Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(33)

“Two Kauffmans,” he orders.

“Club soda with lime for me,” I say, because I’m not drinking vodka tonight.

He looks over at me, his steel-gray brows raised. “Ah, you do not drink when you play. That must be one of Queen Midas’s secrets.”

“It’s not much of a secret.”

Moments later, the bartender slides three drinks in front of us.

Federov wraps a massive paw around the delicate crystal of one and raises it. “To your victory tonight.”

“I’ll drink to that.” I lift my glass and tap the rim against his.

My father tips the vodka back as I sip the bubbly water. When he lowers his empty glass to the antique wooden bar, his blue eyes seem to catalog every aspect of my appearance. He told me I was the very image of my mother and confirmed it by showing me her picture, and I wonder if he’s thinking of her now. But if he is, he doesn’t speak of it.

With a glance toward the direction we came from, he asks, “Do you want to tell me what that was about on the floor? The brassy one looked like she wanted your head, and the other did not seem any friendlier.”

“It was nothing. They’re nothing.”

He lifts his chin. “Compared to you, I agree. But still, if there are threats to be aware of, I wish to know.”

I point over my shoulder at Spiderman and Superman. “As you can see, I still have protection against threats.”

“I noticed. But even then, you can never be too careful. I only just found you again, Illyana. I will not lose you now.”

“Indy. My name is Indy.”

His lips compress together as if he wants to contradict me, but he doesn’t. “Indy. You will have to be patient with me.”

With small talk out of the way, I get down to the reason I called and asked him to meet with me. “What did you say to my husband?”

“What do you mean?” His tone is curious, but he has to know to what I’m referring.

“Everything was fine until we got home, and then suddenly it wasn’t. If you said something to him, I need you to tell me what. Because there’s no way in hell he should’ve been sliding a petition for divorce across the desk to me after Prague. Something happened, and I want to know what.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why must it be me who said something? Forge is his own man. He doesn’t bow to anyone’s dictates. Not even mine.”

“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.