Page 6 of Twisted Fate

The drive takes about twenty minutes. I watch the Miami sunset splash across the sky, turning it the kind of vibrant hues that I’m not sure exist anywhere else, highlighted by the endless blue of the water and the spun-sugar sand.

I breathe in and out, slowly, centering myself, becoming Sophia Moretti.

The woman who is going to marry Konstantin Abramov.

And the woman who is going to kill him.

Sophia can’t have any doubts or fears about what she’s going to do.

She can’t regret saying vows she doesn’t mean or wonder if she’s giving away some piece of herself that she’ll never give back.

If I hesitate, if I don’t make Konstantin believe that I want him, that this marriage is my desire as much as his—if I can’t make him trust me, then I’ll have failed.

By the time we reach the gates of the Abramov estate, Valentina Kane is gone, locked away in a corner of my mind until I can become myself again.

The Abramov estate is impressive, a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion set back from the road, surrounded by lush gardens and high walls.

Security is visible but discreet after we pass the guard checkpoint at the gate—men in suits positioned strategically around the property, cameras mounted at key points.

I note each one automatically, cataloging potential escape routes and blind spots in case this goes all wrong somehow.

I’m not armed—there’s no possible way that I could get a weapon into this fortress, so if this is a trap of some kind—if the Abramovs have seen through what Kane gave them, I’ll have to escape with my wits and nothing else.

We drive into a circular courtyard, the green landscaping extending in every direction despite the blistering summer heat. A uniformed staff member walks up to my door, boots crunching on the gravel, and opens it for me.

I step out, offering a polite smile, and I’m escorted into the house.

The interior is as opulent as I expected, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and priceless artwork adorning the walls. I'm led through a grand foyer and into a large sitting room, where several people are already gathered, drinks in hand, engaged in conversation.

I scan the room quickly, identifying faces I recognize from the dossier, and none that I know from real life.

Kane has always kept me carefully outside this part of Miami society, limiting my interactions, where I go, and who I talk to—as well as who knows that I live with him.

I can’t effectively kill for him if these people know he keeps a pet assassin in his mansion.

Victor Abramov, the patriarch and pakhan , is seated near the mantle of the cold fireplace, speaking to a lean, mouse-faced man that I don’t know of.

Victor is a bear of a man, his face deeply lined, but his silver eyes still sharp and cold, despite the illnesses that have wracked him.

He still looks sturdy, but I can see the exhaustion in his face.

A man like him wouldn’t be sitting if he were able to stand.

And then I see him .

Konstantin Abramov. My target.

My future husband .

As I’d expected—or perhaps feared—he’s even more striking than in the dossier photo.

He’s clean-shaven for tonight, his jawline sharp and impeccable, his dark grey suit perfectly tailored to what must be an impressive body beneath it.

He’s cut his hair since the photo was taken—slightly shorter on the sides and a bit longer on top, styled in a way that manages to look effortless despite the perfection of it. And when he turns to face me…

Those startling, intense blue eyes catch mine, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat, just for a moment. My heel catches on the edge of the rug stretched across the gleaming wooden floor, and I freeze, an inch away from stumbling.

Get it together, Sophia, I hiss inwardly, tilting my chin up and forcing myself to meet Konstantin’s eyes without flinching.

I let a subtle smile curve the corners of my lips—from what I’ve read about Konstantin, he’s a man who will enjoy a bit of a challenge, not a simpering, adoring prospective bride.

I let my gaze sweep over him, as if I’m the one assessing him for his worthiness, not the other way around.

He walks toward me, his gait sleek and lithe as any predator, and I feel my heartbeat quicken. I catch the scent of his cologne as he comes to stand in front of me—woods and salt, like driftwood on the beach.

“We can’t have been introduced before,” he murmurs, taking my hand and lifting it to his lips. “If we had been, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

My pulse throbs in the hollow of my throat as his full, firm mouth grazes the back of my hand.

I’d never imagined that so simple a touch could light me on fire, but I swear I feel it in every inch of my body, as if his mouth is brushing against much more intimate places.

His eyes raise to mine, and I open my mouth to introduce myself…

only to be interrupted by his father’s voice reaching us from across the room.

“This is Sophia Moretti, son,” Victor says, his voice rasping with age. “The woman I intend for you to marry.”