Page 21

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, her chin 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.

One of them, a tall, thin woman in an ice-blue gown, steps forward, her smile too sharp to be genuine. “So, this is the new Mrs. Sharov,” she says, her tone dripping with false sweetness. “I must say, Serge, you have quite the taste for… unconventional choices.”

Chiara stiffens beside me, and I feel the tension radiating from her.

I don’t hesitate. My gaze locks on to the woman, my voice cutting through the noise around us like a blade. “Unconventional is simply another word for exceptional,” I say, my tone cold. “My wife is far more exceptional than anyone else in this room.”

The woman’s smile falters, her eyes darting to her companions for support, but no one comes to her defense.

Chiara glances up at me, surprise flickering in her expression, but she quickly schools it into something neutral.

“Let’s go,” I say, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back as I guide her away from the group.

We find a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from prying eyes and whispered judgments. Chiara turns to me, her brows furrowing. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” I reply firmly. “No one disrespects you and gets away with it. She’s lucky I didn’t get violent.”

Her lips part as if to argue, but she closes them again, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Chiara,” I say, my voice softening slightly.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine for something I can’t name.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment, her voice quiet but sincere.

The gratitude in her tone stirs something deep within me, something I’m not ready to confront. I step closer, the scent of her perfume—a delicate blend of jasmine and vanilla—wrapping around me and fueling the fire that’s been burning inside me for days.

“You drive me insane, you know that?” I murmur, my hand brushing against hers.

Her breath catches, and she takes a small step back, shaking her head. “Serge, not here.”

Her protest is weak, and we both know it.

“Why not?” I ask, my voice low as I lean closer. “You’ve been avoiding me since that night. Always with the twins, always too busy.”

She doesn’t answer, her gaze darting away, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear.

Her hands tighten around her clutch, and for a moment, I think she’s going to push me away. Then her eyes meet mine, dark and conflicted, and she doesn’t move.

I smirk, satisfaction curling through me. “That’s what I thought.”

Before she can respond, a waiter approaches with a tray of champagne, breaking the moment. I step back, adjusting my tie as if nothing happened, but the tension between us lingers, thick and unrelenting.

The waiter disappears, but the charged moment between us lingers. Chiara’s gaze flicks to me, her eyes dark with something I can’t quite place. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, as if daring me to make the next move.

I adjust my cuff links, forcing myself to focus on the sea of people around us. “You’re quiet again,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Nervous about being seen with me?”

She snorts softly, a sound that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Hardly. If anything, I’m surprised you haven’t been stealing all the attention tonight.”

“Oh?” I smirk, leaning closer so my words are just for her. “You think they’re looking at me when you’re in the room, dressed like that?”

Her lips curve into a faint smile, but she quickly suppresses it, her voice calm. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Serge.”

“It’s not flattery,” I reply, my eyes scanning her face. “It’s the truth.”

She shakes her head, but her cheeks flush slightly, betraying her. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“You’re teasing me,” I counter, my voice dropping just enough to make her pause.

Her gaze flicks to mine, a flicker of mischief crossing her face. “Maybe I am,” she says, her tone lilting, playful in a way that sets my blood on fire.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur, the tension between us simmering just below the surface. She stays close to me, her presence a constant distraction as we navigate the crowd. By the time we leave, my patience is wearing thin.

The car ride home starts quietly, the hum of the engine filling the space as the driver navigates the city streets. Chiara sits beside me, her posture relaxed, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the leather armrest.

“Tonight went well,” she says finally, breaking the silence.

“It did,” I reply, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

She glances at me, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. “You didn’t have to defend me back there, you know. I can handle a few snide comments.”

“Maybe,” I say, turning to face her fully. “You’re still my wife. No one disrespects my wife.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, though there’s no real anger there. “Your wife,” she repeats, her tone teasing. “You do love reminding me of that, don’t you?”

I smirk, leaning closer. “It’s a title I take seriously.”

Her laughter is soft, almost melodic, and it sends a rush of heat through me. “You’re impossible,” she says, shaking her head.

“You’re testing me,” I reply, my voice low.

Her gaze meets mine, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. “Am I?”

The playful tone in her voice pushes me over the edge. I lean forward, pressing the intercom button. “Stop the car.”

The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, hesitating. “Here, sir?”

“Yes,” I snap. “You can leave early tonight.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll drive us home when we’re done.”

The car slows to a halt at the edge of a quiet street, the glow of the city lights casting long shadows across the interior. I turn to Chiara, my voice firm. “I don’t want to wait until we’re home.”

Her brows lift in surprise, but there’s no hesitation in her movements. She slides a leg over me, her dress brushing against the leather seats as she settles.

The air in the confined space is thick with tension, her perfume wrapping around me like a challenge.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” she murmurs, her voice soft but teasing.

I lean closer, my hands bracing on either side of her as I cage her in. “And you’re driving me insane,” I reply, my voice rough with the heat I’ve been holding back all night.

Her lips part, but whatever she was about to say is lost as I claim her mouth with mine. The kiss is rough, demanding, my hands sliding to her waist and pulling her closer.

She gasps against my lips, her hands coming up to press against my chest, though whether it’s to push me away or pull me closer, I can’t tell. Her resistance is fleeting, her body melting into mine as the kiss deepens.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” I growl against her lips, my fingers tangling in her hair. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Her breath hitches, her voice trembling as she replies, “Maybe.”

The single word is enough to snap the last thread of my restraint. I trail my lips down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there as my hands slide over the curve of her hips. She arches against me, her soft gasps filling the space between us.

The scent of her perfume is intoxicating, a mix of vanilla and jasmine that clings to her skin, mingling with the faint leather and spice of the car’s interior. It’s a heady combination, fueling the fire burning through me.

Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt as she tilts her head back, giving me more access. “Serge,” she whispers, her voice shaky but laced with something darker, something needful.

I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, my hand cupping her cheek as I run my thumb over her flushed skin. “You’re mine, Chiara,” I say, my voice low but unyielding. “Every part of you.”

She doesn’t reply, but the look in her eyes tells me everything I need to know.

The look in her eyes is enough to undo me. There’s defiance there, as always, but it’s softer now, tempered by something she can’t hide. Something that matches the fire burning in my chest. Her lips part, as though she might argue, but the words never come. Instead, she leans into my touch, her breath hitching softly as my thumb grazes her cheek again.

This kiss is different—deeper, hungrier. It’s not just about claiming her; it’s about something darker, something primal that I can’t fully control. My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. The silk of her dress is cool under my fingers, but the heat radiating from her body more than makes up for it.

She gasps against my lips, her hands gripping the front of my shirt as though trying to steady herself. “Serge…,” she whispers again, and this time, it’s not a protest.

I trail my lips down her jaw, to the soft curve of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating mix of her perfume and the faint saltiness of her skin. “You drive me insane,” I growl against her throat, my teeth grazing the delicate flesh there. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

Her breath catches, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Then hurry up and—”

“Let me take my time,” I interrupt, biting down gently on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She arches against me, a soft moan escaping her lips that goes straight to my core.

My cock is straining, desperate to plunge deep inside Chiara. I tug it free, allowing Chiara a moment of suspense before hiking up her dress. She gasps and moans my name, lighting a fire in my stomach.

She’s so tight when I enter her, pussy clenching, and it’s divine.

The silk of her dress glides over her skin as I push the fabric higher, revealing more of her to my touch. I set an agonizing pace, pounding into her as she clings to me, my mind heady with arousal.

“Say it, Chiara,” I demand, my voice rough as my hand grips her thigh. “Say you’re mine.”

She hesitates, her breaths coming fast and shallow, but when I meet her gaze again, her resolve crumbles. “You know ’m yours,” she whispers, the words barely audible but carrying all the weight I need.

I growl low in my throat, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss as I lift her onto my lap. She straddles me now, her dress bunched around her hips, and I revel in the feeling of her pressed against me, my cock nestled deep, her warmth seeping through every layer of clothing still between us.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling slightly, and I groan against her mouth. My hands move over her thighs, her back, memorizing every curve, every shiver she gives me. She tilts her head back, exposing her neck, and I take full advantage, trailing hot kisses down to her collarbone.

“We belong to each other,” I say again, my voice rough and filled with promise. “I’m not letting you forget it.”

She doesn’t argue this time. Instead, she clings to me, her body pliant and willing beneath my touch. Her breaths are ragged, her skin flushed, and the way she tightens is enough to drive me over the edge.

“Serge,” she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper, but the way she says my name sends a shiver down my spine.

“Yes, dusha moya ?” I reply, my hands tightening on her hips.

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something raw and unguarded in her expression. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

Her admission sparks something primal in me, and I pull her closer, my lips crashing against hers once more. This isn’t just about possession or control anymore—it’s about us, about the fire that burns too bright to ignore.

We come together right there in the back seat, my orgasm washing over me so hard, I see white. Chiara squeezes her thighs together, trapping me beneath her as she calls my name.

It takes a while to come down from the high, sweating and breathless. When I finally catch my breath, it’s to say, “From now on, we do this every night.”

Chapter Twenty-Two - Chiara

The conference room is stifling, not because of the temperature but because of the weight of the situation. I sit at the head of the long, polished table, the leather chair beneath me creaking slightly as I shift.

Around me are the top officials of the Vinci Group, their faces lined with stress and exhaustion. Among them is Dante, my old right-hand man, his presence both a reminder of the past and a harbinger of the grim reality I’m now facing.

We’ve barely spoken since I returned home with Serge. I wish we had that same light, easy banter we used to.

I lace my fingers together, my elbows resting on the table as I scan the stack of reports in front of me. The numbers blur, but the overall picture is clear: the Vinci Group is on the brink of collapse. The once-mighty empire my father built and Lorenzo inherited is teetering on the edge of ruin.

“How bad is it?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease roiling in my stomach.

Dante clears his throat, his expression grave. “Bad, signora . The debt has been mounting for years. Several of our key ventures are failing. The real estate developments in Rome and Naples are stalled indefinitely. The shipping company is hemorrhaging money due to delays and supply chain issues. And as for the pharmaceutical branch—”

“It’s a mess,” another executive interjects, his tone sharp with frustration. “Regulatory fines, lawsuits, bad PR… it’s all coming down on us.”

I close my eyes briefly, letting their words sink in. The Vinci Group isn’t just struggling; it’s drowning. I glance down at the report again, trying to make sense of the chaos. No wonder Lorenzo had a heart attack. The stress of keeping this ship afloat must have been unbearable.

“What’s being done to address these issues?” I ask, lifting my gaze to Dante.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Lorenzo… he was looking for outside support before his death.”

“Support?” I repeat, my tone hardening. “What kind of support?”

His hesitation is palpable, the tension in the room thickening as everyone exchanges nervous glances. Finally, he sighs. “He reached out to Serge Sharov.”

My heart drops, though I manage to keep my expression neutral. Of course, Serge’s involvement was inevitable. His name casts a long shadow, and now I understand why Lorenzo had approached him. Desperation.

“Why did Lorenzo want to be in control so badly, if this was the result?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

“He always did like control,” Dante says carefully, choosing his words. “Lorenzo didn’t think you would have the connections or the resources to handle something of this magnitude. He believed Serge and the Bratva were the only way to salvage the situation.”

I sit back, the leather cool against my skin, and let out a slow breath. The pieces are falling into place now, and none of it sits right. Lorenzo, for all his faults, had been fighting a losing battle for years, and now the weight of his failures rests squarely on my shoulders.

“What happens if we don’t act quickly?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Bankruptcy,” Dante says bluntly. “Within the year. Maybe sooner.”

The room falls silent, the severity of the situation hanging over us like a storm cloud. My fingers tighten on the edges of the report, and for a moment, I let the frustration bubble to the surface.

“This isn’t just poor management,” I say, my voice cold. “This is sabotage. Recklessness. How did Lorenzo let things get this bad?”

Dante’s gaze flickers with guilt, but he doesn’t argue. “He tried. His health… and his decisions weren’t always sound. He was under immense pressure.”

Pressure that killed him , I think bitterly.

I glance around the table, taking in the weary faces of the executives who once praised Lorenzo’s leadership. Now, they’re looking to me to fix the mess he left behind. It’s not just daunting—it feels impossible.

“We need a plan,” I say firmly, trying to summon a confidence I don’t entirely feel. “No more patchwork solutions. No more delays. Give me a breakdown of what’s salvageable and what we need to cut. I’ll review everything personally.”

There’s a murmur of assent, though the tension doesn’t ease. These men are looking at me like I’m their last hope, and it makes my stomach churn.

Dante speaks again, his tone cautious. “Chiara… you realize that without outside help, this might not be enough.”

I meet his gaze, my jaw tightening. “I’ll consider every option.”

Including Serge, though the thought makes my skin crawl. His world and mine have already become too intertwined, and letting him have any more influence over my life feels like a death sentence in its own way.

The meeting drags on as the executives outline the most pressing issues. By the time it ends, the stack of papers in front of me has doubled, and my head is pounding. Dante lingers as the others leave, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“Yes, I do,” I reply, my tone clipped. “It’s my responsibility now.”

He nods, though his concern is evident. “If you need anything—”

“I’ll let you know,” I say. I don’t need his pity. I need results.

As Dante leaves, I let out a long breath, my shoulders slumping. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath my feet. The Vinci Group is falling apart, and now I see why Lorenzo was willing to strike a deal with Serge.

The thought makes my stomach twist. No matter how much I want to keep my distance from Serge’s world, I can’t deny that his resources, his power, could be the key to saving everything. But at what cost?

I rub my temples, trying to focus. There’s no time to dwell on what-ifs. If I’m going to save this empire, I need to act quickly.

***

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.”

The word mine sends a shiver down my spine, equal parts infuriating and undeniable. I want to fight him, to push him away, but the reality of the situation is clear. Without him, I’ll lose everything. The Vinci Group will crumble, and I’ll have nothing left but the ashes of my family’s legacy.

I exhale sharply, meeting his gaze. “Fine,” I say, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “I won’t thank you for this.”

He smirks again, his hand brushing lightly against my arm. “I don’t need your thanks, dusha moya. Just your trust.”

I pull away from his touch, glaring at him. “Don’t push it.”

His smirk widens, but he says nothing more. He knows he’s won, and the realization burns more than I care to admit.

Serge lingers near the door, his sharp eyes fixed on me as though he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what he expects—gratitude, maybe, or some sign that I’m crumbling under the weight of Lorenzo’s mistakes. He’ll be waiting a long time.

I sigh, breaking the silence. “Lorenzo’s funeral is in two days. I’ll need to attend.”

He nods, stepping closer again, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Of course. Where is it?”

“Naples,” I reply, looking down at the reports still strewn across the desk. The thought of returning to my family’s home feels heavy, like a burden I don’t want to carry. “It’ll be formal, and I’ll be expected to make an appearance as… well, as his only remaining family.”

His gaze sharpens at my words. “How are you really coping with all of this?”

I glance up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Coping?” I repeat, a bitter laugh escaping before I can stop it. “I’m not mourning Lorenzo, if that’s what you mean. I’m more worried about the business he left behind—the disaster he created.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, as though he sees more than I want him to.

“I can’t afford to fall apart,” I continue, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. “Lorenzo and I weren’t close. He didn’t care about me, and I didn’t care about him. The only thing I’ll mourn is the mess he made and the people who’ll suffer because of it.”

Serge watches me for a long moment before speaking, his voice quieter. “The twins, are you taking them with you?”

I shake my head firmly. “No. They never met him. He wasn’t their family, not in any way that matters. They don’t need to be dragged into this.”

His lips curve into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “Practical, as always.”

“I don’t have the luxury of sentimentality,” I reply, straightening in my seat. “Not anymore.”

He moves closer, his hand resting lightly on the back of the chair. “You’re stronger than you think, Chiara,” he says, his tone low but deliberate. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I glance up at him, my brows furrowing. “I’m not alone?” I scoff. “Because you’re here, right, offering help?”

His smirk deepens, though his eyes remain serious. “Exactly. You accepted it, didn’t you?”

I bite back a retort, turning away from him and focusing on the reports again. “I’ll handle Lorenzo’s funeral and deal with his legacy. Just make sure your part of the deal holds up.”

“It will,” he says, his voice firm. “You can count on that.”

His words linger in the air as he turns and leaves the room, the weight of his presence replaced by the silence that follows. I exhale slowly, knowing that the hardest part is yet to come.