Secret Baby of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #18)

Chapter One - Annie

The morning of the charity auction unravels, and everything goes wrong.

First, the florist calls to say the delivery van broke down, and the centerpieces are sitting in the back of a truck halfway across the city.

Ten minutes later, one of the caterers storms out of the kitchen, apron balled up in her fists, cursing about unpaid overtime.

The weather forecast doesn’t help either; a coastal storm is brewing fast, threatening to ground flights and keep our richest donors trapped in their penthouses instead of writing checks for sick children.

I’m darting between the storage rooms and the main hall with a clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, hair falling loose from the bun I stabbed together at dawn.

The heels I wore to look “professional” are already murdering my arches.

If one more intern asks me where the bathroom is, I might set something on fire.

By noon, my stress has calcified into a dull throb behind my eyes. I’ve barely convinced the replacement caterer to stay when Dana, the gallery manager, hurries toward me. Her usually neat bob is frazzled around the edges, her lipstick smudged.

“Annie,” she pants, tugging at the sleeve of my oversized blazer. “We’ve had word—an important Russian donor will be making a surprise visit before the event starts. He’s already on his way.”

I nearly laugh. “Perfect, because what we really need right now is some mysterious oligarch breathing down our necks.”

Her frown deepens. “Be polite. He’s… significant.”

“Significant doesn’t schedule appointments through smoke signals?” I mutter, but she’s already bustling away to adjust her pearls.

My stomach knots. I’ve worked here long enough to know that “important” usually means arrogant, entitled, and ready to treat the staff like they’re invisible.

I square my shoulders and shove the clipboard against my chest, reminding myself I’m not here to bow and scrape.

My job is to make sure the auction runs smoothly, not babysit the ego of some shadowy donor who thinks rules don’t apply to him.

Still, irritation prickles under my skin as I scan the gallery. Staff hustle between pedestals and display walls, adjusting lighting, setting up velvet ropes. The storm outside deepens the light inside, the windows silvered with drizzle.

Every detail matters tonight. Every flaw could be the thing the press notices instead of the art.

The front doors open.

I don’t hear them so much as feel them; a hush ripples across the room, people instinctively pausing, shoulders straightening as if bracing for inspection.

He walks in like he owns the place.

Tall—impossibly tall—broad-shouldered in a tailored black suit that doesn’t scream fashion so much as authority.

His movements are slow but precise, the kind of control you don’t fake.

The pale light catches on his clean-shaven jaw, the sharp line of his mouth.

His eyes sweep the gallery, cool and deliberate, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees in his wake.

I catch myself staring, heart ticking faster than it should. I shake it off. He’s just a man in a suit. A donor with too much money and not enough manners. Except the staff seem to part for him automatically, stepping aside as though they’re afraid he’ll cut through them otherwise.

He doesn’t notice the art. Not the Monet on loan, not the priceless sculptures. His gaze skims past the walls and locks on exits, on staff movements, on the discreet cameras tucked into corners. It’s unsettling, and I hate that I notice it.

I force my voice steady. “You must be the mysterious benefactor we weren’t expecting.”

He turns toward me, gaze landing with the weight of a spotlight. Up close, his presence is even heavier, as though the space bends around him. I lift my chin and extend my hand, clipboard clutched against my ribs. “Annie Vale. Assistant coordinator.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then his hand engulfs mine—cool, firm, brief. “Dimitri Sharov.” His accent is faint, the consonants softened but unmistakably Russian.

“Mr. Sharov,” I say, slipping my hand back quickly. “Normally donors let us know when they plan to arrive. Helps us keep the chaos to a minimum.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “It’s a public place, guests rarely need permission.” His voice is low, even, and so calm it feels like a warning.

Heat climbs my neck. I shouldn’t poke the bear, not when the night is already a disaster waiting to happen, but something in me bristles at the quiet arrogance. “Some of us like order. It keeps things from falling apart.”

His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, unreadable. “Order is fragile.”

The words hang between us, sharp and precise. My mouth opens, then shuts again. Around us, staff keep moving, pretending not to notice the tension knotting the air. I grip the clipboard harder, nails biting into the cardboard back.

He glances toward the nearest hallway, as though dismissing me entirely. Irritation flares hot in my chest. I should let him wander, let him critique the emergency exits to his heart’s content. Except if Dana sees me ignoring him, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I exhale slowly. “Fine. I’ll walk you through the gallery.”

My heels click against the polished marble, echoing too loud in my own ears as I lead him deeper into the gallery. I tell myself to focus on the routine: highlight the featured pieces, explain the flow of the evening, keep my tone professional.

That’s what I’m supposed to do. Yet every time I glance sideways, I find his attention fixed anywhere but where I direct it.

His eyes don’t linger on brushstrokes or the delicate angles of sculpture.

They skim over cameras hidden in ceiling corners, sweep across fire exits, track the subtle movements of staff adjusting wine glasses and velvet ropes.

He catalogs every detail with the patience of a man who expects disaster at any moment.

The meticulousness should feel flattering—like he cares about the safety of our event—but something about the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach tighten.

I keep talking, my words mechanical. “This room will host the preliminary exhibits before the auction begins. Guests will circulate here for cocktails. Lighting has been adjusted for optimal—”

“Two entrances,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His accent folds around the words, soft but noticeable. His eyes flick from one archway to the next, then to the large window framed by heavy drapes.

I pause, clipboard balanced against my chest. “Yes. Entrances. Convenient for flow… you’re casing the place like a security consultant.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression remains carved from stone, but for the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth as if he heard my sarcasm and filed it away.

My throat tightens. I quicken my pace, tugging him toward the next room, where a collection of mid-century pieces hangs under carefully adjusted spotlights. My voice feels thinner now, stretched too taut as I push through the rehearsed explanations.

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even ask questions. He only watches. Watches and notes and files everything away in silence.

The hush of his scrutiny follows me, even when I step several feet ahead.

I can feel it on the back of my neck, prickling down my spine, as if he could see right through me.

I remind myself sternly hat he’s nothing more than a donor.

A wealthy, arrogant man who thinks his money entitles him to this air of ownership. Nothing else.

When we reach the central gallery, my voice falters despite myself. This is my favorite room, the one with ceilings so high the chandeliers look like they’re floating in their own sky. The art here is luminous, colors singing under glass, canvases breathing history.

Usually when I walk through this space, pride fills me. Today, with him at my shoulder, it feels different. Smaller. Like even beauty is something he can strip down into vulnerabilities.

I stop near a display case, forcing my voice to steady. “This is where the highest-profile pieces will be held until bidding closes. The security here is layered—”

His eyes sharpen on the case, on the locks, on the guard stationed by the far wall. “Layered,” he repeats, as though testing the word on his tongue.

I grip my clipboard harder. “Yes. Which means very difficult to tamper with. Which means you don’t need to worry.”

Still that silence, that watchfulness. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look convinced either.

By the time we circle back toward the main hall, my nerves are stretched raw. I’ve spent half an hour listing details I don’t think he even cared to hear, while his focus drifted everywhere else. My throat is dry, my palms damp against the smooth cardboard of my notes.

He slows near the entrance, gaze sweeping once more across the staff preparing champagne flutes. His presence radiates control, as if this entire gallery belongs to him now and we are all simply tolerated guests in his domain.

“Will you be attending the auction tonight?” I ask, sharper than I intend.

His eyes cut to mine. A long moment passes, weighted with something unreadable. Then, finally, he inclines his head. “Perhaps.”

I draw in a breath and force a polite smile, though it feels brittle at the edges. “Then I’ll see you tonight at the auction.” My voice is smooth, professional, but the words stick to the roof of my mouth.

I turn and lead him back toward the entrance, every step echoing louder than it should. Staff continue their preparations around us, but I barely register their movements.

My awareness is trained on him—the way his stride matches mine without effort, how his presence fills the corridor so completely that it feels as though the gallery itself tilts toward him.

The glass doors loom ahead, sunlight breaking through the storm clouds for a moment, painting the floor in fractured gold. I stop short of the threshold and gesture toward the exit, my clipboard pressed against my chest like a shield.

“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Sharov. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. His gaze holds me for one last, cutting second, like he’s memorizing something I don’t realize I’ve given away. Then he turns. His suit shifts with the motion, sharp and clean, and the doors open with the faintest sigh of hinges.

He walks out without hesitation, without a backward glance, vanishing into the gray light as though he was never really here at all.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

I stand there longer than I should, clipboard slack in my hands, staring at the doors as they swing shut.

My chest feels too tight, my lungs refusing to fill properly.

The world starts to move again around me—staff bustling with trays, the low hum of conversations resuming—but I can’t shake the strange void he’s left in the air.

I tell myself it’s relief. Of course it is. He was disruptive, distracting, unsettling in a way that made every nerve in my body hum. With him gone, I should be able to think again, to focus on the endless checklist waiting to be tackled before guests arrive tonight.

Yet relief isn’t what coils in my stomach.

Instead, it’s something heavier, sharper. An irritation I can’t name, paired with the echo of his eyes holding mine. I shouldn’t care. He’s another arrogant donor, nothing more… but the weight of him lingers, like the aftertaste of strong liquor, impossible to wash away.

I turn sharply on my heel, forcing my attention back to the chaos of the auction preparations. My voice snaps across the room, sending interns scurrying, my pen scrawling notes against the clipboard with unnecessary force. If I bury myself in tasks, maybe I can scrub his presence from my mind.

Even as I bark orders about lighting angles and table placements, my thoughts drift back. To the way he looked at exits before he looked at art. To the silence he carried like a weapon. To the low timbre of his voice when he said, “Perhaps,” as though the entire decision rested in his hands.

Hours later, when the gallery finally hums with order again, I’m still replaying it. Still seeing his dark silhouette against pale walls, still feeling the prickle of his attention on my skin.

I tell myself it’s annoyance. That’s safer than admitting the truth.

The truth is I can’t get Dimitri Sharov out of my head.