Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter Six - Chiara

The cold, crisp air of Chicago’s fall wraps around me as I stand before my father’s grave. The polished marble headstone gleams in the fading afternoon light, his name etched boldly across its surface. Fernando Vinci. A name that once commanded respect and fear in equal measure, now reduced to a slab of stone and memories that burn too brightly.

I kneel, placing a bouquet of white lilies at the base. They were his favorite. He always said they symbolized purity, though purity was the last thing associated with his legacy. “Ciao, Papa,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I haven’t forgotten. I promise.”

The promise is what keeps me going, the one thing that grounds me when my resolve begins to falter. Like now. The past month has been a distraction, one I hadn’t anticipated. Serge Sharov. The name alone stirs a tumult of emotions—desire, anger, confusion. I hate that he’s in my head, his smirk haunting me at every turn. I hate that I let myself get close to him, forgetting, even for a moment, why I’m here.

My fingers tighten around the stems of the lilies as the conflicting emotions bubble up inside me. A part of me feels something for him. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me—there’s a pull there, undeniable and maddening. Then there’s the other part, the one that reminds me of my father lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood. The one that whispers Serge deserves the same fate.

The crunch of gravel behind me pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I tense, instinctively reaching for the small blade hidden beneath my coat.

“I figured you’d be here,” a deep, familiar voice says, smooth and self-assured.

I stand, turning slowly. Serge is standing a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his tailored coat. His piercing blue eyes are locked on me, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He looks effortlessly composed, as always, but there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s not here for pleasantries.

“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out colder than I intended.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he counters, taking a step closer. “You’ve been avoiding me. For days, weeks even. I don’t like being ignored, Chiara.”

I fold my arms, standing my ground. “Maybe I just needed some space.”

He arches a brow, a hint of amusement curving his lips. “Space. Interesting choice of words for someone who seems determined to occupy my every thought.”

His words throw me off-balance for a moment, but I quickly recover. “I’m not here to talk about us, Serge.”

“No,” he says, his tone hardening as he glances at the grave. “You’re here for him.”

I stiffen, the mention of my father bringing a fresh wave of anger to the surface. “You have no right to be here.”

He doesn’t flinch at my words, stepping even closer until there’s barely any space between us. “You’re wrong,” he says quietly. “I have every right. You’re here, Chiara. Whether you like it or not, that makes it my business.”

I glare at him, hating how easily he dismantles my defenses. “This has nothing to do with you.”

He studies me for a long moment, his gaze intense and searching. “Doesn’t it?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken truths lingering between us. I hate that he’s right, hate that he’s inserted himself into every corner of my life, my thoughts, my plans.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I snap, turning away from him.

He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Run.” His voice is low, almost a plea. “You’ve been running since the day I met you.”

My heart pounds as I pull my hand free, the weight of his words sinking in. He’s not wrong, but I can’t admit that. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m not running,” I lie, my voice steadier than I feel. “I just don’t want to be around you.”

“Liar,” he says, his tone softer now, almost teasing.

I don’t respond, my gaze fixed on the lilies at the base of the grave. Focus on the mission, I remind myself. Don’t let him get to you.

He steps back, giving me space, but his presence is still overwhelming. “You think standing here, visiting his grave, changes anything?” His voice is measured, but there’s an edge to it. “It doesn’t bring him back. It doesn’t fix what’s broken.”

My head snaps up, anger flaring in my chest. “Don’t pretend to understand my grief.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” he says, his eyes locking on to mine. “I’ve lived it.”

The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard, but I push it aside. He’s trying to get into my head, and I can’t let him.

“This is your last warning, Serge,” I say, my voice cold. “Stay out of my way.”

He smirks, the defiance in my tone seemingly amusing him. “You don’t want me to do that, Chiara. Whether you admit it or not, you need me.”

The audacity of his words leaves me speechless, and before I can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my swirling emotions and the haunting echo of his presence.

***

Serge insists on driving me home despite my protests. The stormy tension from the cemetery lingers between us as his sleek car cuts through the streets. He says little, his jaw tight and his hands firm on the wheel. I stare out the window, pretending to ignore him, though every glance at his profile sends a strange warmth through my chest.

When we arrive, I undo my seat belt and reach for the door handle, but something stops me. I hesitate, then glance at him. I’m staying in a nice hotel, though I doubt it’s nearly as nice as what Serge is used to.

Despite my better judgment, I speak. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

His sharp gaze shifts to me, searching for something. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s never a good idea with you,” I murmur, half to myself. “I’m inviting you anyway.”

He doesn’t reply, just nods, and we step out of the car. As I unlock the door, my heart pounds. I know this won’t end with a casual drink. It never does with Serge. The tension between us is a living thing, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

The moment the door closes behind us, Serge’s frustration erupts. He presses me against the wall, his hands on my hips, his mouth claiming mine. His kiss is demanding, filled with the intensity that he carries in everything he does.

It’s dizzying, the way he pulls me under his spell so effortlessly. I grip his shoulders, torn between wanting to melt into him and shoving him away. The taste of him is addicting, the heat of his body pressed against mine sending sparks down my spine.

Then the anger creeps in. The reminder of why this is such a terrible idea. I press my hands against his chest and push, breaking the kiss. “No,” I say breathlessly.

His brows knit together, a storm brewing in his eyes. He steps back sharply, his frustration evident in the way his jaw clenches. “Right. I’ll go.” His voice is low, a mix of anger and something else I can’t place.

As he turns to leave, my heart stammers. Panic grips me, and before I can think better of it, I reach out, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “Don’t go,” I whisper, my face pressed against his back. “Can you stay for a while?”

He stills under my touch, his broad shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. After a moment, he turns around, his hands gently cupping my face. His gaze softens in a way I’ve rarely seen, and it makes my chest ache.

“I’ll stay,” he says quietly.

I fight the urge to cry, hating the vulnerability I feel in this moment. “This is a bad idea,” I murmur, my voice trembling.

“Maybe,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’re not the only one fighting this, Chiara.”

His words break through the walls I’ve tried to keep up. I lean into his touch, torn between the war raging in my head and the undeniable pull between us. For now, I let myself give in. Just for a while.

The storm outside rages on, thunder rumbling in the distance as we sit together on the couch. Serge pours us both another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glasses like liquid fire. I take a cautious sip, the burn warming me from the inside.

Despite the weather, the room feels far from cold. The air between us is thick, charged with something I can’t quite define.

He leans back, one arm draped over the couch, the picture of ease. Except I know better. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re distant, calculating—like he’s a thousand miles away.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

He smirks, but it’s faint. “You’d be surprised how much is always on my mind.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He swirls the drink in his glass, staring at the liquid as if it holds the answers to the universe. “Do you ever feel like nothing you do will ever be enough?” he asks suddenly, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

The question catches me off guard. For a moment, I just look at him, unsure of how to respond. “I think everyone feels that way sometimes,” I offer cautiously. “Even you, apparently.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. “Even me.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes my chest tighten. Serge Sharov, the man who always seems in control, is sitting here admitting to… what? Doubt? Guilt?

“Anthony used to say the same thing,” he says after a moment, his tone distant.

I stiffen slightly. Anthony. I’ve heard that name before, in hushed conversations and stray comments. His best friend, the one who died under mysterious circumstances. I’ve never asked about it, never thought it was my place.

“What happened to him?” The question escapes me before I can stop it.

He glances at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect, maybe make a sarcastic comment and move on. Then he sets his glass down on the coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I suppose I’ll never know.”

The words hit me like a slap. My breath catches, my fingers tightening around my glass as I struggle to process what he just said. “What do you mean?”

He nods, his gaze steady. “He was a traitor. He sold us out to our enemies—your father, actually. He’d been working with the Vincis for months, feeding them information. I didn’t want to believe it at first. He was like a brother to me.”

My stomach churns. My father. Of course, it all comes back to him. I don’t know whether to feel anger or guilt. Maybe both.

“So someone killed him?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He sits back again, his expression hardening. “No, I don’t think so. Lots of people said I should have had him killed, but he was my best friend. I never could have done it, and nobody would have dared do it behind my back.”

There’s something about the way he says it that sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just the words; it’s the conviction behind them.

I take another sip of my drink, the liquid burning my throat as I swallow. “That must’ve been hard,” I say finally.

“It was,” he replies, his tone flat. “It was ruled suicide, though I know I’ll never know what really happened.”

I nod, unsure of what else to say. A part of me wants to pry further, to ask him how it felt, to lose someone like that. Another part of me is terrified of the answers.

We sit in silence for a while, the storm outside providing a steady soundtrack to our thoughts. The tension in the room is palpable, but neither of us seems willing to break it. It’s like we’re both waiting for the other to make the next move.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he says after a while, his voice breaking the silence.

“I’m just… processing,” I admit, my gaze fixed on the rain streaking down the windows. “That’s a lot to take in.”

He chuckles again, this time with a hint of self-deprecation. “You’re telling me.”

I glance at him, studying his profile in the dim light. There’s something almost vulnerable about him in this moment, like the weight of his actions is finally catching up to him. It’s a side of Serge I’ve never seen before, and it makes him feel more human. More real.

“You don’t seem like the type to regret much,” I say, testing the waters.

He looks at me then, his blue eyes piercing. “Regret doesn’t change anything. It’s a waste of time.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. He just watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he picks up his glass again, draining the rest of his drink in one smooth motion. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?” he says, his tone lighter now.

“So are you,” I counter, my lips quirking into a faint smile.

The storm outside shows no signs of letting up, and I can’t help but feel like it’s a reflection of the chaos swirling inside me. Serge Sharov is a storm, unpredictable and dangerous, and I’m caught right in the middle of it.

Even so, I can’t let him distract me. I’m here for revenge, after all.