Page 8 of Twisted Fate

“I do my duty,” I tell her coolly, reining myself back in. Banter and desire have no place in this arrangement—if it goes through. A careful distance between us will prevent the kind of attachments that could distract and undo me.

“You understand how the game is played,” she murmurs smoothly. “So do I.”

“And what game is that, Ms. Moretti?” I want to bite back the words as soon as I say them. It feels impossible not to be drawn in by her, to have a remark of my own for every one that comes out of her mouth. Life with a woman like her could be exhausting—or invigorating.

Life with a woman like her will require that I keep my walls carefully tended, lest she break through them and wreck my entire world.

She laughs softly. “The one where your father decides who you marry, and my guardian decides who I marry, and neither of us has much say in the matter." She shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Though I suppose I should be flattered that the great Victor Abramov thinks I'm worthy of his son."

I study her face, trying to read what's beneath her words.

There's a hint of bitterness there, but also resignation. She understands our world, as I expected, but she’s not blind to it.

Not the simpering creature I imagined. Someone is pulling her strings too, just like my father wants to continue to pull mine.

A faint hope springs up in my chest—that maybe this woman and I could find a way to rule together, on my terms…

on our own terms. But I quickly banish it.

Nothing that my father chooses for me is ever going to fit with my vision for myself and the Bratva’s future. This woman is a distraction, nothing more.

But I still want to find out what’s happening here.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say anything, a uniformed member of the staff comes to the door, announcing that dinner is served. Knowing my father’s eyes are on me, I offer Sophia my arm to lead her to the dining room.

When she takes it, another waft of her perfume sends a jolt of desire down my spine.

I grit my teeth, shaking it off, and I don’t look at her as I lead her down the hall and to the grand dining room.

Guests are already taking their seats at the long mahogany table, the chandelier hanging above it sending off rays of fractured light that glint off the crystal and china.

My father takes a seat at the head of the table, nodding to me as I take the seat to his right, Sophia next to me. There’s a look of calculation on his face that I don’t like.

The first course is sitting in front of us—a cucumber gazpacho with lime crema swirled through the top, and chilled white wine in perspiring glasses next to the bowls. I reach for my spoon, not looking at Sophia. I can feel the tension wafting off of her.

This matters to her, then. Why, I’m not sure, but I’m curious. I can’t imagine I’ve made that grand of an impression in so short a time. Either my father has promised her something, or she needs the step up in her circumstances. The Abramov money can be a powerful motivator.

Does it matter? I ask myself, taking another bite of my soup as I make her wait.

So long as I keep a safe distance from her, her reasons might not be all that important.

My father will have vetted her thoroughly before suggesting her as a prospective bride.

She’s beautiful enough to play the part of my trophy, intelligent enough to know what an opportunity marriage into this family is, and she knows how to play the part.

I don’t need more than that. And placating my father in this might open up other ways to negotiate, in the future.

Still, I feel myself balking at the idea of giving in to my father’s machinations. I’m capable of choosing a wife who will fill all the requirements necessary for the bride of the Bratva’s heir. I don’t need his hand in this, as well as everything else I do.

The dinner is cold and formal, as these events usually are.

My father discusses business and politics with the other men seated near him, and the women talk among themselves about fashion and charity events.

Sophia doesn’t say anything else to me, but I can feel that tension in her, and when I glance over, I can see that she’s only taken the smallest bites of her filet, eating with a delicacy that suggests nerves.

Just before dessert is served—a sweet raspberry gelato with crumble over the top—my father glances over at me. I frown at him, giving a quick shake of my head, but he clears his throat and stands shakily, raising his glass.

"I have an announcement to make," he says, his voice carrying across the table. "My son, Konstantin, and the lovely Sophia Moretti have agreed to marry. The engagement will be short—I expect them to be married by the next month.”

My heart drops like a stone, anger flooding me. I feel my hand closing tightly around my fork, nails biting into my palm, and it takes every bit of self-control that I have to keep from standing up and telling my father to go fuck himself in front of everyone here.

This is as calculated as Sophia’s presence here.

My father knows I can’t refuse him in front of these people.

That I can’t pretend I didn’t know that this was coming—that he was going to announce the engagement tonight, the same night I met my potential new bride.

He’s backed me into a corner, and I can feel my hackles rising as I struggle to control my anger.

Next to me, I can feel that Sophia has gone very still.

A murmur of surprise and congratulations ripples through the guests as they raise their glasses in response.

I know what they’re all thinking, particularly as my father sinks back down quickly into his seat, clearly taxed by the effort.

They all know this has nothing to do with love or desire, and everything to do with my father’s health and his wish to see his son married before he passes.

What they don’t know is that it also has to do with control. Control over me .

“A toast,” my father continues. “To the future of the Abramov family.”

Approval sweeps down the table, glasses clinking as the guests all drink. I steal a glance at Sophia next to me, but her face is expressionless, a smooth mask of studied elegance. She sips her wine, and whatever it is that she’s thinking, it’s a mystery to me.

She doesn’t seem to be as angry about having the engagement announced so quickly.

My jaw tightens. Is that because she and my father were in on it?

Did they plot this together? I breathe slowly, trying to control the flood of anger that feels as if it’s pushing at the edges of my skin, demanding to be released.

When dinner is over, I remain seated, waiting for the other guests to say their goodnights and file out. My father glances over at me, where Sophia is still sitting very still next to me.

“Aren’t you going to escort your new fiancée out?” he asks, his voice cold and rasping, and I press my lips together.

“Fine,” I agree curtly. “Miss Moretti, I’ll walk you to the door. And then, otets —” I glance over at him. “I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

I push my chair back, and I see Sophia glance between the two of us, a bit nervously. It’s clear she can feel the brewing tension here. “I’ll need to make preparations for the wedding,” she says slowly. “Especially if it’s going to be as soon as?—”

“ If this wedding happens,” I bite out, throwing my father an icy glare, “then I will of course make sure that funds are provided for your wedding dress, and anything else that you might need.”

“Including for our honeymoon?” She tilts her head, looking at me anxiously, and I stare at her, giving her a sharp shake of my head.

“There’s no need for a honeymoon. This isn’t a romance, Miss Moretti, it’s a business arrangement—one that I’ve barely been consulted on?—”

My father chuckles hoarsely, interrupting me. “Of course there will be a honeymoon. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your new bride right off the bat, would you, Konstantin?”

“You’re assuming I’ll disappoint her at all,” I snap. My father chuckles.

“All men disappoint their wives eventually. It’s just a question of when.

” He glances at Sophia. “One of my associates gave me an excellent suggestion for a place that the two of you could honeymoon, actually. Gorgeous resort in the Serengeti, apparently. Exclusive, private, secluded—what better place for two newlyweds to get to know one another, eh?” He winks lewdly at me, and my mouth thins.

“I’m not sure that?—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts me. “Whatever you were about to say, it can be handled. I’m not six feet under yet, son. I’ll handle things just fine while you enjoy your new bride.”

A genuine smile is on Sophia’s lips. “I have always wanted to go to Africa,” she murmurs tentatively, and my jaw tightens. I feel like I’m being handled—by both my father and this woman—and I don’t fucking like it.

“We’ll discuss the possibility of a honeymoon later. Let’s go, Miss Moretti. I’ll escort you out.” I give my father another sharp look, indicating that I expect to speak with him after, and he nods, standing up slowly as he begins to make his way out of the dining room.

This time, I don’t offer Sophia my arm. I gesture toward the door, following just behind her as we walk down the hallways to the grand entryway of the mansion. She pauses near the staircase, turning to look at me with trepidation in her eyes.

“Konstantin—”

“We’ll speak later,” I cut her off. “ If this arrangement is finalized. I wasn’t consulted before tonight about you being here, nor was I asked if I agreed to this marriage. I want to speak with my father.”

“It was announced publicly.” She tilts her chin up slightly, her gaze meeting mine with a challenge that I’m surprised she’s willing to dare. “You’ll embarrass me if you refuse?—”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”