Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter Five - Serge

The dining room is a picture of refinement, every detail meticulously arranged to create the perfect setting. Crystal glasses sparkle under the soft glow of the chandelier, white roses arranged elegantly in a silver vase serve as the centerpiece, and the faint hum of classical music fills the air. It’s not my usual preference for dinner, but Chiara Vinci isn’t just any guest. Tonight is about making an impression, about control, and about setting the tone for what lies ahead.

Chiara sits across from me, her posture flawless, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She’s a vision of sophistication in a sleek black dress that clings to her slender frame, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. The candlelight catches the gold flecks in her brown eyes, making them seem even more piercing. Her very presence commands attention, and it’s no wonder she’s become a force in her family’s fractured empire.

“This is exceptional,” she says, cutting into her filet mignon with a grace that seems effortless. “Better than anything I’ve had in Italy or Monaco, for that matter.”

“I’d hope so,” I reply smoothly. “I told the chef to spare no effort. It’s not every day I entertain someone like you.”

Her brow lifts slightly, the corners of her lips curling into a faint smile. “Someone like me; you mean someone from a family you’ve been at war with for decades?”

I lean back in my chair, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. “A powerful, intelligent businesswoman, actually. The Vinci name is just a bonus.”

She lets out a small, amused breath. “Flattery. How predictable.”

“Flattery is only predictable when it’s undeserved,” I counter, watching as her smile falters briefly, replaced by a more thoughtful expression.

Her fork hovers over her plate as she studies me. “You have a way with words, Serge. I can see why people follow you.”

“Words are just tools,” I say, shrugging. “It’s what you do with them that matters.”

The room falls silent for a moment, charged with an undercurrent of tension. I notice how her hand tightens ever so slightly around her wine glass before she sets it down. She’s holding something back, but I don’t press. Not yet.

“You know,” she says, breaking the silence, “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Expecting what?”

She gestures vaguely at the room. “Dinner in a penthouse, food prepared by a Michelin-starred chef. It’s all very… civilized.”

I chuckle, raising my glass. “What did you expect, Chiara, a backroom with a bare bulb swinging from the ceiling?”

Her laughter is soft, but genuine. It catches me off guard. “Something like that. Your reputation precedes you, Serge. This level of refinement wasn’t part of the story.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Refinement has its place. Sometimes, it’s more effective than brute force.”

Her gaze sharpens. “What are you using on me tonight; refinement or force?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” My tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it.

“I would,” she replies, her voice low, almost challenging.

We continue eating, our conversation shifting to lighter topics—her favorite parts of Italy, my own connection to Chicago. She speaks of vineyards and Florence, her descriptions painting vivid pictures in my mind. I tell her about the city that shaped me, the skyline, the energy, the grit. She listens, her focus unwavering, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the long-standing animosity between our families.

“You really love this city,” she observes, her tone more curious than accusatory.

“It’s in my blood,” I say simply. “No matter where I go, Chicago always pulls me back. What about Italy? Do you feel that way about it?”

Her expression clouds briefly before she forces a smile. “Sometimes. It’s complicated.”

“Complications tend to be,” I say, watching her carefully.

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Instead, I pour her another glass of wine, which she declines in favor of water. The shift doesn’t escape me, but I file it away for later.

By the time dessert is served—a decadent tiramisu—there’s a storm rumbling outside. Lightning flashes, lighting up the floor-to-ceiling windows as thunder rolls in the distance.

As the meal winds down, she turns her attention to the view behind me, the city lights glittering like stars, barely peeking through the storm clouds. She stands, walking toward the glass, her silhouette framed against the glow of the city.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice soft.

I join her, standing close enough to catch the faintest hint of her perfume. “Chicago has its moments.”

She glances at me, her eyes meeting mine with a challenge. “Was this one of its moments?”

I smirk. “I’d say so.”

For a brief moment, we stand in silence, the tension between us as palpable as the city’s hum below. When she finally turns to face me fully, there’s a flicker of something in her expression—curiosity, amusement, maybe even respect.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says, her tone genuine. “It was… unexpected.”

“Good unexpected, I hope,” I say, smirking.

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a full smile. “I’ll let you decide.”

The storm outside intensifies, thunder rumbling in the distance as rain pelts against the windows. I glance at Chiara, her hand hovering near her purse as if she’s debating whether to brave the storm. Her lips press into a thin line, betraying her frustration.

“Driving in this weather would be dangerous,” I say, my tone calm but firm. “Stay the night.”

Her brow arches, a flicker of skepticism crossing her face. “What would we do, Serge? Stare at the rain until it stops?”

I let out a low chuckle and walk to the bar, pouring two glasses of whiskey. “We’ll talk,” I say, turning back to her with a smirk. “I find your company… engaging.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no malice in her gaze. She hesitates for a moment before slipping her coat off and settling onto the leather sofa. “Fine. Just for the record, I’m not the type to chat idly.”

“Good,” I reply, sitting beside her and handing her the drink. “Neither am I.”

The whiskey is smooth, warming my chest as I take a sip. She does the same, her movements graceful yet deliberate, her gaze flitting to the storm outside. The silence between us is charged, heavy with unspoken words. When she finally looks at me, there’s a challenge in her eyes.

“So, Serge,” she says, her voice low and teasing, “is this your idea of hospitality? Inviting your rivals over for whiskey and… what, polite conversation?”

“You’re not a rival anymore, Chiara,” I say, leaning closer. “At least, not tonight.”

She doesn’t flinch, but her breathing deepens, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the storm outside. “You’re dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I do,” I reply, my voice dropping. “You don’t seem the type to be easily swayed.”

Her lips part slightly, and for a brief moment, the world outside ceases to exist. I can feel the heat radiating off her, the tension between us so taut it feels like it might snap at any moment. Her eyes flicker to my lips, just for a second, but it’s enough.

I set my glass down and lean in, my hand brushing against her cheek. “Tell me to stop,” I murmur.

She doesn’t. Instead, her breath hitches, and when I press my lips to hers, she meets me halfway. The kiss is slow at first, a tentative exploration that quickly deepens. Her hands move to my shoulders, her nails grazing my skin through the fabric of my shirt.

I pull her closer, one hand slipping to the small of her back as the other tangles in her hair. Her taste is intoxicating, the perfect blend of whiskey and something uniquely her. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t hesitate, and that only spurs me on.

The storm rages outside, but here, in this moment, everything else fades. When we finally break apart, her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly swollen.

The moment hangs heavy between us, the charged air thick with tension. Her laugh fades, and our eyes lock, a silent challenge passing between us. I lean in again, capturing her lips with mine, this time with more force, more intent. She gasps softly against my mouth, her hesitation melting into something bolder as she kisses me back with equal fervor.

I slide my hand down to her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her fingers curl into my hair, tugging just enough to spur me on. The kiss grows hungrier, deeper, as if we’re testing each other’s limits. I push her back slightly, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each rapid breath.

“You taste even better when you’re not trying to argue with me,” I murmur, my voice low and teasing.

Her lips curve into a smirk. “You’re even more insufferable when you think you’ve won.”

I laugh, the sound dark and rough. “Oh, Chiara,” I say, my grip on her tightening as I guide her toward the bedroom. “I always win.”

Before she can respond, I sweep her up into my arms. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn’t protest. She wraps her arms around my neck as I carry her through the doorway, kicking it shut behind us. The storm outside feels like it’s mirrored in here, the tension crackling with each step I take.

I set her down on the bed, but instead of sinking into it, she plants her hands behind her, propping herself up as she regards me with a raised brow. “Is this where I’m supposed to swoon?”

I chuckle, unbuttoning the top of my shirt, my gaze never leaving hers. “That depends. Are you planning to make this difficult?”

She shrugs, her smirk widening. “Maybe. I like to keep things interesting.”

I lean down, my hands on either side of her hips, caging her in. “I can handle interesting,” I say, my voice a rough whisper. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here.”

Her smirk falters for a moment, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or anticipation. She shifts slightly, her body brushing against mine, and it takes everything in me not to pin her down right then and there.

“I don’t submit easily,” she says, her tone defiant.

“Good,” I reply, my hand trailing up her thigh. “I like a challenge.”

I tug her closer, one swift motion that has her flat against the mattress. Her laughter turns into a soft gasp as I press my body against hers, pinning her wrists above her head. My cock strains against my pants as I unzip, and it springs free. Thick and long, it lays against Chiara’s inner thigh.

She arches beneath me, her breathing quickening as my lips trail down her neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake. When I enter her, she lets out a strangled sound so delicious, I could devour her.

“Still think I’m insufferable?” I murmur against her skin.

“Absolutely,” she breathes, though her voice is shaky.

I grin, my teeth grazing the delicate curve of her shoulder. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

She lets out a soft laugh, though it’s cut off by a sharp intake of breath as I begin to thrust. Her body reacts to mine, her defiance giving way to something deeper, something primal. She doesn’t submit easily, no, but she doesn’t need to. I fuck her hard, hands tightening around her wrists as I pin her helplessly and fuck, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You like this,” I say, my voice a dark whisper. “Don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer, but the way her walls clench around me is all the confirmation I need. I release her wrists, trailing my hands down her sides as I claim her mouth again, my kiss bruising and possessive. She matches my intensity, her fingers tangling in my hair and pulling me closer.

The storm outside howls, but it’s nothing compared to the one inside this room. She comes with a cry, body arching before going still. It’s enough to make me unravel, spilling inside of her. Thick, hot come leaks from her hole as I finally collapse at her side.

By the time we’re both out of breath, lying tangled in the sheets, I can’t help but grin at the sight of her. Chiara Vinci, a woman who doesn’t submit easily, lying beside me with her hair a mess and her lips swollen from my kisses.

“You’re trouble,” she says, her voice soft but edged with amusement.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Her eyes narrow as she props herself up on one elbow, her hair cascading over her bare shoulder. “I need a minute,” she says, her tone firm. “You don’t get to boss me around, Sharov.”

I lean closer, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Don’t I? You’re in my bed, in my house, Chiara. You’ll do as I say.”

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she might lash out, but instead, she fixes me with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “I’m not your toy,” she snaps. “I don’t belong to you.”

The fire in her voice is enough to make my pulse quicken. God, she’s infuriating, but it only makes me want her more. I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest as I regard her, my grin widening. “You don’t belong to me yet,” I say, my voice low and deliberate. “Still, let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy this as much as I do.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling the sheets higher around her chest as if shielding herself from me. “I don’t need your permission to enjoy myself,” she retorts.

“Clearly,” I say, the smirk still firmly in place. “Don’t think for a second you can resist me when you want this just as much as I do.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks away, as though gathering her composure. She’s strong, but I can see the cracks in her armor, the way her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. It’s not submission; it’s restraint. Damn it, if it doesn’t make me respect her even more.

“Fine,” I say after a moment, leaning back against the headboard. “Take your minute, Chiara. Rest if you must. I’ll allow it—this time.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, and she raises a brow. “How generous of you,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” she replies coolly, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair. She doesn’t look at me, her focus on smoothing out the tangle of emotions in her expression.

I can’t help but admire the view—her long, slender frame, the way her skin glows in the dim light. She’s captivating in every sense of the word, and it’s not just her body that holds my attention. It’s her mind, her fire, her refusal to let anyone—including me—dictate who she is or what she does.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Her gaze flickers to me, surprise flashing in her eyes before she smirks. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Sharov. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

I laugh, leaning in just enough to brush my lips against hers, soft and teasing. “Don’t worry, Chiara. My reputation is the least of my concerns.”