Page 11 of Twisted Fate

My father, who should be the one touching my face right now, talking to me about my wedding day… to some other man, one that I would actually love.

The sudden wave of emotion threatens to make a mist of tears rise in my eyes, and I blink it away, stepping back from Kane’s touch with a smile.

“You’re right. I’m tired,” I agree. “I’m going to go lie down. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nods, retreating to his desk. He steeples his fingers, watching me with a measured expression. “Good night, then, Valentina.”

I take a breath, breathing in the scent of leather and whiskey and ink, and manage to keep the smile on my lips. “Good night, Kane.”

—

My wedding day dawns bright and hot and beautiful, the perfect picture of what every woman would want.

The air is humid and thick as we head to the ceremony in Kane’s Mercedes town car, making me glad I chose the light silk gown and not something heavier and more embellished.

I hold my bouquet in my lap—a spray of pink and white and blue that the florist put together with very little input from me—and look down at my bare left hand.

Konstantin didn’t bother with an engagement ring, and I appreciate his practicality, although it makes me worried that he’s not as enamored of me as I’d like him to be.

But then again, we’ve only seen each other once since the dinner, to sign the betrothal contract.

That was done at the St. Vladimir Russian Orthodox Church, the same place where we’ll be married today. It was witnessed by his father and his father’s second, Damien, and was all very formal—but I didn’t fail to see the gleam of heat in Konstantin’s eyes when he caught sight of me.

I’d dressed strategically, of course—modest enough for the church setting, in a green silk gown that dusted my knees with the ruffled hem—but I made sure to put seduction in my eyes, in my movements, in the casual way I brushed Konstantin’s arm or hand with my own.

I knew he was affected by it—he’d have had to be dead not to be.

But he did his best to hide it, avoiding touching me whenever possible.

It could have just been out of propriety, with his father there, but I think it was something else.

Konstantin doesn’t want to desire me. His defenses are more than just physical—they’re psychological and emotional too, things that Kane didn’t and couldn’t have prepared me for. But I’ll find a way, regardless. All men have their weaknesses, and Konstantin won’t be able to withstand me for long.

The church is a riot of white roses and greenery, the pews filled with Miami's criminal elite—Bratva members in tailored suits, their wives dripping in diamonds, representatives from the Italian and Cuban syndicates, politicians and lawyers who owe their careers to Victor Abramov's influence and money.

I stand at the back, my arm linked with Kane's, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I’m getting married. I’m going to marry Konstantin Abramov, and it’s all a lie.

I’ll never have this day again—not for the first time.

A mist of tears threatens to spring to my eyes, and I blink them away.

"Nervous?" Kane murmurs, patting my hand.

"No," I lie. I shouldn’t be allowing this to affect me.

I've faced down armed men without flinching.

I've slit throats and fired bullets into hearts without hesitation. I’ve watched a man spasm from poison, choking on his last breaths, before calling the cleaners to take care of the scene.

A wedding shouldn't unsettle me. Not even my own, not even one that I wish I didn’t have to be a part of.

But as I hear the music shift to the strains of the wedding march, as every head turns to watch as I begin to walk down the aisle toward Konstantin, something like panic flutters in my chest.

And then I see him.

Konstantin stands at the altar, tall and imposing in his black suit.

His dark blond hair is neatly styled, the longer part swept back.

He’s clean-shaven, and the only hints that he’s something other than just a rich, handsome man waiting for his bride at the altar are the edges of his tattoos showing—climbing just above his shirt collar on the sides of his neck, just outside of the cuffs at his wrists.

He looks at me, those piercing blue eyes catching mine, and my breath hitches in my throat.

There's no warmth in his gaze, no tenderness or love.

Why would there be? This is an arranged marriage, a business transaction.

But then his gaze slides down, over the dress I carefully chose with him in mind, and there's... something.

A flicker of heat. Of desire. It vanishes in an instant, but I saw it.

Good . Desire is what I need. Desire is what will get him close enough to kill.

As I reach the altar, Kane places my hand in Konstantin's. His fingers are warm and strong, closing around mine with a firmness that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. I shove it away. I need Konstantin to desire me, but it’s unacceptable for me to feel the same. A distraction I can’t possibly allow.

"Take care of her," Kane says, his voice thick with false emotion.

Konstantin's eyes flick to him, cold and assessing. "I will."

The ceremony is unfamiliar to me. Konstantin’s family is Russian Orthodox, and Victor insisted on tradition all the way through.

We hold lit candles as the priest recites a prayer, kneel as crowns are placed on our heads and we circle the altar, and each drink a sip of wine from a shared cup.

I see Konstantin’s gaze flick to my mouth as I drink, lingering there for a brief moment—no doubt taking in the color of my lips stained red with the wine—and I feel a flush of satisfaction.

Tonight he’ll fall prey to my charms, in our wedding bed, and once we’re on our honeymoon, he won’t be able to get enough.

He’s a man, and he’s only as good as one.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of prayers and solemn vows.

I speak when prompted, promising to love and honor a man I'm planning to kill.

The irony isn't lost on me. I feel an ache in my chest with every word that leaves my mouth, one that I do my best to ignore. It feels like the vows are burning my lips, but I don’t let myself think about it.

When the priest pronounces us husband and wife, Konstantin lifts my veil. For a moment, we stand face to face, and those piercing blue eyes catch mine. There’s nothing there—no emotion, no hint of what he’s feeling—but the intensity of them makes me go very still all the same.

Then he leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss so brief it's hardly there at all. A ghost of a kiss, meant to fulfill the requirements of the ceremony, nothing more.

It makes me nervous. When he pulls back, whatever heat I saw in his face earlier isn’t there now, as if everything he feels has been wiped clean. He takes my hand as we turn to retreat down the church aisle, and my heart thumps hard behind my ribs.

For better or for worse, I’m Konstantin Abramov’s wife now. My own life—and everything I’ve lived for up until now—depends on what happens next.

—

The reception is held at the Abramov estate, the same place where we first met, in the grand ballroom, a space I haven’t seen before.

A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, sending fractured light across the marble floor, and lights are strung throughout the room, adding a starlit quality to the space.

There are flowers everywhere, sprays of roses and peonies and greenery of all kinds.

Numerous tables are set up for the guests, with a sweetheart table at the far end for Konstantin and me, and a long buffet table is laden with food and drink.

A band plays soft string music, and all eyes are on Konstantin and me as we walk in—the newlyweds, the future of the Abramov Bratva.

Konstantin was silent and chilly on the ride over, and he remains every bit as withdrawn as he takes my arm and leads me into the ballroom to the polite applause of all the gathered guests.

His touch is polite and formal, and he keeps an inch of space between us, careful not to touch me other than our linked arms as we walk to our table.

Along the way, he speaks to the well-wishers, introducing me and guiding me from group to group until we finally reach the place where we’re meant to be seated.

We sit down side by side, and a uniformed server pours us wine.

Konstantin glances over at me, lightly tapping his glass against mine.

“You look beautiful,” he says in a low tone, as politely complimentary as if we’re strangers, and I strain to hear intimacy in it, grasping for some hint that my job won’t be as difficult as I’m beginning to worry it might be. “That dress was made for you.”

"Thank you." I look up at him through my lashes, the way I've been trained to do. The way that works on all men, no matter their station or wealth. Seductive. Alluring. "I hoped you would approve."

His smile tightens. “It’s both flattering and appropriate. You did well. Not even my father could have complained.”

I search for a flicker of heat in his eyes, for a sign that he’s looking forward to tonight, but all I see is tension running through him.

"I'm looking forward to tonight," I murmur, reaching to lay my free hand over his, the one lying on the table between us. I feel the muscles there tense, too, under my touch.

Something shifts in his expression—a tightening around his eyes, a slight downward turn of his mouth. "About that," he says, his voice cooling. "We need to talk."

Before he can say anything else, we’re interrupted by the clinking of a fork against a glass, as Victor Abramov rises with some difficulty. “A toast,” he proclaims, his voice raspier than usual. “To my son and his new bride!”