Page 1 of Twisted Fate

1

VALENTINA

The Miami sun is casting long shadows over the clay-colored tiles of the Spanish-style mansion that I call home, dappling them in a golden glow as I step out of the car and shoulder the single bag that I have with me.

I traveled light for this last mission; it didn’t require much more than my weapons and a few changes of clothes. For once, I didn’t have to speak to anyone, or charm them, or convince them to let me close enough to kill.

I just had to wait.

Now, I roll my head back and forth briefly as I step out into the late afternoon Miami sunshine, stretching out my tired muscles, breathing in the humid air, and relishing the taste of salt on the back of my tongue. For all of the complicated feelings that I have every time I return here, this city is my home.

And I’m glad to be home.

With my leather duffel over one shoulder and my purse in my other hand, I head up the winding stone pathway that leads to the teakwood front door. A proliferation of summer flowers bloom in sprays of color all along the front of the house, bright pinks, yellows, and blues contrasting with the summer green ofthe grass. The owner of this estate, Nicholas Kane, spends a fortune on watering it every summer.

My mentor—and the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father.

The head housekeeper, Rosa, appears almost as soon as I step into the entryway. I take another deep breath, savoring the scent of lemon, salt, and flowers, that perfumes the air. She chuckles softly, alerting me to her presence. I should have known she was there already, but after days spent tirelessly watching for my last target from a high-rise window in Moscow, my senses are dulled from exhaustion.

“Welcome home, Ms. Kane.” She smiles, reaching for my bag, but I shake my head.

“I’ve got it, Rosa. Don’t worry about me.”

She frowns at me but doesn’t argue. It’s a familiar back-and-forth between us. While Kane relishes having staff at his beck and call every moment of the day, I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with the concept of having people wait on me. I’d rather carry my own bags, make my own bed, and get my own meals.

Despite Kane’s disappointment that I’ve never been able to adapt to the “finer” ways of life, that’s never changed. Not since I was a child, when he first brought me here.

“Mr. Kane said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived,” Rosa says, taking in my rumpled appearance. “But maybe you want to wash up first?”

I can’t help but crack a smile at that. I’m wearing rumpled yoga pants and a T-shirt with a hoodie thrown over it from the flight, and the trip back from Moscow was exhausting. What I want is to take an hour-long shower and then sleep for another eight, but I know Kane well enough to be sure that he won’t be patient enough for that.

“Tell him I’m going to shower and change, and then I’ll come down and we can chat.” I know he’ll want to be debriefed on themission, but I have things I want from this conversation, too. I need to be in the right state of mind.

I had a lot of time on the flight back to think.

“I’ll tell him, Valentina.” Rosa slips easily back into the old familiarity between us, giving me a gently wrinkled smile. I’ve known her for most of my life, and like every other familial relationship that I have, she’s stood in for what I’ve been missing—a mother, a grandmother, an aunt.

I smile back before heading toward the curving staircase that leads up to the third floor, where my bedroom is. The moment I step inside, breathing in the familiar scents of wooden furniture and pineapple candle, mixed with the lingering traces of my perfume, I feel more of the tension drain from my shoulders. The conversation waiting for me with Kane won’t be easy, but anything is better than where I’ve just come from. And for all the complexities of my life here, this is home.

Tossing my bag on the bed, I strip off my hoodie, T-shirt, and sweatpants, and head straight for the shower. I’ll put my guns back in the arsenal room later. No one will touch them here, and right now, scrubbing several days’ worth of stakeout grime off me is my first priority. There was a shower in the hotel room I was holed up in, but it wasn’t much, and I didn’t have a lot of time to use it.

Thirty minutes later, I emerge freshly scrubbed, my legs silky smooth and my wet hair piled into a bun atop my head tied with a silk scrunchie. I feel like a new woman, and changing into fresh clothes—a pair of wide linen pants in a seagrass color and a sleeveless tan cotton shirt—only adds to that sense of comfort.

Grabbing my bag, I head down to the first floor to clean and stash my guns away, and then meet Kane. I know where to find him at this time of day—he’ll be in his study, a gorgeous old-world styled room that’s all high ceilings, teakwood bookcasesand furniture, and a huge window that opens out to the glorious waterfront view at the back of his Miami property.

I can hear the crashing waves as I knock on the door. His deep, resonant voice answers immediately.

“Come in.”

As always, I have the sensation of being much smaller than I am when I enter the room. Something about this particular room always reminds me of being a child, of sitting here for hours while Kane tutored me, taught me, explained to me what my life would be. Even as a twenty-eight-year-old woman, that feeling still comes back vividly, every time.

Kane is sitting in a leather chair near the open window, the breeze from the beach floating into the room and ruffling his dark hair. There’s a cut-crystal tumbler of scotch near his hand on the wooden side table, and he looks utterly relaxed, wearing a summer-weight suit with no tie or jacket, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms.

As a child, I used to trace those tattoos, marveling at the intricacies of them, not understanding the meaning. Now, looking at the ink curling up his arms, I know the truth. Each tattoo is a mark, a trophy from a kill. A reminder of all the unseen blood on his hands that he now uses me to shed instead.

“Valentina. Welcome home.” His voice is deep and cultured, with just the smallest trace of a Southern accent that he’s tried hard over the years to remove entirely. To a person not trained to notice such things, it might be indiscernible.

Kane prefers to hide his roots—the knowledge of the Mississippi swamp rat upbringing that he had, many years ago. I’m one of the few people who knows the truth about him—that the old-money facade that he presents isn’t his reality.

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