Heart of the Devil

by Meghan March

  “You’re mixing enough bullshit into the truth that I can smell it from here. Forge was falling in love with me. You know it. I know it. But you said something, and I want to know what it was.” I swirl my club soda and flick at the napkin beneath it with my thumb.

  Instead of answering my question, he tosses back the second shot of vodka with the ease of lifelong practice. “Do you really want the man back after he spurned you?”

  “That’s my decision, and I need to know what kind of meddling I’m dealing with so I can make it.”

  His barrel-shaped chest rises and falls as deep bellows of laughter ring out from his lips. When he finally calms himself, he uses a cocktail napkin to wipe tears from his eyes. I slide off my stool, my gaze boring into him, because I am not amused.

  “You are my daughter. There is no doubt about that.” The mirth fades from his face. “But whatever was said between me and Forge is just that—between me and Forge. A conversation between men is not one to be shared.”

  I release a harsh breath and glance up at the crystal chandelier above us, seeking patience or divine guidance to save me from this patriarchal bullshit.

  “How about I make you a deal then?”

  His head tilts to the side in a move I have to believe is very Russian. “What kind of deal?”

  I flick open my clutch and check the time. “How good are you at pulling strings?”

  “Excellent,” my father replies, and something glints in his gaze.

  “Then tonight is our first father-daughter poker game. When I beat you, you’re going to tell me exactly what was said in your conversation between men, and you’re not going to leave a damn thing out.”

  His large hand clasps my shoulder. “You make me very proud, Il—Indy. I would be honored. But you will not beat me. Where do you think your skills come from so naturally?”

  30

  India

  Six hands in, I’m playing smart and analyzing every man at the table, including my father. Two of them are amateurs with more money than sense, one is a player I decimated in Prague, and the last is Ahmed Al Jabal, the sheikh from the game I played against Forge at La Reina.

  Playing in the legendary Casino de Monte Carlo is something I’ve dreamed about for most of my adult life, but in those dreams, I never once thought I’d play here against my father.

  But here I am, and here he is.

  It takes me four more hands to spot his tell. He’s damn good, but his cigar is his downfall. As he bluffs, he rolls it back and forth between his fingers—but only twice.

  I push in two stacks of chips. “Call.”

  Federov’s blue eyes cut to mine, and I have to give him credit, there’s not a hint or flicker of doubt.

  Am I wrong about his tell? No. I don’t think so.

  We turn over our cards and he grins, even though it’s the opposite of the expression he should have. Because I beat him.

  “Well played,” he says as his barrel-shaped chest bounces with silent laughter. “But the night is still young.”

  Eventually, the tourists drop out of the game, and it’s down to me, the sheikh, and my father. The sheikh is holding his own, but he only wins the odd hand. Sooner or later, he will fold and bow out like he did before. That’s when things will get serious.

  After my father rakes in a pot and a server refreshes our drinks, the dealer stands to be replaced by a new one.

  “Perhaps my luck will improve with a new set of hands on the cards,” the sheikh says, but then he glances from me to my father, who sits across the table. “Then again, maybe not. I feel like I’m missing something here. Ms. Baptiste, you are playing fiercely tonight.”

  I’ve got a lot on the line.

  “No more than normal.” The lie slips easily off my tongue.

  “You’ve played my daughter before, Ahmed?”

  The fact that my father knows the oil billionaire by name should not surprise me, and yet it does. And my father’s casual dropping of the bomb regarding our familial relationship to Al Jabal does the same to him.

  “Your daughter?” Al Jabal’s dark brown eyes dart from my face to my father’s. “I had no idea.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, I didn’t either, but I keep quiet. My father opened that subject, and therefore he can deal with the fallout.

  “Yes, indeed. So please remember that when you’re appreciating her charms.”

  I haven’t even noticed the man looking at me. Probably because . . . I’m blind to other men because of Jericho Forge. The reminder shifts my determination into overdrive.

  All the more reason to win. I miss him, dammit.

  With that thought, I lift my club soda and gesture to the sheikh. “Do you want to continue the game, sir? My father and I have a side bet, and I need to warn you, it’s going to get ugly.”

  I throw out the challenge, and my father’s grin widens.

  With another look between us, Al Jabal pushes back from the table. “I do not like playing games where I am not aware of all the stakes. I shall leave you to your cards. Good luck, Ms. Baptiste. Mr. Federov.”

  He rises, and when his security rushes forward to collect his remaining chips, it reminds me of Prague when Bates collected mine and then I rushed toward Jericho, ready for him to pick me up and swing me in the air.

  Killing it, Ace. The sound of his voice curls around me, like he’s standing right here.

  I whip my head around and search the faces in the crowd, but his isn’t one of them.

  I still have a fighting chance to get him back. There’s no way my father will beat me.

  It takes another few hands for my father to pick up his cigar from the edge of the table, and as he rolls it between his fingers, he bets big. Goading me. Taunting me. Challenging me.

  “Raise,” I say, pushing another stack into the center of the green baize that will require him to throw in every single chip he’s got on the table.

  “You are a ruthless player, Indy,” my father says as he calls.

  Am I wrong? Did I misjudge? Does he think I’m bluffing?

  We flip over our cards, and he throws his head back with a cackling laugh.

  I beat him. Soundly.

  Slapping his hand on the edge of the table, he shakes his head. “If I had to lose to anyone, daughter, I would prefer it be you.”

  Triumph dumps into my bloodstream as onlookers applaud, but it’s not as sweet as the victories in Prague, because Jericho’s not waiting for me with open arms.

  But he will be soon, if I have anything to say about it. It’s time to get the information I came for.

  I toss a high-value chip to the dealer as a tip, rise, and hold my hand out to my father. “Thank you for the game, sir.”

  He clasps my hand between his two large ones. “It was my pleasure.”

  “Let’s find somewhere to talk. You’ve got a lot to tell me.”

  31

  India

  I follow my father to a wood-and-glass-walled smoking room where the only ambient noise is the whir of the ventilation system. Superman and Spiderman wait outside as Federov and I settle into cherry-colored leather chairs.

  “How did you know I was bluffing?” he asks as he trims and lights his cigar.

  I point at the Cohiba in his hand. “You roll your cigar between your fingers when you’re bluffing.”

  Booming laughter bounces off the walls, and he slaps a hand on his knee. “I should’ve known better than to give in to my vices. Nothing good ever comes from it for long.”

  Condensation from my club soda rolls down the sides of the glass as I set it on the table between the arms of our chairs. “Tell me what you said to Forge,” I say without preamble.

  Federov leans back in his seat and crosses an ankle over one knee. “You are not a patient woman.”

  “I have a feeling it’s an inherited trait.”

  “You would be right.” He lights a match and puffs on the cigar to light it. When an ember burns at the end, he blows out the mat
ch and tosses it into an ashtray. “But why do you want to know so badly what was said? Forge gave you up. Why would you want to chase after him?”

  Forge gave you up. The wording he uses doesn’t sound the same as kicked you to the curb, but it still hurts.

  “I won, and we had a deal. You don’t need to understand any more than that.”

  He exhales a cloud of smoke, and the air purifiers suck it up toward the ceiling instead of it billowing around my face.

  “Do you love him?”

  The question hits me hard. Probably harder than it should because this man is a stranger, but he shouldn’t be. I share half my DNA with him. Even so, I’m not sure I’m ready to bare my soul to him.

  “Does it matter?”

  He taps the edge of the cigar on a crystal ashtray before meeting my gaze. “Yes. I think it does.”

  “Did you love my mother?” I fire back, not wanting to be the only one off-balance here.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then why did you have a mistress?” The question has been driving me crazy since I learned Nina kidnapped me as a child for revenge.

  My father’s chin dips, and he focuses on the Aubusson rug on the floor. “To my everlasting regret, I am not a man without faults. It was expected. Encouraged. Almost like a status symbol.”

  My lips curl in disgust. “Save me from cultures where cheating is fashionable.”

  “It is hard to explain, Illyana—Indy.”

  At the sound of my birth name, another question pops into my head. “Did you know she had another daughter? Your mistress?”

  “No. When we found her, she gave nothing for information. Just said you were dead. Over and over.”

  The fact that Nina wouldn’t admit I was alive doesn’t make sense.

  “Why would she lie if she could’ve saved her life by telling the truth? If you knew her, you’d know that she’d sell out anyone to save her own ass.” Bitterness colors my tone, and my father’s expression hardens as though he’s reliving a memory I don’t want to see.

  “Nina knew she would die either way. What she did was unforgivable. She held on to her story until the end because she wanted to spite me, even in death.”

  “You have terrible taste in mistresses, just FYI.” I believe his explanation. I’ve never known a person more selfish than the woman I thought was my mother. It’s almost a relief to find out she’s not. Still, I have to find a way to tell Summer. She’s going to be devastated.

  “Was she . . . unkind to you? Did she . . . hurt you?” he asks, and his hesitant tone tells me that he really cares about the answer and is praying that it’s not a bad one.

  “Nina was indifferent. She didn’t beat me or slap me around. She just . . . forced me to grow up really quick. If I wanted to eat, I had to earn it. And then when Summer came along, I had a purpose in life—protect Summer at all costs. There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for my sister.”

  Federov’s blue gaze searches my face, and I can only imagine the regret he feels. I don’t want to have regrets like that. I don’t know how he’s survived without them eating away at him every moment of the day. Then again, maybe they have.

  “You are a strong woman. I can see why Forge could not resist falling in love with you.”

  He’s the second man to tell me Forge was in love with me, and it packs even more punch this time. I desperately want it to be the truth.

  “How . . .” My voice shakes as I try to speak, and I clear my throat to steady it. “How do you know he was falling in love with me?”

  My father’s hand scoops up his vodka. “Forge did not deny it. And then he let you go.”

  “But why? Why would he let me go? It doesn’t make sense. We were fine when we returned to Spain, and then . . . the next day, it was like speaking to a different man. Forge, not Jericho.”

  My father’s jaw shifts at the ragged edge of my tone. “Forge was not a good man, India. He married you because of me. Simply to gain leverage over our deal. Then he put you in more danger because of his feud with de Vere. He left you vulnerable when that danger came to him. The morning after you left Prague, I told him if he had any honor, he would let you go.”

  Honor? Jericho shattered my heart because of honor? The timing of the conversation fits. Everything was great . . . until my father interfered. My pulse thrums in my throat. I will never understand men. Ever.

  “You think he showed honor by letting me go—by doing the right thing. And that makes you believe he loved me?”

  My father exhales a cloud of smoke over his right shoulder. “Does it matter? What’s done is done.”

  My fingers sink into the leather arms of my club chair. “It matters because I didn’t get a goddamned say. Did you ever stop to think that I might want him, whether you thought he had honor or not? Did it ever occur to you that I might be in love with him?”

  A shadow passes over my father’s face. “I do not want to see you upset. That was not my goal. But . . . there are things you still don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  He puffs on the cigar before he speaks. “I told Forge that giving you up forever was the only way I would agree to sign his deal with Karas and Riscoff.”

  My entire body tenses. “When? What did he say?”

  “I cannot tell you. I swore to him I would not.”

  32

  Forge

  The report comes in, and I grin for the first time in weeks.

  * * *

  Smith: Indy beat her father at poker in Monte Carlo.

  * * *

  Of course she did. Because that’s my girl. My smile dies as quickly as it came. Except she’s not. Not anymore.

  I walk away from the bridge and outside into the wind whipping the Atlantic into six-to-eight-foot swells. I text back.

  * * *

  Forge: Keep her safe. If anything happens to her, it’s your head on the chopping block.

  Smith: Yes, sir. Understood. She’s more cooperative now than she was. We’ll stay close.

  Forge: You better. Where is she now?

  Smith: Leaving her father. We’re on it.

  * * *

  I stare at the screen of my phone, wishing that I were the one standing there, watching her. Close to her.

  Fuck. I’m a pathetic piece of shit. I gave her up. Ran her out. Fucking broke her goddamned heart. I don’t deserve another glimpse at paradise.

  I jam the phone in my pocket and trudge back down to the engine room to take over for whoever is cleaning the bilge.

  My penance. But it’ll never be enough.

  33

  India

  As I walked away from my father in Monte Carlo, he tried to talk me into returning to Russia with him and forgetting Forge. I refused.

  I still remember his stubborn expression as he said, “You will come. You must learn things . . . before it is too late.”

  He wouldn’t tell me why it would be too late, so I left him with a promise that I would think about it.

  He didn’t like that at all.

  I departed Monte Carlo the next morning, eager to get home, because there was nothing else to learn in Monaco. A few hours after touching down, I’m already forming phase two of my plan. A knock comes on my door, and I freeze.

  “Ms. Baptiste, your sister would like to see you,” Superman says through the door, where he is determined to stand all day.

  After placing my espresso on the counter, I cross the room to unbolt my locks.

  To distract myself from thoughts of Jericho during my sleepless night in Monte Carlo, I went through option after option for telling Summer about her mother and my father. I can’t keep it from her much longer, but I still don’t know how to tell her without breaking her heart.

  As soon as I open the door, her red-rimmed eyes track over my face. I glance at Superman, but he shrugs as if to say, I have no idea what’s wrong with her.

  “What did you say to her, Indy? Seriously? Could you not just let me have this one thing?”
Summer swipes at a tear that falls, smearing her mascara across her cheek.

  “What are you talking about? Are you okay? What happened?”

  My protective instincts rage to the forefront as I pull her inside, but Summer snatches her arm from my grip with an accusing stare.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

  “Know what? Tell me. Please.” Concern edges my tone, and I hate that I can’t reach out to her and fix whatever’s wrong. I close the door behind her as she marches into the living room.

  “I got thrown out on my ass this morning when I showed up for work. Juliette was out of town yesterday, but she came in this morning and fired me and made this awful scene. She called me a whore like my sister.”

  Oh, that bitch.

  A cold calmness settles over me. “I am so sorry, Summer.”

  “You should be! Now I’m never going to have a career in the fashion industry because she said she’s going to blackball me with every label on the planet.” Summer bursts into full-blown sobs.

  I rush toward her and wrap my arms around her shaking shoulders, not caring if she wants my comfort or not. “I’m so sorry. I saw her in Monte Carlo. We had words. I didn’t even think—”

  “About me?” She jerks away from me. “Of course you didn’t. Because what do I matter?”

  My sister’s despair kills me. “I’m so sorry. You always matter. You know that. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t have married a stranger to save your life.”

  “Don’t pretend that was for me! You wanted him anyway!”

  Her anger hits me even harder, but it forces me to ask myself the question. Had I wanted him no matter what, then?

  I was slightly terrified, yet intrigued, by Forge when he threw down his proposal in the form of a no-questions-asked favor. Under any other circumstances, I would have told him to shove the proposal up his ass. I did marry him for Summer, but that’s not why I wanted to stay married to him.