Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(29)

Superman straightens as I walk by. “Ms. Baptiste. Are you going somewhere? Do you need a ride?”

The sound of my name on his lips, the one I’ve had for almost my entire life, nearly sends me running back into the building. I don’t know if the divorce could be final this fast, but clearly, Forge’s people know our marriage is definitely over.

“Yes and no,” I tell him. I jog to the sidewalk, intent on heading out to the main road so I can hail a taxi, because owning a car here has never made sense.

He follows on my heels. “We can give you a ride. That’s what we’re here for.”

“No, thank you. I’m going to get a cab.”

“Ma’am, if you’d please let us drive you—”

I pause and spin around to stare at him through his Clark Kent glasses. “I know you’re following orders, but I’m not your problem anymore. Go home. I’m sure you have a million better things to do.”

To myself, I add, instead of being here and giving me some hope that there’s a way out of my nightmare.

“But we can’t—”

I wave and keep walking.

Maybe it’s stupid to turn down security after everything that has happened, but I refuse to lean on them for safety. I have to fend for myself. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be.

Yet, a black car follows my taxi all the way to the address Belevich texted me. When we arrive at the gated entrance to the villa, I pay and hop out of the back.

There’s a keypad to the right, and I press the intercom button. Instead of someone asking me to identify myself, the gates swing open.

Here I go.





26





Forge





My phone buzzes with another message, and I ignore it.

It’s hot as hell in the engine room of the cargo ship Fortuna, but that’s where I belong. I’m covered in grease and sweat, having given the engineer whose job it was to replace this gasket a break so I could punish myself some more.

I’ve worked myself into the ground, barely sleeping. Eating just enough to keep my energy going. Drinking like a fish as soon as I hit my cabin, and praying I won’t dream about her again.

But prayers from a guy like me don’t get answered that often, which means I’m cursed to dream about her every fucking night. I can still smell her scent on my clothes. Can still hear her voice in my head.

I did the honorable thing. The noble thing. And being noble fucking blows.

I’ve heard from Federov once more. His Bratva connections have a buy set with Bastien for two days from now. After I landed on the Fortuna, I called up more security and ordered them to keep an eye on Indy 24/7, but not to give me any reports.

But still, the reports came in whether I wanted them or not.

I lower the wrench and grab a grease rag out of the pocket of my pants to wipe off my face and hands. My phone buzzes again, and I fish it out because I have a feeling it’s not going to stop.



Smith: She’s at Belevich’s. We can’t get inside. Unless you want us to ram the gate.



Fuck. There’s no question who the she is, and even just seeing the fucking pronoun makes my gut knot. I can still see her face when I told her we were done. I’ll never get that image out of my head. I’ll never forgive myself for it either. For any of it.



Smith: What do you want us to do? Try to get inside? This is the first time she’s left her flat.



It’s a shitty reminder of what I did. I can’t imagine the vibrant, incredible woman I knew holing up in her apartment for weeks. I hurt her . . . no, I fucking devastated her.

There’s no way she could have possibly been in lo—

I can’t even manage to think the whole word because it’s so fucking ridiculous. Indy didn’t care about me like that. How could she? I lied, manipulated, coerced, and generally bullied her.

But that didn’t stop me from falling in love with her.

I type out a response to the text with fingers that smudge my screen with the remaining grease.



Forge: Watch from where you are. If there’s any sign of distress, drive through the gate.



After what Federov had told me—that Belevich is the one who helped Indy get out of the hotel and got Goliath help for his gunshot wound—I’m not worried about Belevich hurting her.



Smith: Yes, sir. Will do.

Forge: Keep me posted.



I shove my phone back into the pocket of the coveralls I haven’t worn since the last time I punished myself at sea in the months after Isaac died, and throw myself back into work.





27





India





Belevich opens the glass door of his villa before I hit the stamped concrete stairs leading to it.

“Here I thought I’d get to keep my money because you didn’t want it.”

“I never said that.”

He surveys me, and I feel like he sees too much—my sharpened features, eyes that may never not be puffy again, and clothes that hang a little too loose on my frame due to missing so many meals.

“You look like you’ve been gambling for a week with no sleep.”