Page 37 of Twisted Fate

I don’t know how much time passes before Elia moans for us to stop, her breath coming in ragged gasps, tears starting to leak from the corner of her eyes. I rock back on my knees, chuckling under my breath as I look at her.

“You’re a shitty assassin,” I tell her frankly. “You broke way too easily. Are you going to tell us what we need to know, or do I start carving designs in your nipples next?” I smile coldly at her.

“Fuck you,” Elia hisses, and Konstantin rears back, one hand shooting out to grab her hair and twist it around his hand as he yanks her head back and raises the razor blade to the hollow of her throat.

“I won’t kill you, suka ,” he growls. “Not yet. But I won’t stand for you continuing to speak to my wife that way, either.

” He drags the razor blade down, across her sternum, blood trickling in the wake of the thin cut as Elia lets out a low moan of pain.

“Start talking, or I’ll find out if this blade can fit under your fingernails. ”

Fear flashes across her face. Konstantin slides one hand behind her back, tapping his index finger against the tip of hers, and she jerks forward, shaking her head.

“I’ll tell you,” she gasps. “I’ll tell you, okay? Just stop ?—”

Konstantin leans back, watching her as he turns the tip of the blade against his finger. Her eyes flit fearfully towards it, up to him, and then back to me.

“We’re listening,” I tell her coolly.

“I was hired by Don Genovese,” she blurts out, blinking rapidly. “He’s working together with the Slakov family.”

Konstantin’s gaze narrows. “You’re lying,” he says smoothly, leaning forward as if to grab one of her hands.

“I’m not!” she shrieks, trying to jerk away from us both. “I’m not lying! Don Genovese hired me.”

“The Slakovs are nothing,” Konstantin growls. “An upstart Bratva without the history of the Abramovs or a fraction of their influence or wealth or power?—”

“That might be the point,” I interrupt, looking at Elia with narrowed eyes. “Is Don Genovese bankrolling the Slakovs?”

Konstantin’s face hardens. “Answer her quickly,” he snaps. “Is Genovese banking on being able to replace me with the Slakov heir, if I were dead?”

“I don’t know the politics,” Elia hisses. “I don’t fucking care. All I know is that Don Genovese and Alek Slakov met with me and told me to come here and kill you.”

“On my honeymoon.” Konstantin’s eyes are dark. “How the fuck did they expect you to accomplish that?”

“Easy.” Elia spits the word into our faces. “I was going to fuck you.”

Something dark and uncomfortable stirs in my gut. That’s what I was here to do—except clearly, Genovese didn’t think he could find a woman who could pose as Konstantin’s bride. He must not have been able to find—or fake—anyone suitable in time.

Or maybe this plot came about after the engagement was announced.

“When did you get the job?” I demand, reaching out to drag another salt-covered finger over one of the wider gashes. Elia lets out a shuddering hiss of pain. “After Konstantin’s engagement or before?”

“I don’t fucking know when he got engaged or married,” she spits. “I got the assignment a week and a half ago. I was told he’d be honeymooning here with his wife, and that I was meant to seduce him and kill him while we were in bed together.”

Konstantin snorts. “Genovese doesn’t know me very well, if he thought I’d cheat on my wife on our honeymoon.”

I glare at him out of the corner of my eye. It’s on the tip of my tongue to spit back that he’d probably cheat on me just fine later, without a second thought. He planned to keep our marriage bed cold, after all. But as long as it’s not on our honeymoon …

I force the thought out of my head, along with the burning jealousy that comes with it. It shouldn’t matter to me. Konstantin will be dead soon—just not by this woman’s hand. It won’t matter what his intentions for our marriage were.

“How many others?” I demand. “How many other assassins did Genovese send?”

“I don’t know.” Elia sees Konstantin reach for her and flinches away again.

“Goddamnit, I really fucking don’t know!

He said there would be others, in case I failed, or didn’t move fast enough.

My expenses were covered, but my payment would come after the job was done…

if I was the one who finished the job. If I failed?—”

I glance at Konstantin. That means the other two were likely from Genovese, as well. And there might be others.

The fear that pierces my chest at the thought has nothing to do with the possibility of failing my own mission. And that, more than anything, tells me how far off track I’ve gotten.

“You’ve failed,” Konstantin says definitively. “And now, you’re going to help me send a message back to Don Genovese and Alek Slakov.”

“What does it fucking matter?” she spits out. “If I failed, he’ll just send someone else. He already has . He’s not a patient man, and they want?—”

She lets out a cry as Konstantin pushes her to one side, against the tub so that her bound hands are visible. The look in his eyes sends a shudder down my spine—I’ve seen that look before. I’ve seen it in Kane’s eyes, when he’s about to do something particularly brutal.

It’s the look of a man who is about to make someone suffer—and who’s going to enjoy it.

“Hold her,” Konstantin directs me, and I move without hesitation, grabbing her shoulder and pinning her against the tub.

“Don’t scream,” he adds, grabbing a handful of Elia’s hair so that she’s forced to look back at him.

“If you scream, someone might hear. I can’t have that.

So if you do, I’ll cut out your tongue and gag you afterward.

You might die then, choking on your own blood—but without your tongue, maybe you’d rather be dead. ”

The horror on Elia’s face makes me wonder just how experienced she is, and how long she’s been at this—if she’s someone who was used in a way that I haven’t been. I feel a small prickle of sympathy for her, but I quickly quell it.

All of us in this world have been used, one way or another. I’ve always known that this could have been me, bound and trapped, being taken apart piece by piece to send a message back to Kane, tortured for answers that—unlike Elia—I would never give up.

If Konstantin were to figure out my part in all of this, that I faked an identity and a marriage to him in order to try to kill him myself, I could very well still end up where Elia is sitting now.

“Make sure you’re quiet,” he repeats. “Or you’ll wish you had been.”

Her eyes are wide and fearful. I can see the terror in them, rolling back to show the whites like a frightened animal. I hold her down as Konstantin gets up and goes back into the bedroom.

When he returns, he has the hunting knife that was under my pillow. My knife. Something in my stomach quails, seeing it in his hands, as he grabs one of her fingers—the index of her right hand—and presses the point of the knife against the third knuckle.

I don’t know how Elia doesn’t scream. Konstantin takes three of the fingers on her right hand—the index, ring, and pinky fingers, one at the third, then second, then first knuckle of each.

“You’ll never hold a knife or shoot a gun again,” he growls.

“This is your last job, suka .” He saws through the meat and tendons of each finger, breaking the bone to rip the portion he’s cutting off free, and when I feel Elia go heavy against my supporting hands, I realize she’s passed out from the pain.

The blood dripping from her mouth tells me that she bit through her tongue to keep from screaming too.

This should bother me. The thought comes from somewhere in the back of my mind, but it’s nothing more than a whisper, something that feels like it’s coming from outside of myself. This is nothing new to me. It’s just that usually, I’m doing it all by myself.

Konstantin takes the silk tie from my robe, and wraps it around the pieces of Elia’s fingers like a present, tying it with a bow on top.

He makes sure her hands and feet are still secure before picking up a lighter that he brought back in with him as well.

He uses it to cauterize her bleeding finger—quickly—before the smoke can set off any alarm.

Then he stands up and walks briskly out of the room, leaving me there with her.

I double-check to make sure she won’t be going anywhere, even though I’m sure Konstantin’s work was good. When I feel satisfied as well, I walk out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

Konstantin is no longer in my room.

I go and press my ear against the door dividing our rooms. I can hear the sound of his voice, faintly, and can pick out a few words here and there. Genovese. Assassin. Slakov. Send a message.

He’s talking to someone on the phone. I strain to try to hear more, jumping back quickly and retreating as I hear Konstantin moving toward the door.

He steps through a moment later, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants hanging low on his hips. My mouth goes dry when I look at him—he’s fucked me three times since last night, and I already want him again.

Fuck, I want to get down on my knees and feel his cock in my mouth again.

“Is she still passed out?” Konstantin asks curtly, and I nod.

“I think she’ll be out for a while.” I pause, biting my lip. “What are we doing with her?”

Something odd flickers in his gaze when I say we . “I’ll send her back with two of the security that my father is sending. They’ll take her back and ensure that Genovese and Slakov get the message.”

“Which is?” I can’t help but ask, even though I’m fairly certain I know the answer.

The smile that curves his mouth is cold and cruel. “That the Abramovs are not to be fucked with. And that my wife is not to be put in danger.”