Page 19 of Secret Bratva Twins

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, asif 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.”

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