Page 5 of Twisted Fate

There are a few pictures at the back of women he’s dated before—all heiresses and socialites, women who were probably being courted as potential brides for him. But there hasn’t been anyone in his life—at least not anyone photographed—for nearly two years.

I flip back to his personal information, scanning it once more.

There’s a note about his training—he’s extensively trained in martial arts and marksmanship with former special operations teams from Russia.

It won’t be an easy kill. It won’t even be possible unless I get the upper hand on him, and do it quickly.

If I hesitate, if I miss, if I choose the wrong moment—I’ll be dead.

Or worse. A chill runs down my spine, making me shiver despite the heat. Konstantin is Bratva. His assassin would likely get much worse for their trouble than a quick death.

Tucking the folio back into my bag, I take a deep breath, chasing the fear away. I can do this. I’ve done it before, albeit never with so high-profile and capable a target. But that’s why I’m getting him away from here, to a remote location without his security and without prying eyes.

I just have to get close to him, gain his trust, and eliminate him. It’ll be no different than other jobs like this one that I’ve taken on—except that it’ll be my last… and I’ll have to marry him to do it.

But I can do this. And it’s better than letting Kane continue to own me until he feels I’ve made up for refusing him.

I roll onto my back and close my eyes, letting the sun dry the last of the water from my skin.

I try to imagine what my life will be like after this is all over.

After I've killed Konstantin Abramov and learned the truth about my family's murder.

After I've exacted my revenge on those responsible.

All of the things that would make the lies and blood worth it.

I’ve never allowed myself to envision it too clearly before.

I’ve only held on to the goal, not the potential of what comes afterward.

I’ve always known that, in my line of work, a future is a luxury that few of us get to have.

But now the end is in sight, and I find myself mulling over what comes next.

Not just the solo, undirected travel that I’ve dreamed of, but more than that.

A home of my own. Someone to share it with, maybe.

The possibility of going out on dates, developing hobbies, of locking away my guns and only ever taking them out in an absolute emergency.

Of moving away, even, if I wanted to. I have no doubt that I’d always come back home…

but the possibility of somewhere else is tempting.

Just for a little while. I could go to California.

Vegas. I could go up north and find out if I like living somewhere where there are seasons.

The possibilities are endless, and a thrill runs through me, prickling my skin with anticipation and banishing my lingering reservations about pretending to be Konstantin Abramov’s fiancée—and then his wife. The thought of everything I could explore is both exhilarating and terrifying.

And all I have to do is complete one final mission.

—

Friday night, four days after Kane handed me the dossier, I’m meant to meet Konstantin Abramov at a party thrown by his father.

Ostensibly, it’s a dinner party for some business associates, but I know the truth via Kane.

Kane has done his groundwork to present me to the Abramov pakhan as a potential wife for his son, and tonight will be the moment of truth.

I have a dossier on myself now, as well. I study it—open on the sink counter—as I roll my hair into hot rollers and pin them to set, scanning it over and over again until I’ll be able to play the part flawlessly.

Once I step foot onto the Abramov estate, I’ll no longer be Valentina Kane.

I’ll be Sophia Moretti, an heiress with ties to the Italian mafia in Boston—albeit thin ones, so as to not step on any toes or make it too easy for them to find any holes in the paper trail that Kane has created for me.

Educated in Europe, at St. Andrews in Scotland.

Spent a gap year traveling, before returning to Boston to do charity work.

On paper, even I have to agree, I’m the perfect wife for Konstantin Abramov—elegant, refined, with an education that a man like him will appreciate and all the tastes that fit into his world.

Rich enough—according to these documents—that his family won’t think I’m just after their money.

Kane has created an impeccable persona for me.

Everything is there—bank accounts, school records, identification.

No social media—Sophia Moretti is a private person, another detail carefully curated to appeal to the Abramovs.

No Bratva pakhan wants to marry his son to a woman who will bandy their personal information about, always posting photos of where she is or where they are together, using the name and influence for social media clout.

That desire for privacy is probably the only thing Sophia Moretti and I have in common. I’ve never had a social media account in my life.

My dress for the night is hanging on the back of the bathroom door—a teal silk gown that wraps around my breasts and my neck, showing off a diamond of skin at my cleavage, my stomach, and the curves of my waist. It’s open at the back, the silk falling in a long waterfall to the floor, with a slit up one side.

I take it off the hanger and slip it on—it fits perfectly, showing off all my assets to perfection.

The neckline makes my breasts look fuller, the cut of the bodice shows off the divots of muscle in my stomach, and my lean arms and legs are shown off to their best advantage.

I do my makeup with a light hand, adding a thin cat-eye and nude lipstick, and take my hair down out of the rollers at the very end.

It falls in heavy, thick, dark waves around my shoulders when I brush it out.

I grab my clutch purse off the bed, slip on the nude stilettos that I chose for the evening, and head downstairs. I find Kane in the living room—surprisingly, instead of his study, a glass of scotch at his elbow, and a book on early American history in his hand.

“The driver will be around in ten minutes,” he says without looking up.

His gaze flicks across the page in front of him, and he doesn’t look up at me until he’s finished.

When he does, his gaze sweeps over me appraisingly.

I square my shoulders, ready to accept whatever criticism might come my way without flinching.

This is no different than a review of my performance in the gym or at the range—I’m just wearing heels and sparkling with diamonds instead of wearing spandex and holding a gun.

“You look stunning,” he says simply, and I blink, startled at the unfiltered praise.

“Thank you,” I manage. “You think Konstantin will like—” I wave a hand in the general direction of myself, and Kane chuckles.

“He’d have to be a dead man not to.” He closes the book and sets it aside. “You read your dossier?”

I nod. “I familiarized myself with all of it.” I hesitate. “When I read his—you didn’t mention he’d been trained by special forces.”

Kane raises an eyebrow. “Would it have changed your answer?”

Of course not . Another year of missions for Kane, versus this one last one? It was never really a choice. “No,” I say simply.

“I didn’t think so.” His gaze sweeps over me once more. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“Yes.” The confidence in my voice doesn’t betray the slight flutter of nerves in my stomach.

I’ve done this before—seduced men on their turf, drawn them into my web and crushed them.

But Konstantin is a uniquely difficult challenge—and what’s worse, he’s one that I’m attracted to.

He’s one that I have to marry . My reservations about the lies I’ll have to tell aside—if just his photo made my heart stutter in my chest and my blood warm with desire that I rarely feel, what will seeing him in person be like?

I can’t allow myself to be affected by that. Not at any point.

Kane nods, satisfied, and looks up in the direction of the front door. “The driver should be here.”

Just like that, I’ve been dismissed. Though he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a father since I lost mine, he’s never been one given to extensive conversation or emotional displays.

If he has any feelings about sending me off like this—his pseudo-daughter—to seduce and marry the heir to the Abramov Bratva, or about the blood he’s painted on my hands over the years, or about the fact that this will be my last job for him, I know he’d never show it.

He molded me into a weapon. To show emotion would be to humanize me, and himself.

I turn on my heel to leave, but Kane’s voice comes from behind me once more, startling me. I’d assumed the conversation was finished.

“Don’t underestimate Abramov,” he says calmly. “He’s intelligent, observant, and deadly. And he’ll have the natural suspicion that all men of his station have. Be cautious.”

I turn back to face him. For the briefest of moments, I think I see a hint of worry on his face, though the flash of it is gone so quickly that it might have been my imagination. “Of course,” I agree. “I always am.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Yes, you are. That’s why you’ll finish this mission flawlessly.”

And because I expect it of you. He doesn’t need to say the last; I know it without hearing the words.

The car is waiting outside, a sleek black Mercedes town car with tinted windows.

The driver opens the door for me, and I slide into the backseat, my dress settling around my legs as I do.

I sit as poised and elegantly as Sophia Moretti would, slipping into my alias now, while I still have time to settle into it.

Once I arrive at the Abramovs, I have to be perfect.