Page 9 of Secret Bratva Twins

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 ourkingdom, 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.

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