Page 24 of Twisted Fate
The evening finds us at the resort’s main restaurant, a beautiful open-air space with views of the savannah.
The setting sun paints the sky in shades of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over everything.
Under different circumstances, it might be romantic.
In these circumstances, all I can think about is whether or not I’m going to use the poison stashed in my clutch.
I’m down to four days after this evening, and I’m running out of time.
If I kill Konstantin tonight, that gives Kane plenty of time to extract me before anyone can ask too many questions—and get the body to a mortuary that will give an appropriate report.
I glance up at Konstantin across the table. If he gets up, maybe I’ll do it then. The copper mug sitting by his hand has a fresh drink in it, perfect for slipping the powder into. He won’t even notice if I manage to do it while the drink is still mostly full.
He looks far more handsome than any man has a right to tonight, in a dark blue linen shirt that brings out the color of his eyes, the top button undone to show a hint of the dark blond hair on his chest. A gold chain lies just below his collarbones, setting off the slight tan that he’s gotten in the few days that we’ve been here.
He’s pointedly not looking at me. I saw the appreciation in his gaze when I walked out tonight, wearing a dark green silk slip dress that clings to my breasts and hips and shows off most of my legs, along with six-inch stilettos to make them look even longer.
But he was quick to tear his gaze away, and he’s barely looked at me since.
Now, he’s nibbling idly at a piece of flatbread, occasionally glancing at his phone as if it’s more interesting than his wife.
I reach for the bottle of expensive white wine chilling in the bucket next to us, glancing over at the view as I refill my glass.
We’re seated at a secluded table near the edge of the restaurant, and in the distance I can see two giraffes striding across the grasslands, moving slowly against the darkening backdrop of the sky.
“You’re quiet tonight.” Konstantin glances up at me. I shrug.
“Just enjoying the view.”
He smirks. “The grasslands, or—” He raises an eyebrow, and I roll my eyes at him.
“You’ve made sure I have no reason to bother enjoying this view.” I wave a hand at him delicately. “Why stare at something I can’t take home?”
He snorts. “You’ll be going home with me after this trip is done.”
“You know what I mean. You’re being purposefully obtuse.” I take a sip of my wine, trying not to stare at the copper mug in front of him. Just get up and go to the restroom. Anything. Just give me an opening to get this over with.
It could be easy. I’d pour the powder into his drink, give it a quick stir, he’d come back and drink it. It’s flavorless, impossible to detect. And then?—
Strangely, something in my chest tightens at the thought of what would come after that.
Of his throat closing, his airways blocked, the fear in his eyes when he realized what was happening—a death that he couldn’t fight back against or stop in any way.
I’ve never once felt so much as an ounce of regret or sympathy for my targets before, but for some reason, I feel a pang at the thought of watching Konstantin die.
It bothers me. The last thing I need is to suddenly become sentimental.
Our main dish arrives a moment later—a pot filled with steaming broth, rice, meat, and spices that waft into the air and make my mouth water, along with another plate of flatbread and bowls for us to spoon our portions into.
The waiter sets it down between us, and I watch as Konstantin picks up his mug, taking a long gulp of his drink.
I could go to the bathroom myself, I consider. I could get him a fresh drink from the bar on my way back, pretending to be a doting wife, and put the poison in it then, bringing it back to him. It could work?—
I know I’m grasping at straws. But with only four days left here, and no sign of Konstantin being swayed at all by my charms, I’m starting to feel the pressure.
Our waiter moves away, and I start to shift in my chair, reaching for my clutch. But before I get up, a movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
A different waiter is approaching our table, his gait slightly off. There's something about the way he's walking—a tension in his shoulders, a deliberateness to his steps—that triggers warning bells in my mind.
And then, as he nears our table, I notice the slight bulge under his jacket. Not a hidden pack of cigarettes for his break or a bottle of wine being snuck away, but a shape I recognize—a shape that I feel sure is a handgun.
My blood runs cold. I don’t have the slightest idea why, but I feel sure of what I’m seeing—that someone else is trying to kill Konstantin.
Fuck. I have seconds to decide what to do.
If I let this play out, Konstantin will be dead—but I know Kane.
He won’t accept the mission being completed by anyone’s hand but mine.
He’ll jump at the chance to say I failed, to say that I haven’t earned the information this mission was meant to give me, and he’ll keep me working for him for another year.
Longer, maybe, since I will have failed at this job.
I have to be the one to do it. In a split second, my decision is made.
"Konstantin," I say sharply, catching his attention. "We need to leave. Now.”
He looks up from his plate, startled by my tone. "What?—"
I don't give him time to finish. As the waiter approaches, I knock over my wine glass deliberately, the white liquid spilling across the tablecloth and spattering the edge of my dress. I shove myself up from the table, twisting to put myself in the waiter’s path between him and Konstantin, and I see him speed up, his hand moving to slip inside his jacket.
Instinct, honed over years of training and endless missions where it was life or death—my life, their deaths—kick in.
Before the waiter can pull his gun, I snatch a steak knife from the place setting, lunging forward.
The waiter’s hand is half out of his jacket when I bury the blade in his thigh, angling it to hit his femoral artery.
He gasps, stumbling backward. Before he can recover, I'm on him, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to the ground. He goes down more easily than I expected—whoever sent him didn’t do their homework on me. He wasn’t expecting to be assaulted by Konstantin’s wife.
The gun clatters to the floor, and I kick it away.
"Security!" I shout, my knee in the man’s chest as I keep his arm pinned, my other arm at his throat. I’m well aware of how this must look—my skirt rucked up around my thighs, pinning this strange man down. Some part of me hopes that it stirs something in Konstantin that might make my job easier.
More likely, it’ll just raise more questions that I’m going to have to figure out how to answer.
"Someone call security!" All around us, the restaurant is erupting into chaos—a few guests screaming, chairs scraping against the floor as the diners get up and flee. I keep the man pinned down as I hear the sound of boots approaching, no doubt the resort’s security finally making an appearance.
When they’ve taken over for me, getting the man up and handcuffing him as they take him away, a paramedic also on the scene, I turn back to Konstantin.
The look of shock on his face is briefly gratifying, even though I know it’s going to come with more questions than I want to answer.
He’s standing at the edge of his seat, staring first at the blood on the floor and then at the blood on my hand and skirt, his eyes narrowing as his expression turns calculating and intense.
My skin prickles with awareness, the knowledge that I’m being appraised.
Fear trickles down my spine, but there’s something else, too.
The way Konstantin is looking at me now, with those piercing blue eyes, sends heat blooming through me, just as it did the first time I flipped open that folio and saw his picture.
“Are you alright?” I ask quickly, reminding myself that I’m not Valentina, not here. I’m Sophia, and I should be worried about my husband. “I don’t know how?—”
“Am I alright?” he repeats the question incredulously, confusion blurring the intensity of his gaze. “I should be asking you that, Sophia .”
He stresses the emphasis on my name ever so slightly, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I need to be very, very careful about what I say from here on out. My cover is an inch from being blown, and Konstantin isn’t stupid.
“Who are you?” he asks quietly, his gaze holding mine.
It takes every bit of training and discipline that I have to keep my expression smooth and blank, as innocent as I can possibly look. “What kind of question is that?”
Konstantin’s expression darkens instantly. He grabs my elbow—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that I know he’s serious—and starts striding in the direction of our rooms.
I tug a little against his grip—I can’t help it—but he doesn’t so much as flinch. He holds onto my elbow, marching me alongside him until we reach his room. He flashes his keycard in front of the door, urging me inside as he follows, and closes the door firmly behind him, turning to face me.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” he says coldly. “I’ve never seen a supposed mafia socialite take down an armed man like that. And you knew exactly where to stab him without killing him. I’m going to need an explanation.”
I press my lips together. “I told you the night I had the nightmares?—”
“Your guardian taught you self-defense.” He snorts. “That wasn’t a few sessions of Krav Maga or whatever lessons you were given. That was?—”
“This is ridiculous.” I shake my head, turning away. “I just saved your life, and you’re going to interrogate me?—”
Before I can flounce off, pretending to be the offended wife, Konstantin’s hand locks onto my elbow again, spinning me around to face him.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” His voice is low and deadly, and my blood chills as I look at his expression.
At the same time, my pulse flutters in my throat. He’s still holding onto my elbow, very close to me now. I can smell the woodsy, salty scent of his cologne, the hint of musk and sweat on his skin. My pulse beats harder, my heart speeding up in my chest, and Konstantin pins me with his glare.
“I want answers, Sophia.”
“I saved you.” I let my eyes go soft and liquid, letting myself go limp in his grip, as if he’s hurting my feelings. “How can you be so cruel?” My voice wavers ever so slightly, and to my surprise, I see Konstantin’s expression soften just a little.
Good. I’m finally getting to him .
“I appreciate what you did.” He runs his free hand through his hair, still holding onto my elbow with the other. “I’m in your debt, Sophia, truly. But I can’t explain how you?—”
“Did your father tell you that I’m an orphan?” My voice quivers, and it’s not a lie now. It’s the first real truth I’ve told Konstantin, though not in the way I’m about to frame it. But the emotion is real enough.
Konstantin blinks, startled. “No,” he says after a beat. “I’m sorry about that, but I don’t see?—”
“My father knew he dealt with dangerous men,” I whisper.
“It wasn’t just my guardian who taught me self-defense, Konstantin.
My father gave me lessons as soon as I was old enough to understand—since I was six.
He taught me to use a knife, how to shoot a gun.
I practiced whenever I could, even after I left for college.
I went shooting on weekends in Scotland.
When I came home, I kept up my lessons. It was important to him that I be able to take care of myself, and I’ve tried to honor his memory by doing just that, by making sure I never had to depend on—” I break off, my voice cracking, and while nothing I just said was true, the emotion that bubbles up as I think of my real father is.
His blood soaking into the carpet. Wire biting into his neck. The red meat of it showing where it cut in ? —
My stomach flips, my skin prickling at the memory. Tears mist my eyes, and I see Konstantin looking at me, reading me. Whatever he’s seeing right now, I’m not faking the emotion currently strangling my heart.
“I’m sorry,” Konstantin repeats, his gaze searching mine. “I didn’t know you’d lost—he sounds like a good man. To teach his daughter to protect herself that way. I suppose—” He clears his throat. “I suppose I’m in his debt too, then.”
For a moment, as his eyes meet mine, I see nothing but sincerity in them. Something quivers in my chest, and all I can think for a split second, as I realize that Konstantin is still holding onto my elbow, is that I’m glad he’s not dead.
But I still have to kill him.
He hasn’t broken eye contact. With a small tug, he pulls me closer to him, his gaze never leaving mine. He looks almost as if he’s in a fog, lost in thought, and my heart crashes against my ribs as I realize how close we are to each other—nearly touching now.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. “I could have died,” he murmurs. “You’re right, Sophia. I’m sorry. You saved me, and I immediately accused you. I?—”
He’s going to kiss me. It’s the only thing I can think as time seems to slow down around us, the heat of his body brushing against mine, filling my awareness.
I’m not thinking about how close I might be to my goal, about how I’m going to use this moment as a way to kill him, what weapon I might have that could end this tonight.
All I’m thinking about, in this moment, is how Konstantin Abramov’s mouth will feel on mine.