Page 58 of Twisted Fate

I take a circuitous route, making sure we're not being followed, before heading north out of the city. The safe house is about forty minutes outside Miami, in an old housing development that went bankrupt before it could finish building. We bought up the lots quietly, left the half-built houses to decay, and kept one of the finished ones near the back of the development for a safe house. To anyone else, the entire area looks abandoned, and it’s both isolated enough that no one will hear or see anything, but close enough that I can get back to the city quickly if necessary.

As I drive out of the city, the water lapping in the distance on the other side of my periphery, I let myself think beyond the immediate crisis of the moment.

Who sent her? She wasn’t working alone, that much I’m sure of.

Whether there’s some tie between her and the other attempted assassinations or not, she didn’t come up with the idea to try to kill me all on her own.

And what was the point? The endgame? What did her employer want after I was dead?

Was it my father’s business, or my own, more personal plans that put a target on my back?

Or was it personal in some way—someone who felt slighted by a business deal, a family member of someone we once killed… or something else entirely?

One of the downsides of organized crime, I reflect as I drive, is that there really are endless reasons I can imagine why someone might want me dead—or to get at my father by taking away his heir.

There’s another question too—why marry me first? The charade that she played was an elaborate one, with the engagement, wedding, honeymoon, and weeks of living together. She had ample opportunity to kill me before this.

Unless there was more to it. Unless she needed something from me first.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel at the thought that this was more than just an assassination—that she was a plant, a spy, someone meant to gather intel on me from the inside.

The fact that she wanted me dead is bad enough, but my jaw tightens until I think my teeth might crack at the thought that the deception might have been that involved. Somehow, that feels even worse.

I glance over at her again. Asleep—or unconscious, really—with her guard down, she looks like the woman I've been falling for since she arrived at that dinner party. The sharp, intelligent, witty, courageous woman who I thought might be the match I never imagined I’d find.

A partner worthy of me. A woman meant to be not only my wife, but my equal.

The kind of woman that a man like me doesn’t dream of finding.

Was any of it real? Did she ever want me at all?

Feel anything for me? My hands tighten and twist on the steering wheel again.

I feel like I’m losing my mind. A few weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea that any woman could have me this tied up in knots.

But Sophia—Valentina—isn’t just any woman.

No matter what she says, no matter what the truth really is, I know that much for certain.

The safe house appears ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky.

It’s a single-story construction, a sprawling Florida-style home with a dark beige stucco exterior, hurricane-proof windows, and a low-angled roof.

Palm trees dot the browning landscaping out front, and I know there’s a fenced pool out back, although we don’t do much to keep it up, much like the rest of the exterior.

Someone comes out here every now and then to check for snakes and spiders and gators, but for the most part, we want it to look abandoned.

There are no neighbors out here. No prying eyes. No witnesses. Whatever happens between me and Valentina from here on out will stay between the two of us.

I pull into the garage, getting out to shut the door behind us before cutting the engine. For a moment, I slide back into the driver’s seat and sit in the darkness, listening to Valentina’s breathing, steeling myself for what comes next.

What comes next? I don’t have a plan. I couldn’t think that far ahead. Now that it’s here, I still can’t bring myself to.

Am I going to torture a woman I was falling in love with for answers?

I thought I was a brutal man. But it seems I’ve found my limit. My line.

Valentina stirs slightly, a small moan escaping her lips, and I can tell she’s starting to wake up.

Time's up.

I slide out of the driver's seat and circle around to the passenger side, opening her door just as her eyelids flutter.

Her body tenses immediately—the change is subtle, but I've spent enough time watching her to notice. She's awake now, assessing, planning. She’s also trying to make me think that she isn’t—her eyes are still hooded, her body mostly still.

"Don't," I warn her, my voice low and hard. "We both know how this ends if you try something." I hope she believes me. That my failure to kill her earlier doesn’t make me the boy who cried wolf every time from here on out.

Her eyes open slowly, meeting mine with a defiance that makes my blood heat despite everything. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the gravity of what's happened hanging between us like a blade.

"Out," I order, unbuckling her seatbelt. I reach for her elbow to steady her despite myself—either because I want to touch her, or because I can’t resist the protective instinct I feel toward her, even after everything that’s happened in the last couple of hours.

She moves awkwardly with her hands cuffed behind her back, sliding out of the passenger seat, but manages to swing her legs out and stand.

I keep a firm grip on her upper arm as I guide her through the dark garage and into the house, turning on a lamp when we finally reach the living room.

The windows are all shuttered and drawn with blackout curtains, but I still intend to keep light to a minimum.

The safe house is the one that the development used as a model.

The floors are less gleaming and pristine now—dusty, that’s for sure—all tile and wood.

The furniture is all something out of a home design catalog, covered in plastic drop sheets right now, and the art is the kind of thing you see in a home goods store.

Nothing personal or particularly unique.

It’s a showroom of a house, but it fits my needs right now just fine.

I lead her to an overstuffed, floral-print armchair and push her down into it.

“Konstantin,” she whispers, and hearing my name in her voice sends a jolt through me. The way she says it, soft, almost pleading, feels like it could be another manipulation. Another lie.

"Don't." The word comes out more sharply than I intended, but it might be for the best. "Don't speak unless I ask you a question."

She falls silent, watching me with those green eyes that I've looked into so many times now, thinking that I was getting to know the woman behind them. That I was falling for her. The rage bubbles up again, threatening to overflow.

"Who are you?" I growl, and her chin lifts slightly.

"You know who I am."

"Do I?" I laugh, and it sounds hollow even to me.

"I know you're not Sophia Moretti. I know my wife came at me with a dinner knife earlier tonight and tried to kill me.

So no, I don't think I know who the fuck you are.

" The last words sound ragged, like they’re torn from my throat, and I could swear I see her flinch.

She swallows, and for the first time, uncertainty flickers across her face.

"My name is Valentina," she says finally. "Valentina Kane."

Kane. The name rings a bell, but it takes me a moment to place it.

I’ve heard the name Nicholas Kane before.

My father knows him, has treated him like a confidant at times, if my memory serves me correctly.

If I’m thinking of the right man, he’s a sort of shadow broker in Miami, doing shady business deals, greasing one palm while shaking the other, making problems disappear.

It’s entirely possible, based on my vague knowledge of the man, that he might have taken a contract from someone who wants me to disappear.

And the woman in front of me is… what? His daughter? I couldn’t say what he looks like. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Did he send you?”

I see the moment where she decides whether or not to tell me anything more. I don’t think it’s fear of pain that changes her mind. I’m not sure what it is, but she nods, her sharp green gaze holding mine.

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asks suddenly.

"You had every opportunity. You could have snapped my neck while I was unconscious.

Shot me. Choked me. You could have killed me…

before." Her throat works, and I know she’s thinking of what we did earlier.

Of my cum drying on her thighs. Of the way I fucked her. Of the way she came for me while I did.

This time, it’s me that hesitates. I should have killed her. It would have been the smart move, the safe move. My father would have expected it. Hell, I would have expected it of myself before all of this happened tonight.

"Maybe I want answers more than I want you dead," I manage, more calmly than I feel.

Something shifts in her expression. There’s the faintest smirk on the edge of her lips, a keenness in her gaze that locks onto mine, assessing me.

"Or maybe," she says quietly, her full lips still on the edge of a smirk, "you're not as cold as you pretend to be, Konstantin Abramov."

The sound of my name feels like nails raking across my skin. My muscles tense, my cock twitches, my jaw tightens as I try to fight what this woman does to me. How she makes me feel. I stare at her for a long moment, and she stares back at me.

I imagine questioning her as she sits there, my cum on her thighs and her own blood dried on her throat.

I imagine the things I might do to her to make her talk.

I imagine holding a gun to her head. And a long, deep exhale seems to come from somewhere in the bottom of my soul as I stride toward her chair.

“Get up,” I command, moving behind her.

I see her hesitate for a moment, as if she’s concerned about what I might have planned, but she’s too proud to let me see fear.

She pushes herself up to her feet, rising smoothly despite the awkward position of her arms. I feel the smallest flinch of surprise as I unlock the handcuffs, half-expecting her to attack the moment her hands are free, but she simply brings them around to her front, rubbing her wrists. She’s utterly silent.

“The bathroom is to the left and down the hall.” I nod in its direction and pick up the duffel. “Clothes are in here. Go shower and clean yourself up.”

Her gaze sweeps from me to our surroundings, and I can see the calculation in her face. She’s thinking about her options. I’d be more surprised if she wasn’t.

"Don't bother trying to run," I warn her. "There's no one else out here, and there’s nowhere to run. If you get away from me, I’ll be forced to call for backup. And then, any chance you have of surviving this is gone. Once my father knows about this, about you , once his men have their hands on you…” I trail off, knowing she can imagine far worse things than I can describe. “That’s if they even get to you. Because if you run, Valentina, I will chase you. If I chase you, I will catch you. And when I catch you…”

Her eyes flicker back to mine, and I see a glimmer of heat in them. I fight the surge of desire that ripples through my body, the thought of all the things I could do to her if and when I caught her.

“What will you do then, muzh ?” she asks softly, and the sound of her speaking Russian sends a jolt through me. Husband. My jaw tightens and my eyes narrow, my chest tightening as rage floods through me, tangling with that other emotion that I don’t dare put a name to.

I step toward her, still leaving space between us. “If you run, Valentina, when I catch you… I will kill you this time.” I step closer still, until I can see the gold flecks in her green irises, smell the sweet sugared violet of her perfume. “That’s a promise.”