Page 46 of Twisted Fate

My father’s head snaps up, his gaze meeting mine with the same shock I feel. I hadn’t meant for the words to come out of my mouth, but something in me rebelled, instantly, at the idea that he made a mistake in choosing Sophia.

Something I didn’t want has now become something I’m willing to defend.

“She’s not like the other women you’ve tried to match me with before,” I continue, carefully smoothing my tone. “She’s capable. Dangerous.”

One of Victor’s eyebrows rises. “You don’t seem upset about that.” He scoffs again. “Of course not. You would prefer an inappropriate bride. And you took her—where, when you returned home last night? To your penthouse, instead of here?”

I nod.

“You care for her.” His sharp gaze doesn’t miss a beat. “Otherwise, you would have brought her here.”

“I respect her. And I enjoy her company.” I feel my heart thud behind my ribs.

Do I care for her? Is it more than lust?

The thought makes me feel uneasy. Love has never been a part of my plans.

But I can imagine a future with Sophia, where I couldn’t before.

A future of our own making, instead of one where I stash her away until it’s time for an heir and otherwise pretend that she doesn’t exist.

“A dangerous woman isn’t the type you want at your side, Konstantin.” My father’s gaze narrows. “A powerful man needs a pliable woman. One who won’t try to have a say in his affairs or cause him any trouble.”

“She won’t cause me trouble.” Even as I say it, I can’t be sure. I clearly don’t know her all that well. If I were being honest, Sophia reeks of trouble. But it’s the kind of trouble that gets my cock hard, apparently.

And I can’t get enough of her. Not yet, anyway.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever be able to.

“I could annul the marriage.” My father looks at me contemplatively. “It’s not usually done, but I can pay off the necessary people. Get the appropriate paperwork.” We can put an end to this.

The thought of losing Sophia feels like a knife between my ribs. “Absolutely not,” I grind out, my jaw tightening. “She’s my wife. And she’s proved herself loyal—she put herself at risk to save me. I have no intention of abandoning my marriage.”

My father grunts, a noise I’m accustomed to when it comes to me and my choices. “You didn’t want her, and now you do. You see why I don’t trust your ideas, Konstantin. You’re changeable.”

I’m not, and he knows it. Nothing I’ve wanted for the Bratva has changed in years. But this one thing—this one-eighty that I’ve done on my marriage, has undermined me.

Just as I feared it would.

And yet… I don’t regret it the way I know I should.

My father changes the subject. "Tell me about the woman you sent back. Elia."

"She claimed she was hired by Don Genovese, working with the Slakov family." I watch as my father's expression darkens. "I sent her back with a message."

"I heard." My father's lips curl into a cold smile. He’s rarely pleased with me, and he rarely shows it when he is. But this is one of those rare times when I can tell that he is. "Three fingers, wrapped in silk. A clear statement."

"They need to understand that attacking me—attacking us—has consequences." I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. "The question is, what do we do now?"

“And here I thought you wanted to dispense with the old ways.”

I shake my head, my jaw tensing. “I want to modernize. Look for legal ways to make our money. Reduce the violence. That doesn’t mean that I’m above violence when it’s called for.”

“Hm.” Victor eyes me. "Genovese has always been ambitious, but this is bold, even for him. And the Slakovs..." He shakes his head. "They're nothing. A minor family trying to climb higher by aligning with the Italians."

"They won't stop with these failed attempts," I say. "They'll try again."

"Yes." My father turns back to face me. "Which is why we need to strike first."

I raise an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"

"A meeting. With Genovese and Slakov." He leans back in his chair. "We'll invite them here, under the pretense of discussing territory. A peace offering."

"And then?" I frown.

My father's smile is cold. "And then we remind them why the Abramov Bratva has ruled Miami for three generations."

“You think they’ll bite on that? That they won’t recognize a trap?”

“Arrogance equals foolishness. Genovese is clearly arrogant enough to believe that he can take down my heir. He’ll believe that I’m willing to talk to him, man to man, even after that. He’ll believe that he’s frightened us.”

I nod. For once, my father and I aren’t entirely in disagreement. I’m not sure that it’ll work, but if it does, it will give us the upper hand. It will put Genovese and the Slakov patriarch on our turf. “When?”

“A week from now. I’ll send Damian to make the arrangements.”

“Sure.” I nod. “I’ve got no qualms with that.”

“Good.” He shuffles some papers on his desk, clearly moving on. "Now, about the shipment coming in next week?—"

I take the folder, opening it to scan the contents.

For the next hour, we discuss business—shipments, territories, payments.

The familiar rhythm of it is almost comforting after the chaos of the past week.

As always, my father’s solutions are different from the paths I would take, but for the most part, during this meeting, I bite my tongue.

I’m in no mood to argue today, and I’ve long since stopped thinking that I can change my father’s mind—that I can get him to see eye to eye with me.

But that recognition doesn’t make the meeting any easier—or any less tense.

I head to the gym after leaving my father's mansion, needing to burn off the frustration building inside me. The weight of his skepticism, the looming threat from Genovese and the Slakovs, the constant tension between us about the family's future—it all sits heavy on my shoulders. The fact that he knew nothing about Sophia’s more dangerous tendencies doesn’t help, either.

I wrap my hands methodically before attacking the heavy bag, each punch landing with satisfying force. The rhythm of it clears my mind, focusing my thoughts as sweat begins to bead on my forehead. I move through my usual routine—weights, cardio, more bag work—pushing myself harder than usual.

As I work, my thoughts drift to Sophia. To the way she felt beneath me last night, her body yielding to mine in the pool, her cries echoing across the deck. To the sight of her this morning, tangled in my sheets, her dark hair spread across my pillow.

I've gone from two years of celibacy to barely being able to keep my hands off her. The switch has been so abrupt, so complete, that it makes me uneasy, as much pleasure as I’ve taken from it.

My self-control has always been my greatest strength—the thing that sets me apart from other men in our world who are ruled by their base desires.

And yet with Sophia, that control has shattered completely.

I grunt as I push through another set of bench presses, the muscles in my chest and arms burning with the effort.

Part of me wants to cut this workout short, to return to the penthouse and work out my frustration in a much more pleasurable way.

To feel Sophia's body against mine again, to lose myself in her.

But even I know that's excessive. She needs rest. I need to get my head on straight. This obsession—because that's what it is, if I'm being honest with myself—isn't like me. It's dangerous. Distracting. And yet I can't seem to fight it.

Instead of going back to the penthouse—where I know I’ll be distracted by my wife—I head to an office space that I rent in a high-rise building instead, working through some of the backlog of paperwork and other responsibilities that I abandoned for a week to go to the Serengeti with my new bride.

When the sun starts to set, I pack up, heading back down to where my Porsche is parked to head back home.

I can feel the pleasant ache from my workout, and my mind feels a bit more settled as well, the physical exertion and mental work having taken the edge off of my frustration, if not eliminated it entirely.

When I step off of the elevator and walk into the front door, I’m greeted with a startling scene: Sophia, in a black leather thigh-length skirt with a ruffle diagonal across the hem and an emerald-green sleeveless silk top, her hair piled on her head and her legs shown off by high, strappy heels.

She’s standing next to the long table that’s by the left windows, and candles are burning in the center of it, framing a display of plated food and poured drinks.

She smiles at me, and I stand there, stunned by the sight of something I’ve never walked in on before.

“Welcome home, Konstantin.”