Page 60 of Secret Bratva Twins

The drive back home feels longer than usual, the city lights blurring as the car weaves through traffic. I sit in the backseat, the reports from the meeting stacked neatly in my lap. My fingers drum against the leather armrest, the rhythm betraying the storm brewing in my mind. Everything is worse than I imagined. Every number, every failed project, and every mounting debt feels like a countdown to disaster.

By the time the car pulls into the long driveway of Serge’s mansion, my temples throb with a dull ache. The house looms ahead, its lights casting a warm glow that feels at odds with the turmoil churning inside me. I step out, clutching the papers tightly as if they’re the only anchor I have in this sinking ship.

Inside, the house is quiet except for the faint sound of laughter coming from the twins’ playroom. I don’t stop to greet them. I can’t, not with my mind racing and my chest tight with worry. I head straight to the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me. The reports land on the desk with a dull thud, and I slump into the chair, staring at them like they’re a puzzle I can’t solve.

It’s not long before I hear the door open behind me. I don’t turn around; I already know who it is.

“You’ve been gone longer than usual,” Serge says, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his presence.

“I had a lot to handle,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. I don’t want to get into this with him—not now, maybe not ever.

He doesn’t take the hint. I hear the soft click of the door closing and his footsteps approaching. He stops behind me, his hands resting on the back of the chair. His warmth is close, too close, and it only heightens my unease.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, his tone sharper now, probing.

I exhale slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. “It’s nothing,” I say, but the lie feels thin even to me.

“Don’t insult me, Chiara,” he says, his grip on the chair tightening slightly. “What’s going on?”

I hesitate, my fingers curling into fists in my lap. He always seems to know, always seems to see through me no matter how hard I try to keep my walls up. I glance over my shoulder, meeting his piercing gaze.

“It’s the Vinci Group,” I admit reluctantly. “It’s worse than I thought. We’re… they’re on the verge of collapse.”

He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, his expression sharpens, his features hardening in a way that makes my stomach twist. “Of course, they are,” he says simply, moving to stand in front of me. “Your brother made reckless decisions. This isn’t news.”

I blink, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “You knew?”

“Of course, I knew,” he replies, his tone maddeningly calm. “Lorenzo came to me years ago, begging for help. He wanted to align himself with the Bratva, to use my resources to cover his failures.”

I rise from the chair, my hands braced on the desk. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

His eyes narrow slightly, his voice lowering. “I did tell you Lorenzo contacted me.”

I glare at him, anger and desperation warring within me. “You didn’t say it was this bad! Hundreds of people depend on that company. Families, livelihoods—”

“I’m aware,” he cuts in, his voice firm but not unkind. “Which is why I’m offering you the same deal I offered him.”

I freeze, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. “A deal,” I repeat, my tone flat.

He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “Yes. My resources, my power. I can stabilize the Vinci Group, pull it back from the brink. But you know what that means.”

I cross my arms, my heart pounding. “You want control.”

He smirks faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “Control ensures success. It ensures that your brother’s mistakes won’t be repeated.”

I shake my head, turning away from him. “This is exactly why Lorenzo didn’t want to rely on you. Because nothing with you is ever free.”

“Nothing in this world is free, Chiara,” he replies, his voice soft but edged with steel. “Think carefully. Do you want the Vinci name to be remembered as a legacy or as a failure?”

The weight of his words sinks in, heavy and unrelenting. He’s right, of course. Without his help, the Vinci Group will collapse, and everything my father built will be gone. Accepting his help means letting him into yet another part of my life, letting him tighten his grip even further.

“What’s your price?” I ask finally, my voice quiet.

“You stay in Chicago,” he says simply. “Focus on rebuilding the company under my guidance. I’ll handle the logistics, the debts, everything. You’ll report to me.”

I turn to face him, my jaw tightening. “You make it sound like I work for you.”

“You’re my wife,” he counters, stepping closer until we’re only inches apart. “I take care of what’s mine.”

---