Page 4 of Twisted Fate

VALENTINA

I take the folio, go upstairs to change, and head out to the beach.

I can feel the eyes on me as soon as I reach the boardwalk, but I’m used to it.

A few whistles reach my ears as I slide off my linen sundress and toss it onto the corner of my beach blanket, revealing a turquoise bikini and most of my lean, muscled curves, but I ignore them.

I don’t mind the attention, really. I’m well aware of what I look like, and I’ve worked hard for every inch of taut skin and tight muscle on my frame.

Reaching up, I pull my thick, dark, wavy hair into a high ponytail, and tuck the leather folio under my dress before heading down to the water.

My plan was to sit out here with a canned cocktail and read the dossier on Konstantin Abramov, but right now all I want is to feel the cool Florida water rushing over my feet, the sand between my toes, and the warm sun on my skin.

I’ve missed it here, and I want a moment to just be home before I start researching my next job.

My marriage . The thought still sends a flood of adrenaline through me, prickling my skin and setting my teeth on edge, and I need a minute to decompress before I let myself really think about what this means. What I’m going to do, in service of the goal that I’ve chased for most of my life.

The sand burns the soles of my feet as I head down to the water’s edge, but it feels good.

It grounds me in an odd way, makes me feel alive.

Jobs like the one I just finished are hell on the psyche.

Alone in an isolated hotel room for days and days on end, the world narrowed down to what’s visible on the other end of a scope, it’s easy to disassociate.

To forget that I inhabit a living, breathing body.

The cool water laps at my ankles as I step into it, and I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the sun warm my face.

Home . The word beats behind my ribs, relaxing me, making me feel as if I can breathe fully for the first time in almost two weeks.

This place, this city, has always been my home.

I don’t remember much of where I spent those first eight years of my childhood, but I’ve been told that’s normal.

That the mind sometimes blocks out memories that are too painful to bear.

What I remember is in pieces. Fragments of shouting, and tears, and the scent of gunpowder and blood. I cried the first time Kane made me shoot a gun at thirteen, when the scent brought me right back to that moment, cowering behind the living room sofa as I heard my father shout and my mother wail.

Now, it doesn’t bother me any longer. I don’t think so, anyway.

If it does, that feeling is buried under layers and layers of armor, the psychological defenses that I’ve built up over the years to withstand the toll that this job takes otherwise.

I know the work I do should bother me, but it doesn’t.

I wade deeper, letting the water rise to my knees, then my thighs.

The ocean has always calmed me, even on my worst days.

Even after my bloodiest jobs. I dive under a wave, feeling the saltwater envelop me completely, washing away what remains of the tension in my muscles.

When I surface, I push my wet hair back from my face and float on my back, staring up at the cloudless blue sky.

All I smell is salt and brine and the faint tang of seaweed, the blue water lapping all around me.

I draw in a deep breath, and release it, tipping upright in the water once more. Kane has given me a nearly impossible job as my final hurrah for him. But if I’m successful—as he clearly believes I can be—then I’ll be done. I’ll finally have what I’ve been working toward all this time.

The truth.

And more than that… the opportunity to finally put the past behind me and start a new life. One that can be whatever I want it to be.

If I have to live a lie for a few weeks or months—however long this engagement will be—it’s worth it. Surely, after all the blood I’ve spilled, some fake vows and pretending to be someone else aren’t the things I can’t get past.

Pivoting, I curl my toes into the sand, shoving off as I start to swim through the lapping waves, out to where the water darkens, and then lightens again near a sandbar.

By the time I reach the sandbar, my muscles are burning pleasantly, and I let myself rest for just a moment before shoving off again and swimming back to shore.

The beach has filled with more people by the time I walk up the sand and back to my blanket—families with children building sandcastles, couples walking hand in hand, groups of friends laughing and drinking.

Normal people living normal lives. I've never known what that's like.

I’ve never had friends. Never had a real boyfriend. I lost my virginity to a Greek shipping magnate that I was assigned to kill, as a part of my cover, posing as an escort that he hired for a week-long trip. He fucked me hard enough that I didn’t have to explain why there was blood on the sheets.

The memory curdles my stomach, and I shove it away, stretching out on the blanket on my stomach and settling down with the folio. I flip it open to the first page, and those startling blue eyes stare up at me again from the photo clipped to the sheets of paper outlining who Konstantin Abramov is.

Surely faking a marriage to him can’t be worse than that. I’ve pretended to be someone else before. Just because this is a marriage, and those other false identities didn’t involve being someone’s wife, doesn’t make it so much worse.

I bite my lip, scanning the photo again.

He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that few men are.

Miami has no shortage of gorgeous men, but there’s a certain quality that I can see, even from the photo, that makes Konstantin stand out.

A charisma, a force of personality, that shines through even in a picture.

It’s in those eyes that I can’t seem to look away from every time I glance at the photo.

I yank it free, shoving it into the back of the folio as I look at the descriptions in the dossier.

The first page contains his basic information.

Thirty-eight years old. Six-foot-two. Dark blond hair, blue eyes.

Heir to the Abramov Bratva family in Miami.

All things I already knew from my conversation with Kane.

I flip to the next page, which details his daily routines, his known associates, his businesses, both legitimate and otherwise.

I can tell before I’ve read very far that he’s the sort of man who rules himself with the same discipline that he expects from others.

He runs in the mornings, then lifts weights.

He spends his day working—business meetings, hours in the office, making appearances at the Abramov businesses to ensure that everyone is working as they should, before going back to the gym in the evenings to box.

His father has an enforcer, Damian Kuznetsov, but Konstantin isn’t above getting his own hands dirty.

His family has close ties with one of two Italian mafia families here—the Ricci family, while the Genovese family is at odds with the Abramovs and the Riccis.

They run guns through the Dixie mafia, collude on offshore gambling with the Cuban mafia, and have a drug-running agreement with the Costa family in New Orleans.

It’s clear that the Abramovs have more friends than enemies in the organized crime circles of Miami, which makes my stomach clench at the idea that I’m going to be the one to kill Konstantin.

This family is insanely powerful—but I can see why Kane is worried about Konstantin’s modern ideas.

The Abramovs control most of the shipping in and out of Miami, along with a healthy portion of the gambling and protection rackets.

They've been in power for decades, with Konstantin's father, Viktor, ruling with an iron fist. If Konstantin gets his way when he inherits, the destabilization that could occur might have ripple effects that could reshape the entire face of Miami’s underworld.

According to the intelligence Kane has gathered, and matching what he told me earlier, Konstantin has been pushing for changes within the organization.

Modernization. Legitimization of some of their businesses.

I have no idea if there are younger members of the other families who share Konstantin’s more modern ideas, but with every day that passes, he gets closer and closer to inheriting the Abramov empire.

And he could upset the delicate balance of power that strings it all together.

Not that I really care, except to the point where the fact that I’m going to be his assassin could put a target on my back.

I know one thing for certain—as soon as the job is done, I’m going to take the information Kane gives me, put an end to the person responsible for my family’s death, and then get the hell out of Dodge for a while.

I trust Kane to keep my name out of all of this, especially since it would lead back to him.

But I still don’t like the idea of lingering here too long after I come back, not until the dust has settled.

It’ll be a good time for me to do some of the traveling for pleasure that I’ve always wanted.

I flip the page, where more private details that Kane has unearthed are scattered across the page. Konstantin, I find out, prefers rum over any other liquor, the more rare and expensive the better. He collects vintage motorcycles. He has a black card membership to Miami’s most exclusive sex club.

The last detail sends a flutter through my stomach, one that I quickly do my best to quell.

I’m not in this to enjoy myself. Actually desiring Konstantin—letting myself get caught up in lust and pleasure—would be the quickest way to walk myself to my doom.

I have to be thinking clearly every moment, and stay focused on the goal.