Secret Bratva Twins (Sharov Bratva #7)

Chapter Seven - Serge

The sunlight streaming through the windows wakes me. It’s too bright for my liking, but the absence of Chiara next to me is even more glaring. The sheets are cool where she should be, the room eerily quiet without her usual sharp wit cutting through the morning stillness. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my body still sluggish from last night.

After pulling on a shirt, I head downstairs, the faint aroma of something sweet drawing me toward the dining room. On the table sits a plate of perfectly golden French toast, soaked in milk and sprinkled with just the right amount of powdered sugar. Beside it, a note rests on the edge of the plate.

Hey,

I’m off for a morning run to clear my mind. I made you some breakfast—hope you enjoy it.

Chiara.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Milk-soaked French toast. My favorite. She couldn’t have known that—I’ve never mentioned it. Maybe it’s coincidence, or maybe she’s been paying more attention than I thought. Either way, it’s endearing in a way I don’t entirely want to admit.

I pick up the fork and cut into the toast, the crispy edges giving way to a soft, custardy center. The first bite is heavenly, the flavors perfectly balanced. She’s good at this—too good. As I chew, my mind drifts to her. I can picture her running, her dark hair tied back, her legs carrying her through the quiet streets.

My fork hovers over the plate, ready for another bite when something clicks in my mind. Roman’s voice echoes faintly, a conversation from weeks ago. “She’s lactose intolerant.”

I freeze.

If she can’t have milk, why does she have it in the fridge? The thought slams into me like a fist. My eyes dart back to the plate, to the note, to the toast that now feels more like a weapon than a meal.

A chill runs down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I set the fork down and grab my phone, my movements sharp and deliberate. Roman picks up on the second ring.

“Roman,” I bark, the unease in my voice unmistakable, “get over here now.”

“Everything okay?” His voice is alert, professional.

“Just get here. Something’s wrong.”

A sudden wave of nausea grips me, a sharp twist in my stomach that makes me clutch the edge of the table for support. My vision blurs for a second, black spots dancing at the corners. The realization hits me like a sledgehammer.

I’ve been poisoned.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering onto the table as I stagger to my feet. My knees buckle, the room spinning violently. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s turning to lead, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Roman!” I shout, though I don’t know if he can still hear me. My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from underwater.

I stumble toward the door, gripping the wall for balance. My mind races, replaying every moment with Chiara, every look, every touch, every carefully chosen word. She planned this. The thought slices through me, sharper than the pain gripping my stomach.

The last thing I see before the world goes dark is the untouched plate of French toast sitting innocently on the table.

When I hit the floor, the cold tiles offer no solace. Only betrayal.

***

The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor pulls me out of the darkness. My body feels heavy, every limb weighed down like it’s encased in concrete. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights above me, I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my stomach keeps me pinned to the hospital bed.

“Take it easy,” Roman’s voice cuts through the fog. He’s seated by my side, his elbows resting on his knees, looking at me with a mix of relief and frustration. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

I ignore his concern, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Where is she?” My voice is hoarse, rough from disuse. It’s the only question that matters.

Roman leans back, exhaling slowly. “Gone.”

The single word is like a punch to the gut. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to sit up despite the sharp protest from my body. The effort leaves me breathless, but I don’t care. “What do you mean, gone?”

“The moment you blacked out, I got you here. I left the men to track her down, but….” He hesitates, glancing at the doorway like he expects someone to walk in and save him from the rest of the explanation. “She vanished. So did Dante.”

A bitter laugh escapes me, one that sounds more like a growl. Of course, she did. She planned this too well. Every smile, every look, every kiss—it was all part of her game. She got to me before I could get to her.

Roman shakes his head, his voice low but edged with incredulity. “Can’t decide if she’s smart or just cruel.”

The doctor steps in, a clipboard in hand, interrupting us. “You ingested a controlled toxin,” he explains. “It was laced into your food. Small doses wouldn’t have been lethal, but if you’d eaten more, you wouldn’t have made it here. You’re lucky your men acted fast.”

Lucky. The word tastes foul in my mouth. Luck has nothing to do with this. I was played.

As the doctor leaves, Roman studies me closely. “She’s clever, I’ll give her that. She knew exactly how to strike.”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washes over me. “Clever doesn’t mean untouchable.” My voice is cold, laced with a fury I can barely contain. “I’ll find her.”

Roman places a steadying hand on my shoulder. “You need to recover first. She’s not worth dying over.”

My glare silences him. “She made it personal. She thought she could humiliate me and walk away.” My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms. “She’s wrong.”

Roman hesitates, then nods. “What’s the plan?”

The plan? Right now, all I can think about is the taste of betrayal, the memory of her soft smile as she provided me my favorite breakfast. Every detail sharpens the blade of my anger. The woman I let into my life, into my bed, tried to kill me.

I’m not letting her get away with it.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll track her to the ends of the earth if I have to. She’ll regret the day she crossed me.”

Roman doesn’t argue, his expression hardening. He knows me well enough to understand that there’s no point. Once I’ve decided on something, there’s no going back.

The thought of Chiara—her golden hair, the fire in her eyes, the way she kissed me like she hated me and needed me all at once—burns in my mind. Anger and hate churn in my chest, boiling over into something darker. She played me, used me, and now she’s running.

She thinks she’s safe.

She thinks she won.

The corner of my mouth curls into a grim smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Let her run,” I mutter. “It’ll only make it sweeter when I catch her.”

The doctor returns, leans over me with practiced efficiency, adjusting the IV in my arm and checking the monitors that beep steadily beside the hospital bed. His expression is calm, detached—he’s used to treating people like me. People who have private rooms in exclusive hospitals, shielded from the public eye. I hate it.

“Your vitals are stable,” he says, not bothering to meet my gaze. “You’ll need a few days to recover fully. Rest is critical.”

“I don’t have time for rest.” My voice is low, tight with frustration. The weak ache in my stomach only fuels my anger.

Roman stands in the corner, arms crossed, his sharp suit impeccable despite the chaos of the past day. He’s watching me closely, like he’s expecting me to ignore the doctor’s orders and rip the IV out of my arm. He wouldn’t be wrong.

“You nearly died, Serge,” Roman says, his tone heavy with disapproval. “Let the man do his job.”

The doctor glances between us but wisely doesn’t comment, focusing on scribbling notes in his clipboard. He presses a button to lower the bed slightly, and the movement makes me bristle. I hate this—being confined, being tended to like I’m fragile. I’m not fragile. I’m Serge Sharov.

Roman steps forward, his voice quieter now. “I’ve already got people looking for her. You don’t need to do anything except recover.”

“Recovering is a waste of time.” I push myself upright despite the wave of nausea that follows. The doctor mutters something about taking it slow, but I ignore him. “The longer I’m stuck here, the farther she gets.”

Roman sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to catch her if you keel over before you leave this damn hospital. Use your head.”

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. The thought of Chiara out there, slipping further from my grasp with each passing hour, gnaws at me. The anger that surges every time I think of her face, her smile, the trust I let myself feel—it all pushes against the edges of my control.

The doctor finishes his checks, leaving the room with instructions for me to rest. Roman watches him go before turning his attention back to me. “We’ll find her, Serge. I swear. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

I grunt in response, lying back against the pillows. The moment I’m discharged, I’ll handle this myself. No matter how long it takes, I’ll make sure she pays.

***

By the time I’m discharged, the anger hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s grown sharper, honed by every second I spent in that sterile room. Roman drives me home in silence, the tension between us thick but familiar. He knows better than to push me right now.

The house is eerily quiet when I step inside. No trace of her scent lingers in the air. The living room looks untouched, as if no one had ever been here but me. I move through the space slowly, every step heightening the sense of emptiness.

Her clothes, her perfume, the stray hairpins I’d catch on the bathroom counter—all gone. The closet is bare except for my suits. The dresser holds only my belongings. It’s as if Chiara Vinci never existed.

Roman follows me inside, lingering near the door. “She covered her tracks well,” he says, his voice neutral. “There’s nothing left.”

I don’t respond, walking into the kitchen. Even the mug she always used for her morning coffee is gone. The fury bubbling in my chest feels like it might explode. She didn’t just leave—she erased herself.

Roman leans against the counter, watching me carefully. “We’ll find her.”

I grip the edge of the countertop, my knuckles white. “I don’t want promises. I want results.”

“We’ll get results.” Roman’s voice hardens. “But you need to focus, Serge. She’s not worth losing your head over.”

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the empty kitchen. “She’s worth every ounce of my anger. She made sure of that.”

Roman nods once, standing straight. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Call if you need anything.”

As he steps out, the silence returns, oppressive and suffocating. I move through the house, checking every room, every corner, as if some small piece of her might still remain. There’s nothing. No evidence of her touch, her presence. It’s like she was a ghost.

I stop in the bedroom, staring at the bed we shared. The sheets are freshly changed—Roman must have arranged it—but it feels wrong. Her warmth, her scent, the way she’d curl up on her side—it’s all gone.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands resting on my knees. The anger inside me simmers, a dangerous promise. Chiara might think she’s won, that she’s escaped me. She’s wrong.

She’ll learn soon enough that no one crosses Serge Sharov and walks away unscathed.