Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(26)

Read the man, play the man . . . and then I lure him in and take his money using everything I learn. That’s how I earned the ridiculous name Queen Midas, when in reality, there’s nothing magic about it. It’s truly a simple equation that has always worked for me—until I played Jericho Forge.

If there were a real-life King Midas, it would be him.

I’ve never let a man’s sheer presence send me into a tailspin the way his did. He sent all my senses spiraling, and I played like I didn’t have a single iota of skill or strategy that night. How could I be so affected by a man?

Looking back on the last week, I shouldn’t be surprised at all how he affected me at the game. Jericho Forge is not a normal man.

How else could he have possibly gotten me to bet myself at the table, make me lose, tempt me with a million dollars, not kill me when I double-crossed him, but marry me instead—and then finally tell me it’s all because I’m a means to an end because of the man who brought me into this world.

My father.

I shake off the thought, because if I go any deeper down that rabbit hole, my concentration will suffer, and I’m winning tonight.

The waiter comes around taking drink orders, but I wave him off. I have water, and that’s all I need. As a rule, I never drink while I play because I don’t want to risk losing my wits.

Belevich orders a vodka, which is typical for him. I’ve counted the drinks he’s already had tonight, and this is number six. Maybe it’s true what they say about Russians and vodka—that it’s like mother’s milk and doesn’t affect them at all.

His play hasn’t changed enough for me to think he’s drunk, but with each drink, his attention fixates on me more and more. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten about the other three men at the table. Something burns in his icy blue eyes that I can’t quite describe, but I refuse to let it unsettle me.

He tries to goad me into betting a bit more than I normally would for this hand, but I’m impervious to that kind of peer pressure anymore. And when the time comes to show our cards . . . I win again.

Belevich’s broad forehead creases with lines of frustration. “You have the luck of the devil with you tonight, Mrs. Forge. I suppose it only seems right, as you’re now the devil’s mistress.”

I’m not exactly sure how to reply to that comment, but whatever the Russian needs to say to salvage his masculine pride is fine with me.

I rise halfway off my chair to sweep the stacks of chips in the center of the table toward me. “I’m just playing like I always play, Mr. Belevich.”

“You didn’t play this way last time. I suppose it was because your skill was muddied by your concern for your sister.”

Startled, I knock the chips over. They spill toward me as my head jerks up to meet Belevich’s stare. “What did you say?”

He sprawls in his chair, sipping his vodka, like he’s finally got the advantage over me. And maybe he does, because there’s no way he should know anything about my sister.

“I heard Little Sister had some trouble and needed Big Sister to bail her out with a chunk of cold, hard cash. But that’s no longer an issue, clearly.”

Blood roars in my ears as my mind spins. Did Belevich have something to do with Summer’s kidnapping? Did he know about the game she planned to play? Did he know who arranged for her to be taken?

The only thing I want to do right now is jump out of my seat, march around the table, and drag him away by the hairs of his beard to question him, but I force myself to sit and arrange my chips like there’s not a single thing on my mind other than winning this game. Belevich caught me off guard with his bomb, and I’m not going to let him see me falter more than he already has.

Whatever he knows can wait until we’re not flanked by two Spaniards and a Frenchman, whose glances dart from me to Belevich like we’re more interesting than the cards the dealer shuffles.

“How about we continue this discussion after the game, sir?”

Belevich salutes me with his vodka glass. “I look forward to it, Mrs. Forge.”





26





Forge





“Thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

Grigory Federov and I stand a few yards from his chopper as the pilot starts the engine. I extend my hand, and he grasps it in a firm grip.

“You’re welcome anytime. I just need to give India—”

He interrupts to correct me. “Illyana.”

I want to tell him that I can’t call her by that name because there’s no way in hell she’ll ever answer to it, but instead, I rephrase. “I need to give your daughter notice and see if she’ll consent to meeting you.”

“She will consent, or there will be no deal,” he says as he straightens his shirtsleeves, as though he’s oblivious to the fact that refusing to sign the deal will cost him hundreds of millions in lost profit. “I return to Saint Petersburg in the morning to attend to matters that cannot be postponed. I will tell you when to bring her there. She will see me there, in her home, and it will help her remember who she is.”

And India will win every hand she ever plays with a royal flush, I finish in my head, because the odds are about the same.

However, if he wants to believe it, I’m not going to crush his hopes right now. No, I have to find a way to give him what he wants and close the deal . . . without doing something that will ensure my wife will hate me for the rest of my life. That’s a consequence I’m no longer willing to risk.