Page 12 of Secret Bratva Twins

“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.

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