Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(64)

“Don’t stare at them so closely. You don’t want their attention,” Belevich says in a low voice, and I cut my gaze back to him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Those men that your security is following. He shouldn’t be following them. He should walk the other way.”

What the fuck is going on? The chills I felt moments ago spread across my skin as Goliath disappears.

“Who the hell are they?”

“Bratva. One of them was playing but lost the last round to me.” Belevich grunts and looks like he’s proud of that fact.

“Shouldn’t you be worried about them more than me or Goliath?”

He tugs down the collar of his starched white shirt just far enough for me to see the outline of a wing tattooed on his neck. That’s when I remember the rumors that have floated around on Ibiza about Belevich’s connections to the Russian mob.

“Of course not.” His Russian accent thickens. “At least, not over something like this.”

“Where are they going?” I swallow, trying to stop the tendrils of fear wrapping around me from growing stronger.

“Probably to drink vodka.” He lifts his glass as though in salute, and I force a paltry smile.

Is he just fucking with me? Trying to throw me off my game? Of course he is, and I’m fucking falling for it.

I back away from Belevich with a nod that says I see what the fuck you’re doing and it’s not going to work.

“I’ll see you at the table, Belevich.”

“Likewise, Queen Midas.”

I try to flush out all my uneasy feelings by focusing on my breathing, but they don’t abate completely. Goliath returns to the room, but there’s no sign of Jericho.

Something’s wrong. But wouldn’t Goliath be with Jericho then? I glance over my shoulder to look at the giant with dreadlocks, but he stays perfectly still, giving me nothing.

I’m overreacting. Nothing’s wrong. Jericho’s just running late.

The cards are dealt and I settle into the game, tuning out everything else but the other players.





70





India





I won. I won. I fucking won!

I jump out of my chair and spin around to rush into Jericho’s arms . . . but he’s not there. Goliath is gone too. Bates sweeps in to grab my chips as everyone crowds around me, cheering and popping bottles of Dom.

From across the table, Belevich lifts his now-empty glass of vodka the tiniest bit. He folded early in the final hand, which surprised me then, but I couldn’t care less now.

“Where is Forge?” I ask Bates, dread curling in my belly. “He said he’d be here. Did I miss him?”

Bates shakes his head. “No. I think something came up. Goliath went to go check on him about twenty minutes ago so he wouldn’t miss the last hand. I don’t know what the fuck happened to him either.”

Dread is now thrumming through my veins with every beat of my heart.

I grip Bates’s arm. “Something’s wrong. He wouldn’t miss the game. Not after all this.”

“Mrs. Forge, I can’t leave you. Those are my orders.”

I squeeze him tighter. “I’m giving you orders now. Go find my fucking husband before I fire you myself.” I release my grip and stop short of giving him a shove.

“Mrs. Forge—”

“I’m perfectly safe in a roomful of people, and I’m about to accept a big fat check on TV.” My tone is clipped because I’ve lost my goddamned patience. “Nothing is going to happen to me if you go find him and get your ass back in here in the next ten minutes. Now, take my chips and go.”

Bates wants to argue, but the organizer of the grand prix pushes between us, holding out a crystal flute bubbling with champagne. A commentator follows behind, carrying a microphone, and begins asking me questions about my play and how I feel after winning such a prestigious tournament.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m saying to either of them because my brain is running a million miles per hour in the other direction. I keep it short and sweet, smiling for the camera as I accept the giant check. When I finally step offstage into the mob, Bates still isn’t back.

What the fuck is going on?

I push through the crowd, shaking hands and using the check as a shield until I reach the elevator and smash the button for the penthouse.

Thankfully, I stuck a keycard for the suite in my small clutch, along with my lipstick for touch-ups. Panic doesn’t strike until I step out of the elevator on the penthouse level and see two men sprawled on the carpet ahead of me.

“No!” I sprint down the hallway, skidding to a halt beside Bates, whose neck is at an awkward angle.

Oh, sweet fucking Jesus. He’s dead. He’s dead.

I rush to the next form. It’s Donnigan. I check for a pulse. He’s dead too.

Tears burn my eyes as I swipe the key to open the door.

“Jericho!”

I scan the living room. It’s completely trashed. Tables are upturned, and the mirror over the console table is smashed. Traces of dark red are mixed in the shattered glass fragments.

Goliath is facedown on the floor, and a dark stain spreads out on the carpet beside him.

“No! No!”