Page 7 of Twisted Fate

KONSTANTIN

T he woman I intend for you to marry.

In an instant, I feel myself go cold. If my father wants me to marry this woman, then I already know who she is—someone with ties to the underworld but not so close as to threaten him, someone who will be pliant and moldable, and who has been raised in the old ways.

Someone who will help push me back in the direction that my father wants me to go.

I straighten, my smile no longer genuine, though I keep it plastered on my face.

I’ve long since learned to wear the mask I’m expected to at parties like these—to always, always be the perfect picture of the pakhan’s heir.

It’s what duty demands of me, and if nothing else, I have always been a dutiful son.

This party started no differently than all the others.

The mansion gleams with the richness of old money, old and new criminal blood mingling in the rooms and hallways as the guests arrive, and drink, and chatter.

My father is doing his best to not appear weakened, but it’s impossible for anyone who knew Victor Abramov in his prime—or even in his early golden years—to not notice that something is wrong. That he’s fading.

The air of the sitting room is thick with the scent of cologne and perfume and warm bodies, but hers still manages to stand out—something sweet and floral, like violets and sugar.

I realize that I’m still holding her hand and let go of it abruptly.

As beautiful as she is, I feel like I’ve been holding a viper in my hand.

“Ms. Moretti.” I incline my head slightly, respectfully. “Konstantin Abramov.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is soft and lyrical, cultured.

I meet her eyes, assessing her, looking for hints of calculation, of anything sly and manipulative behind the surface. There’s nothing but keen interest in her gaze, and a small smile at the corners of a mouth that was made to haunt a man’s dreams.

If there is something deeper going on here, with her, some plot that she and my father have hatched—or her handlers, more likely—then she hides it well.

“Well?” my father barks from across the room, his voice cold and sharp. “Don’t stand there staring at the girl, Konstantin. Offer her a drink. Have a chat. They’ll be calling us all to dinner any moment.”

It’s difficult not to stare at a woman like her.

Regardless of how I feel about my father’s matchmaking, she’s objectively gorgeous—possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, or at least it seems so in this moment.

Her face is beautiful—high cheekbones, soft olive skin, a pointed chin, and large, soft green eyes.

She has the kind of thick, dark hair that makes me want to bury my hands in it, that makes me imagine wrapping it around my fist as she looks up at me from her knees.

My cock twitches at the thought, and my gaze instantly falls to her sinful mouth.

I force myself to stop there. If I look at her body again— God, the first glimpse I got of her nearly made me hard then and there. She’s stunning in every way, and I had every intention of seducing her into bed before my father spoke up and told me that she’s his choice for my bride.

Love and marriage don’t go together in our world—and as far as I’m concerned, lust and marriage don’t mesh well either.

I’ve always known that my father would almost certainly choose my wife, regardless of my feelings on the matter, which means that any woman he picks for me will be someone who he believes will serve his ends, and his vision for the Bratva’s future.

My marriage, like everything else I’m responsible for in this world, will have to be carefully managed to make sure that it doesn’t undermine me.

My wife’s position, her influence, what she does and who she does it with, her associations and her friendships, when we have children and how many—all of that will affect my standing in the criminal underworld of this city, and all of it matters.

I don’t intend to lust after my wife, any more than I intend to love her. Emotion, desire, and duty can’t mingle.

I’ve seen what happens when it does.

I take one last look at her and put all the things I wish I could have done to her tonight out of my head. The most beautiful woman in the room, and my father has already decided what her fate and mine will be. I’m hardly surprised.

Marriage is the best way for Victor Abramov to continue to control me, even once he’s in the grave.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask politely, and she nods, her face so smooth and expressionless that I can’t read what she’s thinking of all of this.

It’s intriguing and makes me want to know.

Of course, my father would tempt me with a woman who could so easily draw me in, who could be a distraction.

If I’m distracted and enamored with my bride-to-be, he can make certain that the pathways I’d take to make the changes that I want to—once he’s gone—are closed to me.

He can use what time he has left to shore up his defenses against my new ideas, and when I surface from my marital bed sometime in the future, I’ll be at least ten steps behind where I am now…

which is nowhere near as close as I need to be to my goals.

“A gin and tonic,” she says smoothly. “Two limes.” And then she leans in, a small, almost conspiratorial smile on her lips. “Honestly, I got a taste for rum the last time I was in the Caribbean. But I think I’m supposed to ask for a more elegant drink at a party like this.”

Fuck . Desire shoots through me in an instant.

I can picture Sophia and me sequestered away in my penthouse in the city, sampling my collection of expensive rums together until we’re both tipsy.

I can picture her giggling, feel her breath on my neck, see her spread out over my sheets as we tangle up together in an alcohol-soaked haze?—

I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. I can’t allow her to draw me in. “My father does expect propriety,” I tell her stiffly. “I’ll be back.”

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to the mahogany bar at the far end of the room.

I find a crystal glass and make her a drink, adding two lime slices to it before pouring myself two more fingers of straight vodka and returning to her side.

My father prefers it when I drink vodka in front of guests—he considers it the appropriate choice for a man of my standing in the Bratva.

I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but as in all things, I do my duty as I’m expected to.

I rejoin Sophia where she’s standing—between two tall plants next to a dramatic-looking painting—and hand her the drink. She accepts it gracefully, her long, delicate fingers curling around the crystal. I notice her nails are painted a soft, neutral pink, short and blunt, rounded. Practical nails.

She takes a sip, glancing over at where my father is sitting and undoubtedly talking business.

It’s an effort to not look at the way her lips press against the rim of the crystal, and imagine them touching my skin.

The movement of her throat as she swallows the first sip of her drink makes me think of what she’d look like swallowing down my cum.

“Your father is talking about our marriage as if it’s already decided,” she murmurs bemusedly, and I glance at her, surprised.

“Isn’t it? He said he intends for us to marry.

” I raise an eyebrow, and she shrugs lightly, taking another sip.

God, that fucking mouth . I watch her, confused by her comment.

If she and my father are in on this together, then hasn’t it been decided for me already?

Or is she playing me, trying to gain my trust by behaving as if we’re both being dragged into marriage against our wills?

“Well, he’s not the one marrying, is he?

So perhaps there are other people in this equation who should have a say in the matter.

” She smiles secretively, as if sharing a private thought, and takes another small sip of her drink.

An ache spreads through me at the thought of her lips brushing against my skin so delicately.

Her boldness startles me. I’ve never met a woman before who wasn’t falling all over herself at the slightest hint that she might become an Abramov.

The fact that she’s behaving differently makes me like her more.

At the very least, it suggests that she has her own mind, and won’t just blindly follow whatever intentions my father has laid out for her.

It makes me wonder exactly how this meeting, and my father’s intentions for her and me, came about.

I take a sip of my vodka. “So tell me, then, why my father thinks that you’d make a suitable wife for the heir to the Abramov Bratva?”

Sophia’s lips curl into something that’s dangerously close to a smirk. “How would I know? I’m just a pawn in this game, aren’t I?”

“We’re all pawns, one way or another.” I’m grateful for the burn of the vodka down my throat; it keeps me aware, sharp.

This woman is continuing to surprise me.

She’s keeping me on my toes, at the very least, and that intrigues me.

“The question is whether or not we’re content with it—whether we continue to strive to be the one who controls, rather than the one who is controlled. ”

“And which are you?” Her green eyes meet mine from over the lip of her glass, as she takes another sip.

Desire rakes through me again; I can imagine the taste of the gin on her tongue, how it would feel cool and slick, sliding against mine.

My cock threatens to stiffen again, and my jaw tightens. This is hardly the place for it.

I can’t remember the last time a woman had an effect on me like this. When I was a much younger man, that’s for certain.