Page 65 of Twisted Fate

VALENTINA

I wake to the gentle rocking of a boat and the taste of copper in my mouth.

My head pounds with each swell of the waves, a dull throbbing that intensifies when I try to move.

My arms are secured behind me—zip ties, not handcuffs, cutting into my wrists.

Clearly Kane didn’t give them instructions to be gentle.

My ankles are bound too, and a cloth gag is tied tight enough to chafe the corners of my mouth.

I keep my eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness while I take stock of my situation.

The gentle hum beneath the rocking suggests that we’re not on a speedboat, but something larger.

One of Kane’s, probably. My stomach tightens at the realization that if we’re on one of Kane’s larger vessels, then we’re going somewhere farther away.

I have a feeling I know where that might be.

The air smells of salt and expensive leather. I'm lying on what feels like a bench seat in the cabin, the cool leather sticking to my cheek. Voices drift from somewhere above—the deck, probably. Two men, maybe three, speaking in low tones. I strain to hear them over the engine noise.

"...sure he'll come for her?" One voice, vaguely familiar.

One of Kane's men, though I can't place which one. I don’t even recall their names. I always brushed them off, ignoring them, viewing them as lesser goons. I should have paid more attention. I never thought that they’d be on a different side than me.

"Kane says he will." Another voice, gruffer. "Says the Abramov heir has gone soft for her."

A laugh, cruel and dismissive. "Hard to believe. She's just Kane's pet killer. Nothing special."

My jaw tightens. I’ll show you something fucking special. Hypocritical, maybe, since I’ve never thought much of them, but it irks me to be so casually dismissed, when I’ve spent my life devoted to becoming what I am.

"You didn't see them together. I did. He looked at her like she hung the fucking moon."

That feels like a dagger lancing through my chest. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, fighting back the wave of emotion that threatens to crash over me. Somewhere in the midst of all of it is relief.

They’re using me as bait for Konstantin. That means he’s still alive. Whatever else happened when I was taken, he managed to fight his way out of it—and he’s still alive. Still free of them.

Part of me hopes he's smart enough to stay away. A larger, more selfish part hopes he's already planning to come for me.

That I mean as much to him as he’s come to mean to me.

I finally risk opening my eyes to slits, keeping my breathing even and deep.

The cabin is luxurious but utilitarian—all sleek lines and dark wood.

I’ve probably been on this boat before, although if I’m being honest, they all look the same to me.

Through a small window, I can see only endless blue ocean stretching to the horizon.

No landmarks, no sense of direction. We could be heading anywhere.

Except I’m pretty sure I know exactly where we're going—Kane's private island compound, his ultimate fortress.

I've been there before, many times. It's where he took me when I turned thirteen, to start my training in earnest. We went there multiple times over the years, when he tested me. It’s where he brought me to finish off my first kill—a man kneeling in the sand, a blindfold over his eyes, begging for mercy.

It's where I became Valentina Kane, assassin.

The irony doesn't escape me. The place of my rebirth may well be the place where I die.

I close my eyes again as footsteps approach the cabin door. It opens with a soft hydraulic hiss, and someone steps inside.

"Still out," a voice mutters. Not one I've heard before. "She should be waking up soon."

Rough hands check my restraints, tightening the zip ties until they bite painfully into my skin.

I get the feeling they’re enjoying this, and I make a mental note to take out as many of these assholes as I can, if I get the chance.

For now, I remain limp, controlling my breathing even as pain flares in my wrists.

"She doesn't look so dangerous," the voice continues, apparently talking to himself. "Pretty, though. Maybe Kane will share when he's done with her."

Fingers brush my cheek, trail down my neck to the collar of my shirt. Every instinct screams at me to react, to snap his fingers, to show him exactly how dangerous I am. But I remain still, biding my time. Being patient.

It’s a skill I’ve honed to perfection, thank fuck. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.

The hand withdraws abruptly as the sound of the boat's engine changes.

"We're approaching the island," he says, this time clearly speaking to someone else. "Get her ready to move."

Strong arms lift me none too gently, throwing me over a shoulder like a sack of flour. The change in position sends blood rushing to my head, intensifying the throbbing pain there. I risk another peek through my lashes.

We're heading up to the deck. I catch glimpses of a familiar coastline—white sand beaches fringed with palm trees, crystal blue water. Kane's island, just as I remember it, a paradise hiding a fortress.

My stomach tightens, fear and dread mingling in my stomach.

I don’t expect Kane to forgive me twice.

And I don’t know if Konstantin will follow me here.

After all, I tried to kill him. I lied to him.

He might want Kane dead for reasons of his own, but he might have a different timeline—one that doesn’t involve saving me.

I can’t count on him to rescue me. Not if I want to survive.

The boat slows, the engine dropping to an idle as we approach the private dock. I'm handed down to another set of hands, the island heat hitting me like a wall after the air-conditioned interior of the boat. Sweat immediately beads on my skin, plastering my hair to my forehead.

"Take her to the house," a new voice orders. This one I recognize immediately: Garrett, Kane's right-hand man. I’ve met him before, a number of times—he’s one of the only ones whose name I actually know. "Kane wants her in the cube."

The cube. My stomach clenches. I know exactly what that means.

I'm thrown into the back of a Jeep, my bound limbs making it impossible to brace myself. My shoulder hits the metal floor hard enough to bring involuntary tears to my eyes. The vehicle starts moving, bouncing over the rough track that leads from the dock to the main compound.

Through the back window, I watch the dock recede. The island is small—only a few square miles in total—but it will be heavily guarded—more so than his mansion in Miami. No one comes or goes without his explicit permission, and if anyone finds this place, they’re swiftly dealt with.

The Jeep climbs a winding road cut into lush tropical vegetation, eventually emerging at the crown of the island where Kane's compound sits like a modernist sculpture. All glass and white stone, geometric and imposing against the vibrant green backdrop. I’ve often wondered what architect designed it, how he would feel if he knew the horrors that had played out here.

I loved this place once, despite those horrors.

Kane would bring me here when I was younger, after a difficult mission—to decompress, he said.

He treated me better back then, when I was still all but a child, when I looked up to him.

Now, this place feels like a grave. A trap.

A lie, part of the web of lies that Kane wove around me and thought I would never figure out.

The Jeep stops at the main entrance. I'm hauled out and dragged inside, my feet scraping uselessly against marble floors. The interior is cool and dim after the bright island sun, darkening the space behind my eyelids. I keep my eyes closed, reasoning that if they think I’m still unconscious, they’re more likely to give something away.

As soon as I’m clearly awake, everyone will be careful about what they say.

I’m thrown over another shoulder, carried for several minutes until I hear the beep of a biometric scanner—one that Garrett must have clearance for.

I can picture the route we might have taken—past rooms where I once moved freely, where I trained and studied and prepared for missions.

Past the library where Kane taught me about art and literature, cultivating an aura of refinement that would help me move in elite circles.

Past the dojo where I learned to kill in a dozen different ways.

I know, as I hear the door slide open, that we’re in the cube.

I can feel the air shift, feel the emptiness of the space.

I know it’s at the far side of the house, a perfect transparent glass cube built off the side of it.

Three walls and the ceiling are glass, providing a panoramic view of the ocean hundreds of feet below.

The fourth wall, connecting to the rest of the house, is solid grey stone.

The floor is glass too, suspended over nothing but air and jagged rocks.

It was designed as a meditation space, Kane had told me once.

A place to contemplate the beauty of nature, uninhibited by anything else.

I’ve been in here before, and I hated it.

I always suspected it would be a useful space for psychological torture.

The constant exposure, the vertigo, the feeling of being suspended in space with nowhere to hide.

I'm thrown onto the glass floor, the impact sending shock waves of pain through my already battered body. The zip ties are cut from my ankles but left on my wrists. The gag is yanked roughly from my mouth, leaving my lips chafed.

"Make yourself comfortable," Garrett sneers. "Kane will be with you soon."