Page 2 of Secret Bratva Twins

I smirk, stepping closer to where she stands, a drink in one hand and an air of control in the other. “Neither. I’d call it intrigued. You have a way of drawing attention, Chiara.”

She laughs softly, the sound sharp like the edge of a blade. “Funny, I was going to say the same about you. Though I’d argue it’s more because of your tendency to irritate than intrigue.”

I chuckle, unbothered by the jab. “You know, it’s a shame your brother doesn’t send you to negotiate more often. Lorenzo’s predictable. You, on the other hand… you make things interesting.”

She narrows her eyes, her lips curling into a sly smile. “What exactly is it you find so interesting?”

I take a sip of my whiskey, letting her question linger in the air for a moment. Then I meet her gaze again, my grin widening. “Why don’t we find out? Let’s play a game.”

Her brow furrows slightly, her interest piqued. “A game?”

“Poker.” I set my glass down on a nearby table and gesture toward the lounge area, where a group is gathered around a green-felt table. “If you win, you can ask me for anything you want. If I win… the rest of your evening is mine.”

Chiara laughs again, the sound dripping with mockery. “You think you can buy my time with a card game?”

“No,” I say, shrugging. “I think you can’t resist a challenge.”

Her lips press together, and for a moment, she seems to weigh her options. Then she lifts her chin, her smile sharp and daring. “Fine. Don’t cry when you lose.”

As we approach the table, a man steps forward from the shadows, his dark eyes scanning me with suspicion. Dante. Chiara’s loyal lieutenant. He was her father’s right hand before his death, and now he serves her with the same blind devotion. I don’t like him.

“Chiara,” Dante says, his voice low and even. “This isn’t necessary. You don’t need to waste your time with him.”

Her eyes flick to Dante briefly before returning to me. “Relax, Dante. It’s just a game.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he steps back, his jaw tight. Good. The last thing I need is his interference.

We sit at the table, and the dealer shuffles the cards. The game begins slowly, the first few rounds more about testing the waters than making bold moves. But as the night wears on, the tension between us grows.

Chiara is good. I’ll give her that. She plays with a calculating edge, her eyes betraying nothing as she places her bets. But I’m better. Years of navigating high-stakes deals and life-or-death negotiations have made me a master at reading people. Chiara is all tells and no substance.

The final hand comes down to just the two of us. She places her bet, sliding her chips forward with a smirk. “Your move, Sharov.”

I glance at my cards, then at her. Slowly, I match her bet and raise it. “All in.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t falter. She matches my raise, and the cards are revealed.

A royal flush. My victory.

The room erupts into murmurs and laughter, and someone from the crowd—a Russian, judging by his accent—quips, “Not the first time Vinci is losing to a Sharov.”

Chiara’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t lose her composure. Instead, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, her gaze locked on mine. “Congratulations, Serge. It seems you’ve won. What now?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Now, you keep your end of the deal. The rest of your evening belongs to me.”

Dante steps forward again, his expression dark. “This isn’t a good idea, Chiara.”

She waves him off, standing gracefully. “Relax, Dante. It’s just an evening.”

The words are meant to sound casual, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides. She’s daring, but she’s not invincible. That’s what makes this game so much fun.

Chiara turns to face me fully, her chin lifting in defiance as if daring me to say something more. Her poise is admirable, a carefully constructed shield meant to hide any cracks in her armor. It’s a game we’re both well-versed in, but tonight, I’m determined to gain the upper hand.

Dante remains rooted nearby, his gaze darting between us, frustration simmering beneath his controlled demeanor. “One evening,” he mutters, his voice low but laced with warning. “Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, Sharov.”

I don’t bother to hide my smirk. “Trust me, Dante, I’m well aware.”

Chiara steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished deck of the yacht. “If you’re so eager for my company, Serge,” she says smoothly, “then let’s make this worth my while. What do you propose for our illustrious evening?”

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