Page 45 of Twisted Fate

KONSTANTIN

T he morning light filters through the windows of my bedroom in the penthouse as I button my shirt, thinking ahead to my meeting this morning with my father.

The events at the resort are still weighing heavily on my mind—four different attempts on my life.

All different people, different methods, but I suspect they originate from the same person.

But that’s not all that’s occupying my thoughts.

I glance over at Sophia, who is lying in my bed, curled up in the white and blue sheets, still sleeping peacefully.

Her now-dry dark hair is spilling over her pillow, one bare shoulder exposed above the sheets, and in the soft light of morning, she looks utterly beautiful.

Something twists in my chest as I look at her, an ache settling thereow-dry that I can’t shake.

I hadn’t expected anything to change on our honeymoon—I hadn’t expected anything more from her than how this started.

But things did change, and now, looking at her, I can’t imagine them going back to how they were before.

She’s nothing like what I thought she was. I feel a rush of desire just looking at her, remembering what we did last night. I’ve fucked plenty of women over the years, but nothing has ever felt like it does when I’m with her.

I can’t imagine wanting anyone else. I stand there, watching her sleep, and for the first time, I’m glad to have someone to wake up next to.

I’ve never let anyone stay the night before here. Like I told Sophia before we arrived—this is my space, my haven. But I found myself wanting to let her in. To share something with her that I never have with anyone else.

I’ve had women here before, the few that I tried to have some kind of serious relationship with. But they never stayed over. I’ve never woken up next to anyone until Sophia—until that first night she stayed in my bed at the resort.

Now, I’m finding it hard to imagine waking up alone again.

A small sense of disquiet stirs in my chest, reminding me that I still have questions. That, for all her explanations, there’s still something that feels off. I want more answers—for her to tell me more about her past, about how she became the woman that she is. But I know that takes time.

I didn’t trust her immediately, or open up to her.

There’s still very little that I’ve told her about myself, about the things I want and see for my future—for our future, now.

I’m not accustomed to talking to anyone about what goes on in my head—about the plans I have or the things I hope for.

I have no one in my life that I can trust with something like that.

Looking at my sleeping wife, I wonder if it’s possible that I might, now. If what started as an edict from my father might turn into something that I never expected to have in my life. That I never allowed myself to hope was possible.

She shifts, letting out a soft, sleepy sound, and the desire to rejoin her in bed throbs through me.

But I leave her there, regretfully, the image of her curled up in my sheets with her dark hair spilling across the pillow staying with me as I head downstairs.

I grab my keys—when I stay at my penthouse, I drive myself—and shove my phone into the pocket of my suit trousers, heading out to the elevator that will lead down to the garage.

If I hurry, I might have time to stop for coffee before my meeting.

I’m in luck. Traffic leaving the city isn’t as bad as I would have expected for a Friday morning, and I swing into my preferred coffee shop just in time to see the morning line thinning out.

It gives my mood a boost—things seem off to a good start today, and I’m hopeful that they’ll stay that way.

That my father will listen to me. That we’ll come up with a plan that works for us both, not just one that follows his idea of how we should handle it.

I’m not insensible to the fact that it’s Sophia who has me in such an unusually good mood.

Three days of spending every possible moment in bed with her, working out two years of sexual deprivation with endless fucking have boosted my spirits considerably.

I even smile at the twenty-something brunette who hands me my black coffee, leaving her stammering and blushing as I head back out to my vintage Porsche.

The drive to my father’s mansion is comfortably familiar, and despite the situation, I feel some of my remaining tension easing with the familiarity of being back home.

As beautiful as the resort was—not counting the assassination attempts—and as idyllic as it was to be sequestered away in a room with Sophia, I feel as if I’m back where I belong.

The Miami morning is already hot, the sun glinting off the water as I drive along the coast. I roll down the window, letting the salt-tinged air wash over me.

It feels good to be home, despite everything that happened at the resort.

My father's security recognizes my car immediately, the gates swinging open as I approach. I park in my usual spot and head inside, nodding to the guards stationed at the entrance. The house is quiet, most of the staff keeping to themselves when my father isn't entertaining guests.

I find him in his study, as expected. He's sitting behind his massive desk, papers spread out in front of him. He looks up when I enter, his gaze sharp despite the illness that's been slowly consuming him.

"Konstantin." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."

I do as he says, settling into the leather chair.

I can see the toll the past few months have taken on him—his face is more gaunt than when I left, the lines around his eyes deeper.

But his gaze is as piercing as ever, assessing me as I sit down.

I feel some of the tension return to my shoulders.

A meeting with my father is never an easy one, and he doesn’t often agree with my opinions. He likes to be heard, not to listen.

He surveys me, as if forming an opinion that I’m so far unaware of. "You look well," he says finally, leaning back in his chair. "The honeymoon agreed with you, despite the... complications."

"Four attempts on my life isn't what I'd call a complication," I reply dryly. "It's a declaration of war, as far as I’m concerned. I’m almost surprised that you waited until I came home to go after Genovese and his upstart Bratva allies."

My father’s mouth twitches, and he grunts. “Well, you’re alive, aren’t you? And some of it on account of your pretty bride. Suppose you’re glad now that I picked her for you.”

I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair, working to control my irritation. “I wouldn’t have been at the resort if not for her.” I have come around to having Sophia as my wife, more and more with every day, but I’m not about to tell him that. The last thing I want is to cede any ground to him.

He won’t see it as a compromise. He’ll see it as a weakness.

Victor lets out another grunt. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

I recount the events at the resort—the waiter with the gun, the guide on our camping excursion, Elia in our room, and finally, the snake in our bed.

My father listens without interrupting, his expression growing darker with each attempt I describe.

He’s pissed, at least, that his son was targeted, which mostly lays to rest any suspicions I might have had that he had a hand in this.

I wasn’t entirely sure that he might not have engineered Genovese and the Slakov Bratva to go after me, to make it seem as if he was blameless, and then declare war on them while choosing another heir.

It sounds dramatic. But crime families have been known to do much worse.

"And your wife?" he asks when I finish. "Sophia? How did she handle all this?"

I pause, considering my words carefully. "She was... remarkable. She saved my life more than once. She's not what I expected."

“So you said.” His brows draw in together.

“Explain it to me again.” There’s a sharp, demanding edge to his voice that I think I understand.

My father doesn’t like to be caught off guard.

He especially doesn’t like to not know all facets of a situation—and it’s clear that there are some facets of Sophia that he was unaware of when he chose her as my bride.

I pause, once again considering before I speak.

"She's trained. Well-trained. She can handle herself in a fight, knows how to use weapons, and..." I hesitate, wondering if I should have mentioned Sophia’s part in questioning Elia before. But it’s too late to take it back now.

"She helped me interrogate the woman, Elia. She knew exactly what she was doing."

My father's eyebrows rise slightly, the only indication of his surprise. "And how did she explain this?"

I’ve already told him this once before. I wonder if it’s his age showing, or that he wants to double-check my story, to ensure that I give him the same information twice. Either way, it won’t be to my benefit to remind him that we’ve already talked about this.

"She said her father trained her from a young age. Took her along on jobs, taught her how to fight, how to question people." I lean forward, watching my father's reaction closely. "Did you know about this when you arranged our marriage?"

He scoffs. “Of course not.” That startles me.

I’d expected him to lie, if nothing else.

Victor Abramov isn’t known for admitting that he’s wrong.

“I knew her father had mafia connections, of course, all of that was in her file. But from what I read, she was the perfect lady. Educated abroad, studied the arts, involved in charity. Nothing about this… unfeminine violence.” He waves a hand.

“I wouldn’t have considered her for a second if I’d known. ”

A flare of resentment burns in my chest. “Well, I’m glad you did.”