Page 55 of Secret Bratva Twins

The terms are less restrictive than I anticipated, though they still feel like chains. “Why does it matter where I go?”

“Because I need you close,” he replies, his voice low. “The twins need you close. If you’re here, I can ensure your safety.”

“Or your control,” I mutter under my breath.

He steps closer, his presence towering as he leans down slightly, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Call it whatever you want,” he says evenly. “The answer doesn’t change. You stay in Chicago, Chiara.”

I hold his gaze, the air between us thick with unspoken tension. Finally, I nod, though the motion feels heavy with resignation. “Fine,” I say quietly.

“Good,” he replies, his tone softer now. He straightens, running a hand through his dirty blond hair as he steps back. “You’ll need a proper team. Lawyers, accountants. Whatever it takes to keep your new empire running.”

His matter-of-fact tone grates on me, but I force myself to remain calm. “I’ll handle it,” I say simply.

“I’m sure you will.”

He turns toward the window, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the city skyline as if already calculating his next move. For a moment, I watch him, trying to piece together the man in front of me. Serge Sharov is many things—ruthless, controlling, impossible to predict. But right now, there’s something almost human about him, something that makes me feel more uneasy than any of his calculated power plays.

“I don’t trust you,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He glances over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. You shouldn’t.”

His honesty stuns me into silence, and I look away, my hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly. The weight of the past few days presses down on me, the realization that my life has been irrevocably changed settling in my chest like a stone.

Lorenzo is gone, his shadow no longer looming over me. In his place is Serge, a man who has become both my captor and my partner.

Chapter Twenty-One - Serge

The evening air is crisp as the car pulls up to the venue, the glow of the building’s grand entrance reflecting off the sleek black surface of the limousine. I glance at Chiara beside me, and for a moment, the noise of the world outside fades.

She looks stunning tonight. Too stunning.

The gown she’s wearing hugs her curves in all the right places, its deep emerald color a stark contrast to the soft waves of her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Her lips, painted a deep red, catch my attention in a way that’s distracting—dangerously so.

She adjusts the small clutch in her hands, her movements graceful but tense. She’s been like this all week: polite but distant. Always with the twins, always avoiding me, always too busy to be alone with me for more than a passing moment.

It’s driving me mad.

I clear my throat, forcing my attention away from her as the car slows to a stop. “You look beautiful,” I say, my voice even despite the heat simmering just beneath the surface.

Her eyes flick to me, startled by the compliment. “Thank you,” she says softly, her tone polite but guarded.

It’s not enough.

Before I can say more, the door opens, and I step out, extending a hand to help her. The flash of cameras lights up the night as soon as we’re visible, reporters and onlookers clamoring for a glimpse of the Sharov couple.

Chiara hesitates briefly before placing her hand in mine, her touch light but steady as she steps out of the car.

Together, we make our way up the steps, the crowd parting like the sea as we move. She holds her head high, herchin lifted in quiet defiance, and I can’t help the flicker of pride that runs through me. Despite everything, she carries herself like a queen.

Inside, the ballroom is buzzing with conversation, the air thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and champagne. The event is a gathering of powerful figures—business tycoons, politicians, and a handful of familiar faces from the underworld.

Chiara stays close to my side as we navigate the room, her posture poised but her fingers gripping her clutch a little too tightly. She’s nervous, though she hides it well.

“Relax,” I murmur, leaning closer so only she can hear. “No one here would dare cross me.”

She glances at me, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she doesn’t respond.

We’re stopped by a group of acquaintances—businessmen with more money than sense, accompanied by their wives who eye Chiara with a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled judgment.

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