Page 17 of Secret Bratva Twins

“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.

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.

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