Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(25)

“And it’s not her fucking fault either,” I say, my voice dropping into a growl. “I have to make the right decision for her too, because she’s . . . she’s . . .” I trail off, trying to think of how to describe the most complex and intriguing woman I’ve ever met in my life.

Federov lifts his chin and narrows his gaze. “Why did you marry my daughter, Forge?”

I look down at the papers in front of me and push them into a neat stack, not sure how the hell to answer that question. “Because it made sense.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting like he’s just realized something crucial. He lifts his hand and points at me across the desk. “You wanted an advantage over me, and maybe even to protect her, though she does not need protecting. But now . . . now I think the reason you are keeping her from me is something else. It is not only business anymore. This is personal now.”

I press my lips together, not ready to have this conversation with Grigory Federov now . . . or preferably ever.

“What do you want to hear, Federov? That I have an attachment to her that has nothing to do with business? Is that going to change your mind somehow?”

His faded blue eyes twinkle, and I can’t help but assume that’s the color Indy’s will likely be in fifty years.

Federov uncrosses his arms and sits back, his posture shifting from aggressive to relaxed. “I should have expected no less from a daughter of my loins. Only such a woman could throw the mighty Jericho Forge off his coldblooded negotiations.”

At first, I think his words carry a note of mockery, but they don’t. It’s pride.

“She’s an extraordinary woman.”

“Of course she is. She descends from the blood of nobles . . . one of whom was so entranced by his servant girl that he made her his wife. My Illyana could charm me into giving her whatever she wanted at three years old. She was the heart of my heart. And when she was taken from me by that deceitful whore, my heart failed to beat again until the day I heard she might still live.”

Federov pauses, his gaze focused on nothing for a moment before returning to me. “Whatever you think I have planned for my daughter, Mr. Forge, it is not in bad faith. I am an old man. I am sick. My days are numbered. In fact, I would not have picked you as a husband for Illyana because they say you want nothing but revenge.”

He regards me for a few seconds before he continues. “But my Illyana has changed you already. Perhaps . . . perhaps all is as it should be. Who am I, at this age, to question what fate has in store?”

I study the old man’s features, looking for evidence of the illness he just admitted to, but I see no signs. Whatever it is that ails him, he still carries himself with pride, and his ox-like build hasn’t lost enough of its bulk to raise concerns.

“How many people know you’re ill?” I ask, hoping I don’t offend the man.

“Very few. In my world, when they know you are weak, the vultures begin to circle, waiting to pick your bones clean.”

Which is exactly my concern. “Who stands to gain the most from your death?”

Federov’s gaze sharpens on me. “My daughter will inherit everything.”

It’s the answer I expected, but it won’t help me protect her. “Who else? If she hadn’t been found or didn’t survive you . . . then who?”

His lips flatten as he considers. “I know what you are asking, but you do not need to worry. The threat to my Illyana’s life has been handled. The man behind the kidnapping has been identified and eliminated.”

There’s not a single doubt in my mind that the man was not just identified and eliminated. He was probably tortured until he wished for a bullet to the brain. And yet, I still can’t rest easy. Someone always has a motive.

“Are you certain?”

The Russian’s brow dips. “Do not question me about such things. I am Russian. I handled it. The threat is no longer.”

I brush my knuckles along the stubble of my jaw. “You’re willing to bet your daughter’s life on that?”

“You are falling in love with my daughter, Mr. Forge. That is why you will not believe me when I tell you she is as safe as I can keep her without having her by my side. You are lucky that I do not make her a widow right now for the way you went about securing her.”

The death threat, handled with such nonchalance, isn’t what makes me sit straighter. It’s the other statement he made with such certainty. “You are falling in love with my daughter.”

How the hell would he know? What would make him think that?

When I don’t reply, his knowing smile grows.

“You do not see it yet, Forge. But you will. Trust me. Russians feel things more intensely, even if we are trained not to show it. Now, get the vodka. We shall toast to the Federov line being continued, even if it has to be mixed with your American blood.”





25





India





The stacks of chips rise and fall as the game progresses. Belevich’s play is shrewder and smarter tonight, but I’m still better. I let him think he out-bluffed me on two early hands, strictly to lull him into a false sense of superiority. The other men at the table were strangers to me hours ago, but not anymore.

It’s one thing that has always fascinated me about poker—you can sit down at a table with people you’ve never seen before in your life, and by the end of the game, you may know some of them more intimately than most people in their lives. At least, that’s the way it works for me.