Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(54)

Forge pauses to take a breath, and my emotions are rioting as he speaks. But he’s not done. He reaches out and brushes his knuckles across my jaw, and my lips tremble.

“I fucking care about you, Indy. Talk is cheap, but I’m not. I’m going to prove it to you. I want you to shine, and I’m going to do everything I can to make it happen. That’s my angle.”

My heart thunders, but I force myself to breathe calmly, even as his words chip away at the layers of concrete and Kevlar around my heart. Even as I tell myself not to believe him because he’s cagey and withholds the truth. But the rough edge of his tone screams sincerity.

He’s not bluffing.

“Indy?” This time it’s Ruccio speaking my name.

I look over at the redhead. “Sorry. I’m just . . .”

“Ah, bella.” Ruccio smiles. “You’re just listening to a man all but profess his love in a way that makes me wish he was talking to me instead.”

One arm raised, I thread my fingers through my wind-whipped hair, not sure what the hell to do. I feel like I’m standing in a Robert Frost poem, but instead of two roads diverging in the woods, I’ve got two boats parked at a dock.

If I get in one, I know I’ll be losing something I may never have a chance to get back. But if I choose to stay and believe what Forge says is true, I’m putting my heart at risk, and I know better than to bet more than I can afford to lose.

But if I win . . . I swallow before meeting his tumultuous gray gaze. It could be everything.

I can’t let down my guard yet, though. I choose my words carefully to respond.

“Why should I believe you? How do I know that this isn’t just another elaborate ruse to keep me under your thumb? A way to get what you want?”

Forge pulls his phone from his pocket, taps on the screen, and holds it out in front of him. “I’ll call your father right now and tell him the deal is off.”

Again, it could be a ploy. I step forward and take it out of his hand. The screen reveals the contact info for Grigory Federov.

My father.

I touch the screen to initiate the call. Forge’s expression is impassive as the phone rings.

“This is Federov.”

Oh my God, that’s my father. His voice is deep and thickly accented.

Goose bumps rise on my arms as I let it wash over me. There’s no question that he’s Russian, which is so strange, because I don’t feel Russian. I just feel like . . . me. A lump rises in my throat as Forge reaches for the phone. I know that if I let him take it, he will do everything he said.

“Forge?”

I tap the screen to end the call just as Forge’s fingertips touch the phone.

“Dio mio, the anticipation is killing me, Indy. Are you going to stay with him or not?” Ruccio asks.

“I also wonder this,” Sofia Russo says from the black boat where she holds a garment bag. “And not only because I have my newest designs at your disposal.”

The phone vibrates in my hand, and Forge and I lock eyes. It’s my father calling back. My father. The reason Forge married me, but not the reason he wants me to stay. My head screams at me to run, but my heart begs me to grab my husband and never let go.

“What do you want me to tell him, Indy? It’s up to you.”

I take a deep breath and make my decision, hoping like hell it’s one I can live with. “Apologize for calling him by accident.”

Forge sucks in a deep breath. “You won’t regret this. I swear it on Isaac’s grave.”





55





Forge





She still doesn’t trust me. It’s obvious as the jet takes off, bound for Prague.

Indy’s pretending I don’t exist, even as she sits across from me, flipping through a stapled sheaf of papers. It’s been her MO since she thanked her friend for coming to her rescue and apologized for wasting his time. After he left, she led Sofia Russo down the pier with her head held high and her shoulders back, just like she was fucking royalty.

India Forge is absolutely incredible, and coming this close to losing her taught me an important lesson. It’s something I never want to risk again.

Although, I haven’t made much progress in getting her to unbend. I’ve never experienced such an uncomfortable silence in our lavish surroundings at the rear of the jet. Goliath, Donnigan, Bates, and Koba sit up front, no doubt feeling the awkwardness as well. I considered leaving Koba at home, but I decided I’d rather keep a close eye on him until I’ve either confirmed or refuted my earlier suspicions.

“Can I get you a drink, sir? Madam?” the flight attendant asks politely, and Indy looks up.

“Coffee. Black.”

“Scotch. Neat. Thank you, Monique.”

The flight attendant moves away to prepare our drinks, and I focus on Indy. “What are you doing?”

Her attention stays firmly on the papers in front of her. “Studying the list of players. Trying to remember who I’ve played before. I usually have more time to prepare, but this’ll have to do.”

“I can help.”

This finally gets me eye contact. “Unless you have a list of their tells, then you can’t.”

Monique returns with our drinks, and I swirl my favorite vintage of Scotch in the glass. “Is that usually what you do? Study the players?”