Page 44 of Secret Bratva Twins

The room blurs for a moment as my focus narrows entirely on her. On the way the soft light catches the lace of her dress. On the set of her lips, pressed tightly together. On the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes when she glances at the children.

She doesn’t look at me until she’s standing directly in front of me. When her gaze finally meets mine, it’s a challenge.

I take her hand as Roman steps back, his expression neutral but approving. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm.

The officiant begins to speak, but I barely register the words. I’m too focused on her, on the way her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. She’s keeping it together, but just barely.

When it’s time for the vows, she hesitates. A brief pause, so brief I doubt anyone else notices, but I do.

Her voice shakes as she begins. The words feel forced, like she’s dragging them out of herself. “I, Chiara Vinci, take you,Serge Sharov—” She swallows hard, her eyes flickering down to my hand before meeting mine again. “—to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

Her voice wavers, but she gets through it. I can see the strain it takes, the effort to make it sound even remotely sincere.

My turn is easier. I’ve made vows before—to family, to loyalty, to bloodlines. This is no different. My voice is steady, unshaken.

When the officiant declares us husband and wife, there’s a pause. A moment where I could pull her closer, kiss her, make it official in a way that would leave no room for doubt.

I don’t.

Instead, I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her knuckles. Her skin is soft, delicate, and for a moment, the scent of her surrounds me—subtle, floral, intoxicating. I pull back quickly before I let it go to my head.

I don’t kiss her lips. I know better than to go there. Her lips drive me wild in ways I can’t afford right now. Not here, not in front of an audience, not when I’m supposed to be in control.

The applause is polite, restrained. This isn’t the kind of crowd that cheers wildly for a wedding. It’s not that kind of wedding.

Chiara’s hand trembles slightly in mine, and I glance down at her. Her expression is blank, carefully composed, but her lips are pressed tightly together again. She’s barely holding herself together.

Katya stands, holding Alyssa’s hand as they approach. Alyssa practically skips down the aisle, her face lit with excitement. “Mommy, you’re so pretty!” she exclaims, tugging on Chiara’s dress.

Chiara forces a smile, kneeling slightly to meet her daughter’s gaze. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Leo hesitates, clinging to Katya’s hand, his wide eyes darting between Chiara and me. When I crouch down, holding my arms open, he takes a small step forward, then another.

“Come here,” I say softly.

He stares at me for a moment longer before finally letting go of Katya’s hand and running into my arms. I lift him easily, his small frame fitting perfectly against me.

It’s a strange feeling, holding him like this. He’s so small, so fragile, yet there’s a strength in him, a quiet resilience I can’t help but admire.

“You did great,” I murmur, my voice low enough for only him to hear.

He nods against my shoulder, his fingers clutching at my jacket.

Alyssa climbs into Chiara’s lap as Katya wraps an arm around her new daughter-in-law. My mother’s face is glowing, her joy unmistakable.

“They’re perfect,” she whispers to me as I rise to my full height.

I glance at Chiara again, at the way she holds Alyssa close, her smile strained but genuine for the children.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “They are.”

Perfection comes with a price. One I’m not sure Chiara is willing to pay.

***

The ballroom is subdued, filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of crystal glasses. It’sexactly as I planned—restrained, controlled, nothing flashy or chaotic. For a wedding afterparty, it’s a far cry from the gaudy celebrations some of my guests might have expected. But I don’t do anything for show. Everything here serves a purpose.

My gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the careful movements of those in attendance. My men stand scattered among the guests, their presence subtle but unmistakable. No one would dare step out of line here—not with me at the center of it all.

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