Virgin Ruin by the Brutal Bratva (Sharov Bratva #21)

Chapter One - Isabella

Under the marble archway, I stand perfectly still and let the morning press down on me. Light leaks in through the glass panes, soft and golden, but the air in the Bruno estate is always heavy, thick with the whispers of servants who treat my uncle’s name like a sacred threat.

Every corner holds a shadow.

Every doorway, a guard in a pressed suit pretending not to watch me.

Vittorio claims it’s all for my safety, but I know better.

I know how control works. It’s in the way he sets my teacup exactly where he wants it, the way he checks the locks before he kisses my cheek good night.

I can’t so much as slip into the garden without someone’s eyes crawling over my shoulders.

Aunt Lucia calls it love, says Vittorio’s heart is too big for his own good.

I know the difference between protection and a gilded cage. There’s only so much air in this house, and most mornings I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

At breakfast, the same ritual. My uncle appears with slow, measured steps. His hair is iron gray, combed back, and his suit is so perfectly pressed it looks like armor.

He barely glances at the eggs on his plate; instead, he studies me, dark eyes flicking from my face to my hands and back again, as if searching for cracks. Sometimes I want to ask him what he’s looking for.

Most days, I just keep my gaze down and let him pretend I’m still someone he can save.

“Eat, Isabella,” he tells me, voice gentle and absolute. I force down a bite of toast, the edges dry and flavorless in my mouth.

“Plans for today?” he asks. The question isn’t really a question.

“I have some restoration work. Gallery business,” I say, folding my napkin in half, then in half again. “Clara’s coming by this afternoon to help.”

A pause. “Clara is a good friend,” Vittorio says, as if reminding himself that not all visitors are threats. Then, softer, “You’re careful, yes?”

I nod. “Always.”

That seems to satisfy him. He stands and presses a kiss to the crown of my head, his hand heavy against my hair. For a moment I almost believe he means it. Almost.

After he leaves, the silence thickens. I don’t finish my breakfast. Instead, I wander the halls past the gallery of family portraits, past Enzo’s old bedroom with the door locked and dust gathering along the threshold.

I let my fingers graze the wallpaper, tracing the edges of old patterns, remembering when this house was full of laughter.

When Enzo would drag me into the kitchen at midnight, barefoot, to steal pastries from the fridge. He’s been gone for months, but the ache in my chest hasn’t dulled. If anything, it sharpens every time someone says his name.

They called it an accident. Said the brakes failed on the coastal road, the weather was bad, these things happen.

I know Enzo. He was careful, always. He could strip an engine down to the bolts and put it back together without missing a beat. I heard the rumors too, about deals gone wrong, names whispered in the dark, the Russians making trouble again. The Sharovs.

Sometimes I hear my uncle’s voice echoing down the hall, low and urgent. He lowers his voice, but the walls are thin and I’ve learned how to listen.

“The Sharov problem,” he calls it.

Sometimes my cousin Matteo is there too, his laughter cold and brittle, but mostly it’s just Vittorio pacing, muttering about loyalty and pride and old debts.

I don’t know the details; Vittorio keeps me away from family business, the same way he once kept Enzo close.

I can read the tension in his face, the way he sharpens every word when the Russians are mentioned. Our families have hated each other for decades, each convinced the other is a snake waiting in the grass.

I finish the last sip of coffee with my head down, picking at the crusts left on my plate. The dining room is too quiet, just the faint scrape of silverware and the thud of my own pulse.

From somewhere down the corridor, I hear Vittorio’s voice, sharper than before, the muffled rumble of a man who thinks he can keep secrets just by keeping his tone low.

“…No, I said no. If the Sharovs think they can—” His words fade, strangled by the heavy doors and his own caution.

I lean forward, barely breathing. The estate’s walls might as well be made of stone, but I can still pick out the cadence of his anger. Sharov. Again.

He’s pacing. I hear the creak of the old wood beneath his shoes, a restless rhythm I’ve come to know by heart. He only walks like that when he’s cornered, or furious, or both.

I slip quietly from my chair, moving past the untouched fruit bowl and into the shadows near the hallway.

Servants keep to their tasks, heads bowed, but one or two glance up, curious, maybe sympathetic.

I ignore them. The phone call is everything now.

My feet barely make a sound against the rug as I edge closer to the study.

Vittorio’s voice is clearer here, leaking through the half-open door. “No. No more gifts, no more threats. Tell Sharov if he wants a war, he can bleed for it.” There’s a pause, then something softer, almost desperate. “Enzo did what he had to. You tell them that.”

A chill rolls down my spine. Enzo. He never talks about him to me. I push a little closer, peering into the narrow strip of light that spills from the study.

Before I can catch more, a hand clamps gently around my arm. I jerk back, heart leaping, but it’s only Lucia, my aunt, her face pinched with worry.

“Isabella,” she whispers, glancing nervously at the study door, “let your uncle finish his business. Come help me with the flowers in the parlor.”

Her grip is soft but insistent. I want to pull away, press further into the shadows and listen for just one minute more, but Lucia shakes her head. “Not now, Isabella. Please.”

Her eyes flick toward the study, then back to me. I see the plea in her face. Don’t make trouble, not today.

The phone call ends with a sharp bang as Vittorio sets the receiver down. Silence settles over the hall. Lucia’s fingers tighten around mine, drawing me away before I can ask a single question. My chest aches with frustration, a pulse of helpless anger that burns under my skin.

I let Lucia lead me back toward the parlor, the taste of coffee sour on my tongue. No matter how hard I try, I’m always kept at arm’s length: shielded, caged, protected until I’m useless. Still, I file away what I heard: Sharov, Enzo, war.

Even locked out, I don’t forget a word.

***

The lock on Enzo’s study is easy enough to pick.

I kneel, hair falling in my eyes, tension singing through my hands as I slide a pin into the old brass mechanism.

It clicks open with a sound I feel all the way in my teeth.

Nobody sees me slip inside. The hall is empty.

I close the door behind me, careful not to let it catch.

Inside, dust settles on every surface. The room smells the way it always did—ink, old paper, the faint memory of tobacco, even though Enzo never smoked in here if he thought I’d notice.

I flick on the desk lamp, watching motes of dust swirl in the yellow light.

For a minute, I stand there, just breathing.

His jacket still hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves limp, pockets empty.

There’s an indentation in the seat cushion where he used to sit, nights hunched over spreadsheets, scrawling figures in his sharp, slanting hand.

I cross to the desk. The drawers resist at first, but I know the trick: a gentle nudge, a twist, a push at the seam.

I go through the usual mess: old bank statements, a spare watch, a half-used notebook with lists of dates and numbers.

I flip through the pages, half hoping for a message he left behind, some hidden code only I could crack. Nothing. The silence presses in.

My fingers catch on something at the very back of the bottom drawer. It’s wedged between the wood and the lining. Flat, sharp-edged. I hook it free. An envelope, old and plain, the flap creased from being opened too many times. Inside, photos—a dozen or so, black and white, curling at the edges.

I slide the top one free. Enzo sits at a long table, posture too stiff, face set in a look I don’t recognize. Next to him, a man: tall, broad-shouldered, sharp jaw. His eyes are fixed on something out of frame, dark and piercing, the kind of eyes that don’t let you go.

On his right hand, a silver ring catches the light, engraved with a symbol I’ve never seen before. Not family. Not any crest I know. The emblem is clean-lined, almost brutal. I stare at it until my vision blurs.

A floorboard creaks behind me. I nearly drop the envelope. Aunt Lucia stands in the doorway, her face pale in the lamplight, her eyes rimmed with tiredness.

That’s twice I’ve been caught in as many days.

She doesn’t scold, just sighs softly, and crosses the room to me.

“You’re up late again,” she says, voice gentle, as if I’m still a child and not someone carrying ghosts. Her hand settles lightly on my shoulder, thumb stroking through the thin fabric of my shirt.

I turn the photograph in my hand, showing her Enzo and the stranger. “Do you know who he is?” My voice is rough. I clear my throat, but the ache stays lodged there.

Lucia leans in, squinting at the image. “I’ve seen him. Once, maybe twice. At the estate, years ago, before things got… tense. He’s Russian, I think. One of the Sharovs’ men.” Her words have a practiced smoothness. She tries to sound indifferent, but I hear the tension anyway.

My fingers clench around the photo. “Enzo was meeting with them, wasn’t he? With the Russians. With…” I bite the words off. The ring glints again, taunting.

Lucia pulls me into a side embrace. She smells like her favorite perfume, citrus and powder, but there’s salt underneath, the kind that comes from nights spent crying.

“You have to let it go, Isabella. Your uncle… all of us. We lost him too. If there were answers, we would have found them by now.”

I shake my head. “What if it wasn’t an accident? What if someone did this to him?”

Her mouth tightens. For a moment she doesn’t answer, only smoothing my hair away from my cheek with a trembling hand.

“Those days were difficult,” she admits.

“Your uncle tried to shield you from it, but there was trouble. The Sharovs pushed too far. There were threats, meetings, arguments. But these things happen. In our world, sometimes there is no neat answer. Sometimes you only get silence.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I want to believe you. I do. But I hear things at night. I hear Uncle, Matteo, even the staff. Everyone acts like Enzo was a saint who died for nothing, but he was… well, he was more than that. He didn’t die for nothing. He wouldn’t have just gone off the road.”

Lucia’s hold tightens. “I know, sweet girl. I know. Sometimes life takes and takes, and the only thing left to do is keep living. Enzo would hate to see you like this—chained to grief. He’d want you to be free, to be happy again.”

My breath hitches. I try to swallow it down, but the sound escapes anyway—a raw, broken thing. The room spins. I clutch the photo so hard it bends in my palm.

“I can’t let it go,” I whisper. “I can’t move on, not when it feels wrong. Not when I don’t know.”

Lucia presses her lips to my hair. Her hands are gentle, but her words cut deep. “There’s nothing wrong with remembering. With wanting answers. You have to let yourself heal too. The world keeps moving, even when we’re left behind.”

Tears sting hot against my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away. Lucia rocks me, murmuring nonsense in Italian, the kind of lullabies she used to hum when I was small and afraid of thunderstorms. Now, the storms are all inside me.

The photo slips from my fingers, landing face down on the desk. I press my face into Lucia’s shoulder, letting the grief spill out. She stays with me, silent except for her breath and the soft click of the lamp as she turns it off.

“Come to bed, Isabella,” she says finally. “Tomorrow will look different in the daylight.”

I nod, though I don’t believe it. I let her guide me from the room. The door closes behind us, shutting the ghosts inside.

Later, alone in bed, I lie awake, tracing the memory of Enzo’s face on the inside of my eyelids. I wonder if he was afraid at the end. If he tried to call for help and nobody heard. If he trusted someone he shouldn’t have.

The answers don’t come. Only the ache. Only the quiet, suffocating dark.