, but it still grates on my nerves. I glance at him, arching a brow as I set the glass down on the table between us. “Lorenzo doesn’t care about me, Dante. Why should I care what he thinks?”

Dante leans back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “He’s still your brother. The Vinci name rests on both of your shoulders. No matter how much distance you put between yourselves, your father’s legacy ties you together.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the table, the pressure grounding me. Lorenzo and I have always been oil and water. As my half brother, he inherited everything that mattered in our family—the power, the loyalty of our father’s closest allies, the weight of expectations. He’s never believed in my capabilities. No matter how many deals I close, no matter how many risks I take to rebuild what we lost, he always sees me as a liability rather than an asset. To him, I’m just Chiara.

“I don’t need his approval,” I say finally, my voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Lorenzo is busy building his empire in Italy. I’m doing what I need to do—for myself and for our family’s honor. If he finds out about this deal, then so be it. Let him deal with it however he wants.”

Dante studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “So this is still about revenge?”

“Of course, it is.” My response comes out sharper than I intended. I push the wine glass aside, the clink louder than I wanted. “The Sharovs didn’t just kill my father. They dismantled everything we had in Chicago. They humiliated us, destroyed us. I’m not here for some petty grudge, Dante. This isn’t just about revenge. It’s justice.”

His expression softens slightly, but his voice remains firm. “And Serge? What’s your plan with him?”

The corner of my mouth lifts into a faint, humorless smile. “Serge Sharov thinks he can use me. Manipulate me. I’ll let him believe that for now. Eventually, I’ll find his weak spot. Everyone has one.”

Dante doesn’t look convinced, but he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Word is, he lost his best friend about a year ago. A man named Anthony. Suicide.”

That catches my attention. I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “Suicide… what happened?”

“No one knows the full story,” Dante replies. “People say Serge took it hard. Anthony wasn’t just a friend. They were like brothers. If there’s a crack in Serge’s armor, that might be it.”

I nod slowly, the wheels in my mind already turning. A personal loss like that leaves scars. No matter how cold or calculating Serge pretends to be, grief always finds a way to linger. If I can uncover what really happened with Anthony, it could be the key to breaking him down.

“Good to know,” I say finally, my tone measured. “Anything else?”

Dante’s jaw tightens. “Just that you need to be careful, Chiara. Serge is dangerous. The Sharovs are dangerous. You might think you’re in control, but they don’t play by anyone’s rules but their own.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Dante. I’m not afraid of Serge Sharov.”

“You should be,” he says, his voice low. “Because if you make one wrong move, he’ll destroy you.”

His words hang in the air between us, heavy and foreboding. I refuse to let them shake me. I’ve been underestimated my entire life—by my father, by Lorenzo, by every man who’s ever looked at me and seen nothing but a pretty face. Serge Sharov will be no different. Let him think I’m just another pawn in his game. By the time he realizes I’m not, it’ll be too late.

As the jet begins its descent, the Chicago skyline comes into view, glittering against the sky. This city was once ours, a symbol of the Vinci family’s power and influence. The Sharovs stole it from us, and I’ll do whatever it takes to claim it back. For now, Serge is my key. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s already a piece on my board.

I just have to make my next move.

***

The wheels of the jet touch down on the Chicago tarmac, jolting me slightly in my seat. The city’s skyline looms in the distance, just as striking and formidable as I remember. The steel and glass glint under the sun, stark reminders of a place that once felt like home. My father used to say Chicago was our kingdom, a city built on power, loyalty, and blood. Now, it feels like enemy territory. The sight is enough to make my stomach churn, but I refuse to let the emotions show. I’ve grown good at masking my feelings.

“Back in the lion’s den,” Dante mutters from across the aisle, his sharp eyes scanning the ground crew through the window. He’s on high alert, as always, though I know his wariness is for my sake.

I unbuckle my seat belt, straightening my back. “It’s not their den anymore,” I reply. “They took it from us, and I intend to take something back.”

Dante leans forward, his expression skeptical. “Is that the mission, then. Revenge dressed up as business?”

I glance at him, my lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s called multitasking.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push me when my mind is made up.

We descend the steps of the jet, the crisp Chicago air hitting me like a slap to the face. It’s colder than I expected, and I pull my coat tighter around me as we cross to the waiting car. The driver opens the door, and I slide inside, the familiar hum of the city starting to settle around me. It’s been years since I was last here, yet every street, every turn feels etched into my bones. My father’s voice echoes in my mind, recounting the early days of building his empire here.

“Do you want to stop at the apartment first?” Dante asks as the car pulls into traffic.

“No,” I say firmly. “Take me to the Sharov offices.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest. I know he’s silently cataloging every potential risk, every contingency plan, but I can’t afford to delay. The quicker I meet with Serge, the quicker I can start weaving my plan.

The car ride is quiet, but my mind is anything but. My father’s name, the legacy he built, the way it was dismantled piece by piece—it all fuels my resolve. I’ll make them pay. I’ll make Serge Sharov pay.

The Sharov headquarters is an imposing structure, sleek and modern, with reflective glass windows that seem to stretch endlessly upward. It’s a sharp contrast to the old-world elegance my family favored. As I step out of the car, the sight of their name etched into the building’s facade makes my blood boil. My family’s blood built this city. The Sharovs stole it and claimed it as their own.

Inside, the lobby is all polished marble and muted tones, the air humming with quiet efficiency. The receptionist greets me with a professional smile, but I can see the flicker of recognition in her eyes when I give her my name. My reputation precedes me, it seems.

“I have a meeting with Serge Sharov,” I say, my voice steady.

“Top floor,” she replies, gesturing toward the elevators. “They’re expecting you.”

The ride to the top floor is both excruciatingly long and unnervingly short. The mirrored walls reflect my composed expression, though inside, I feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. When the doors slide open, I step into a corridor that leads to a large conference room.

The room is already bustling when I enter, filled with men in tailored suits who pause their conversations to glance my way. Serge stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding even among a sea of powerful figures. His sharp blue eyes lock on to mine, and for a moment, the air between us seems to thrum with unspoken tension.

“Miss Vinci,” he says, his tone smooth and polite. “Welcome.”

“Mr. Sharov,” I reply, inclining my head. My voice is neutral, giving nothing away.

I take my seat at the table, my back straight, my hands resting lightly on the notepad in front of me. The meeting begins with the usual pleasantries and updates—financial projections, partnership terms, and expansion plans. I stay focused, responding when necessary, my answers measured and precise.

I can feel Serge’s gaze on me throughout. It’s not just a glance; it’s a steady, assessing look that feels like a challenge. I refuse to let it rattle me. When our eyes meet, I hold his stare, unwilling to back down. His lips curl into a faint smirk, as though he’s amused by my defiance. It only makes me more determined to prove myself.

“Miss Vinci,” Serge says during a pause in the discussion, his voice drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “What’s your perspective on the proposed expansion timeline?”

The question catches me slightly off guard, but I recover quickly. “It’s ambitious but achievable. With the right resources and strategic partnerships, I believe the timeline is feasible.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “Ambition is admirable,” he says. “It tends to yield extraordinary results.”

“Ambition is also a necessity,” I reply, my tone calm but firm. “Without it, there are no results.”

His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t press further. The meeting continues, though the intensity in the room remains. By the time it concludes, I’m both relieved and drained. As the others begin to leave, Serge approaches me, his expression unreadable.

“Impressive input,” he says casually. “I look forward to seeing how this partnership develops.”

I meet his gaze, my voice steady. “So do I.”

Serge’s smirk deepens, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a carefully aimed blow. He’s testing me, prodding for weakness, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I hope your actions match your confidence,” he says, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. “This city tends to weed out those who overestimate themselves.”

“I’m not concerned,” I reply smoothly, my chin lifting slightly. “We Vinci women have a habit of thriving where others fail.”

His laugh is soft, more of a rumble that seems to resonate in the space between us. “Bold words. I hope you’re ready to prove them.”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I tilt my head, matching his energy. “Or did you invite me just to trade barbs?”

“Perhaps I enjoy the banter,” he admits, his gaze flickering with amusement. “Though I suspect you do too.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, though I can’t entirely hide the quirk of a smile tugging at my lips. His charm, while infuriating, is undeniably effective, and it’s taking every ounce of control not to fall into his rhythm.

As the last of the other attendees file out of the room, the space feels charged, the air thicker. Serge steps closer, his presence commanding, his sharp blue eyes studying me intently.

“You handled yourself well in there,” he says, his voice softer but no less powerful. “Not everyone can sit across from me and keep their composure.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You’re not as intimidating as you think.”

“Careful, Chiara,” he warns, though there’s a hint of a grin playing on his lips. “You’re already walking a fine line.”

I cross my arms, leaning casually against the edge of the conference table. “I thought you appreciated ambition.”

“I do,” he says, taking another step closer. “But I also appreciate knowing when to push and when to pull back.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for your approval,” I counter.

His grin turns predatory, and I can feel the intensity of his energy crackling between us. “We’ll see about that.”

I refuse to let my resolve falter under his gaze, though my pulse quickens. He has a way of making every interaction feel like a game of chess, each word a calculated move. I’ve always been good at this kind of game, but Serge Sharov plays on a level I’ve never encountered before.

After a beat of silence, he steps back, the shift in his posture signaling a change in tone. “You’ll want to settle into your apartment before the work really begins.”

I nod, not entirely trusting where this conversation is heading. “That’s the plan.”

His eyes remain fixed on me, an unreadable expression on his face. “Once you’ve settled in, let’s discuss this partnership further. Over dinner.”

I blink, surprised by the sudden shift. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Tomorrow evening. I’ll have a car pick you up.”

“I’m capable of finding my own way,” I reply, my voice sharp. “I don’t need you to chauffeur me around.”

“It’s not about what you need,” he counters, his tone firm. “It’s about what I want.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge his intentions, but his expression gives nothing away. “Fine. Where?”

“My penthouse,” he says with a casual shrug. “I’ll send you the details. I assume you’ll want to make an impression.”

“I always do,” I reply, refusing to let him think he has the upper hand.

“Good.” His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he steps aside, gesturing toward the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”

I walk out of the room with my head held high, refusing to look back. The moment the door closes behind me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Serge Sharov is a formidable opponent, but he underestimates me if he thinks I’ll be easy to manipulate.

This partnership might be his game, but I intend to play it my way.

In the car ride back to the apartment, Dante sits across from me, his arms crossed and his gaze heavy. I can feel the weight of his disapproval without even looking at him. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since the meeting ended, but I know he won’t stay that way for long.

“You’re playing with fire, Chiara,” he finally says, his tone low and measured.

“I thought you said this could be an opportunity,” I reply, keeping my focus out the window. The Chicago skyline glitters in the distance, a stark reminder of how far I’ve come—and how dangerous this city can be.

“There’s a difference between seizing an opportunity and walking into a trap,” Dante says, his voice sharp now. “Serge Sharov isn’t just another businessman. He’s calculating, ruthless, and he never does anything without a reason.”

“Neither do I,” I counter, turning to face him. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Dante leans forward, his expression hard. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, he’s already got you on the defensive. He invited you to dinner, Chiara. That’s not business—that’s personal.”

“Everything in our world is personal,” I shoot back. “That’s what makes us who we are.”

He exhales, clearly frustrated. “Just remember, he’s not someone you can trust.”

“I don’t trust him,” I say firmly. “That doesn’t mean I can’t use him.”

Dante shakes his head, leaning back into his seat. “Just be careful. The last thing we need is for you to get too close to the flames.”

I nod, but I don’t respond. My thoughts are already miles ahead, focusing on tomorrow night. Dante doesn’t understand—this isn’t just about business or revenge. This is about proving to Serge, to Lorenzo, and to myself that I can play this game and win.