Page 8 of Twisted Fate

The interior is as opulent as I expected, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and priceless artwork adorning the walls. I'm led through a grand foyer and into a large sitting room, where several people are already gathered, drinks in hand, engaged in conversation.

I scan the room quickly, identifying faces I recognize from the dossier, and none that I know from real life. Kane has always kept me carefully outside this part of Miami society, limiting my interactions, where I go, and who I talk to—as well as who knows that I live with him. I can’t effectively kill for him if these people know he keeps a pet assassin in his mansion.

Victor Abramov, the patriarch andpakhan, is seated near the mantle of the cold fireplace, speaking to a lean, mouse-facedman that I don’t know of. Victor is a bear of a man, his face deeply lined, but his silver eyes still sharp and cold, despite the illnesses that have wracked him. He still looks sturdy, but I can see the exhaustion in his face. A man like him wouldn’t be sitting if he were able to stand.

And then I seehim.

Konstantin Abramov. My target.

My futurehusband.

As I’d expected—or perhaps feared—he’s even more striking than in the dossier photo. He’s clean-shaven for tonight, his jawline sharp and impeccable, his dark grey suit perfectly tailored to what must be an impressive body beneath it. He’s cut his hair since the photo was taken—slightly shorter on the sides and a bit longer on top, styled in a way that manages to look effortless despite the perfection of it. And when he turns to face me…

Those startling, intense blue eyes catch mine, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat, just for a moment. My heel catches on the edge of the rug stretched across the gleaming wooden floor, and I freeze, an inch away from stumbling.

Get it together, Sophia,I hiss inwardly, tilting my chin up and forcing myself to meet Konstantin’s eyes without flinching. I let a subtle smile curve the corners of my lips—from what I’ve read about Konstantin, he’s a man who will enjoy a bit of a challenge, not a simpering, adoring prospective bride. I let my gaze sweep over him, as if I’m the one assessing him for his worthiness, not the other way around.

He walks toward me, his gait sleek and lithe as any predator, and I feel my heartbeat quicken. I catch the scent of his cologne as he comes to stand in front of me—woods and salt, like driftwood on the beach.

“We can’t have been introduced before,” he murmurs, taking my hand and lifting it to his lips. “If we had been, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

My pulse throbs in the hollow of my throat as his full, firm mouth grazes the back of my hand. I’d never imagined that so simple a touch could light me on fire, but I swear I feel it in every inch of my body, as if his mouth is brushing against much more intimate places. His eyes raise to mine, and I open my mouth to introduce myself… only to be interrupted by his father’s voice reaching us from across the room.

“This is Sophia Moretti, son,” Victor says, his voice rasping with age. “The woman I intend for you to marry.”

3

KONSTANTIN

The woman I intend for you to marry.

In an instant, I feel myself go cold. If my father wants me to marry this woman, then I already know who she is—someone with ties to the underworld but not so close as to threaten him, someone who will be pliant and moldable, and who has been raised in the old ways. Someone who will help push me back in the direction that my father wants me to go.

I straighten, my smile no longer genuine, though I keep it plastered on my face. I’ve long since learned to wear the mask I’m expected to at parties like these—to always, always be the perfect picture of thepakhan’sheir. It’s what duty demands of me, and if nothing else, I have always been a dutiful son.

This party started no differently than all the others. The mansion gleams with the richness of old money, old and new criminal blood mingling in the rooms and hallways as the guests arrive, and drink, and chatter. My father is doing his best to not appear weakened, but it’s impossible for anyone who knew Victor Abramov in his prime—or even in his early golden years—to not notice that something is wrong. That he’s fading.

The air of the sitting room is thick with the scent of cologne and perfume and warm bodies, but hers still manages to stand out—something sweet and floral, like violets and sugar. I realize that I’m still holding her hand and let go of it abruptly. As beautiful as she is, I feel like I’ve been holding a viper in my hand.

“Ms. Moretti.” I incline my head slightly, respectfully. “Konstantin Abramov.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is soft and lyrical, cultured.

I meet her eyes, assessing her, looking for hints of calculation, of anything sly and manipulative behind the surface. There’s nothing but keen interest in her gaze, and a small smile at the corners of a mouth that was made to haunt a man’s dreams.

If there is something deeper going on here, with her, some plot that she and my father have hatched—or her handlers, more likely—then she hides it well.

“Well?” my father barks from across the room, his voice cold and sharp. “Don’t stand there staring at the girl, Konstantin. Offer her a drink. Have a chat. They’ll be calling us all to dinner any moment.”

It’s difficult not to stare at a woman like her. Regardless of how I feel about my father’s matchmaking, she’s objectively gorgeous—possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, or at least it seems so in this moment. Her face is beautiful—high cheekbones, soft olive skin, a pointed chin, and large, soft green eyes. She has the kind of thick, dark hair that makes me want to bury my hands in it, that makes me imagine wrapping it around my fist as she looks up at me from her knees. My cock twitches at the thought, and my gaze instantly falls to her sinful mouth.

I force myself to stop there. If I look at her body again—God,the first glimpse I got of her nearly made me hard then andthere. She’s stunning in every way, and I had every intention of seducing her into bed before my father spoke up and told me that she’s his choice for my bride.

Love and marriage don’t go together in our world—and as far as I’m concerned, lust and marriage don’t mesh well either. I’ve always known that my father would almost certainly choose my wife, regardless of my feelings on the matter, which means that any woman he picks for me will be someone who he believes will serve his ends, and his vision for the Bratva’s future.

My marriage, like everything else I’m responsible for in this world, will have to be carefully managed to make sure that it doesn’t undermine me. My wife’s position, her influence, what she does and who she does it with, her associations and her friendships, when we have children and how many—all of that will affect my standing in the criminal underworld of this city, and all of it matters. I don’t intend to lust after my wife, any more than I intend to love her. Emotion, desire, and duty can’t mingle.

I’ve seen what happens when it does.

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