Heart of the Devil

by Meghan March

  His chin lifts in a gesture that mimics my own, like he’s not used to taking orders or being given ultimatums.

  Too bad, Dad. I don’t have time to waste, and if you don’t help me, I’ll find another way.

  “And if I help get Forge back for you . . . you will spend time with me? Let me get to know the woman who is my daughter?”

  There’s nothing I wouldn’t promise to get Forge back, but I have to know he’s sincere.

  “You get one shot with me. Don’t make me regret this.”

  I wonder if I should feel bad about my ruthless request, but I can’t summon the feelings necessary for that. This day has been a roller coaster of emotions, and the only way I’ll be able to sleep again someday without nightmares about what I saw today is with Jericho by my side.

  They say you don’t truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone, and every vibrating nerve in my body tells me that I’m not prepared to lose my husband. Not now. Not when I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’m in love with him. And the thought of being doomed to living a life without him . . . I couldn’t bear it.

  “Please,” I say as my father watches me in silence. “Please help me.”

  “It will be done,” Federov says with a sharp nod.

  He turns to a man beside him, one I hadn’t even bothered to look at, and barks out something in Russian. The pale blond replies and disappears from the doorway. In the hallway, I can hear the echo of him speaking to someone on the phone.

  “We will leave now,” Federov says. “This neighborhood is not safe enough for you. I have somewhere else we can go. It is much more comfortable.”

  I glance up at Goliath and study the hard line of his jaw. He’s staring at my father, not at me. I nudge him with an elbow to get his attention.

  “Are you good with that?” I ask.

  Goliath’s dark gaze cuts from my father to me. “Forge would want you as safe as possible.”

  “And that is one thing we will always agree on,” my father says.

  Belevich speaks from the hallway, where he’s been listening to the entire conversation. “I agree. We should leave. It will be safer for Marina if we go.”

  “Okay,” I say, agreeing mostly because I don’t want to drag an innocent person into this, especially after she went above and beyond by helping us. “Then let’s go.”

  8

  India

  The more comfortable place Grigory Federov takes us is locked up like a vault. Actually, it’s on top of a vault.

  “I own this bank and the building,” he says as he uses his thumbprint to unlock an elevator to take us to the top floor of a historic building.

  Like Goliath, I’m checking for every available exit, because that’s what Jericho would want me to do. Stay safe at all costs.

  Belevich opted not to accompany us, and part of me freaked out when he hopped in the G-Wagen at the curb in front of the vet’s office.

  “You don’t need me anymore,” he said. “I’ll see you another time, Indy. Better circumstances, one would hope.”

  If he set me up, I will stop at nothing to hunt him down and exact retribution. I’m praying it doesn’t come to that.

  As soon as we step out of the elevator into a luxurious marble entryway leading to carved wooden doors that span farther than the width of my wingspan, Federov keys in a long code and scans his thumb again to open the door.

  “Do you have security concerns?” I ask, wondering if the biometric devices are normal for him, or if there’s an unknown threat I need to be worrying about. Basically, I’m second-guessing everything.

  “I have good security so that there is no need for concern,” he replies as he waves us inside.

  Fair enough.

  My heels click on the marble floors, and I try to keep my jaw from dropping as I take in the apartment we’ve entered. It’s ornate, like something you’d see in a magazine. All gold gilt and white, and the furnishings and fixtures look like they must have cost a mint. The delicate decor looks nothing like I would have expected of the bull of a Russian who is my father.

  No one greets us. The apartment is silent as he ushers us into a sitting room so large it houses three different seating arrangements. He walks toward the one farthest from the windows.

  “Sit,” he orders.

  “My dress,” I say, pointing at the bloodstains. I don’t want to sit on one of the white-and-gold damask sofas and ruin it.

  Federov shakes his head. “I could replace it a hundred times and never notice the money gone. What does furniture matter when my daughter needs a place to sit?”

  I guess, when you put it like that . . .

  “Thanks.” I take a seat on the expensive fabric and meet his gaze as he sits across from me. “How are we getting Jericho back? Do you have an army somewhere? Because that’s where my head’s at.”

  The Russian laughs, and it bounces off the ceilings fitted with intricate crown molding and gold-and-crystal chandeliers. “You are truly your father’s daughter. But no, we do not strike with a sledgehammer when stealth would be more effective. I have put out word that I’m willing to pay for information and his return.”

  I blink, not sure I’m hearing him correctly. “You’re going to ransom him back? That’s your grand plan?”

  His chin dips. “It seems most expedient, does it not?”

  “What if the kidnappers don’t want money?”

  Federov makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “Everyone has a price, and I have enough money to pay even the steepest one. If he is alive, I will get him back for you.”

  If he is alive. I want to snatch those words from the air and shove them back in his mouth.

  “He’s alive, damnit. Don’t you dare say that again.”

  Fear at the possibility of losing Jericho stabs me through the heart, and my voice shakes as I make the proclamation. Until this moment, I haven’t dared consider the possibility that he might not be alive and waiting for rescue. No. He’s alive, goddammit.

  My father nods, albeit patronizingly. “All will be well. While we wait, are you hungry? Thirsty? What can I get you?”

  My stomach revolts at the thought of eating, but I’m definitely not turning down a bracing shot with a chaser of water.

  “Whiskey and water. Separately.” I glance back to Goliath where the bodyguard stands like a sentinel behind me, despite his blood loss and injury. I motion for him to sit down, but he shakes his head. “Do you want anything?”

  “Water.”

  Federov waves a hand to one of his goons, and I finally take stock of them. One is bald and solid, with rolls in the back of the neck that I see as he leaves the room to do my father’s bidding. The other is almost as tall, but leaner, and his hair is so blond, it looks white. His posture is rigid, and his icy eyes survey me like I’m on display at a museum. I can’t help but wonder how long they’ve known more about who I am than I did.

  “Sir, you should sit,” my father says to Goliath. “You will be no good to my daughter or Forge if you collapse.”

  Goliath says nothing in response to my father’s order and continues standing.

  “Your choice. Not the smart one, though.” Federov returns his attention to me. “Would you like to see a picture of your mother?”

  His question catches me off guard and shakes my compartmentalization enough to let the shock from earlier sweep over me. I’ve been reunited with my long-lost father, learned my mother wasn’t my mother, my sister isn’t my sister, and we’re awaiting news about my kidnapped husband with my almost-murdered bodyguard.

  What I really want to do is curl up on the couch and indulge in a good long cry, but that’s not going to help anything. Besides, I won’t let myself shed a tear in front of these people. I refuse to show any weakness.

  Shoving all those feelings back, I reply with a clipped, “Sure.”

  Federov reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a battered leather wallet. He flips it open and pulls out a photograph with tattered edg
es that looks like he’s been carrying it for decades.

  His crony returns with a tray and sets two shot glasses and waters on the glass-topped table between us before passing a bottled water to Goliath. Over the drinks, Federov holds out the picture.

  As soon as my stare locks on the photo, I reach for the whiskey and toss back the entire shot with one gulp.

  Holy shit. She looks just like me.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, my hand shaking as I reach to take it from him.

  “You are her image. She was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and so kind. Much too kind for a man like me.”

  I look up at his self-deprecating words and read the pain and regret in his gaze. “Because you had a mistress.”

  “Yes. Irina deserved a prince among men, but she fell in love with a brute. I was too selfish to try to change her mind.”

  “What . . . what happened to her?” I choke on the question and snatch the water to wash down the lump in my throat.

  “Cancer. We caught it much too late. She was too young to be taken, or so I thought. I would have given everything to save her, but there was no time. She faded before my eyes in mere weeks.”

  “How could you have cheated on her if you loved her so much?”

  His remorseful expression hardens. “I told you, I did not deserve Irina. I have accepted my punishment for over two decades. My penance is not one I would wish on any other man. But still, I repented too late.”

  “And my . . .” I swallow and stop myself from saying mother. “Nina . . . she took me from you.”

  “Yes.” His reply is clipped as he reaches for a shot glass of clear liquid that I assume is vodka.

  “You thought I was dead.”

  His mouth tenses as he presses the glass to it, and he gives me a nod before tossing it back.

  “How would you know that? What made you think that?”

  Federov’s gaze drops and his jaw rocks from side to side. “We found Nina. Many years ago. She swore you were dead. The circumstances under which she swore made me believe she was telling the truth.”

  My lower lip trembles as I listen to what he’s not saying. They found her. Took her. And . . . “How did you make her talk? Did you . . . torture her?” Another image I don’t want to picture.

  Federov’s gaze shifts to the window where streetlights illuminate the hard lines of his face. “She stole the only thing left that mattered to me. She deserved no mercy.” His blue gaze comes back to me. “But she lied even then, and I left you with no one to care for you at all.”

  His regret is impossible to miss in the emotion-drenched words.

  “Not for long. Alanna found us, and she was more of a mother to me than I had ever known. I will never approve of what you did, but I can’t say I wouldn’t do some unforgivable things to help find Jericho faster.”

  The older man’s shoulders relax, and he looks like I’ve given him a stay of execution. But really, I’m focusing on the only thing I care about right now. Where are you, Jericho? Come back to me.

  The burn of the whiskey turns to heat in my belly.

  “When will we hear something?” I ask. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

  Federov points to the blond man. “When we hear something, his phone will ring. We must be patient.”

  Patient is the last thing I want to be, but what other choice do I have?

  Taking a slow breath to calm my racing heart, I decide to use this time to find answers to the questions that have been plaguing me. “How did you know I was alive? What made you start looking again if you thought I was dead?”

  Goliath shifts behind me, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s growing weaker, or if he’s just as interested in hearing the answer as I am.

  Federov lifts his glass in the air over his shoulder, and the bald goon disappears for a moment and returns with a bottle of vodka to splash another measure into it. My father tips it back like he’s drinking water. When he replaces it on the table with a click, he meets my gaze.

  “Your . . . Summer.” He almost said sister but changed his mind at the last minute.

  No. I’m not going to let him take that from me.

  “My sister, you mean.” I sit up straighter on the sofa as I correct him. “Because that’s exactly what she is. It doesn’t matter if we don’t share blood. That’s not what makes someone family. Family is being there for each other and never walking away. Family means sacrificing for one another.”

  A muscle ticks in Federov’s jaw. “Your family is fond of using your name to get ahead.”

  “You can’t tell me anything about Summer that’s going to surprise me anymore. She fucked up. She knows she fucked up. I’m not disowning her.”

  He watches me carefully, like every word I speak is gold-plated. “No, I would not either. In fact, if not for her using your name and getting taken, I would never know that you were still alive.”

  My fingers curl into the edge of the sofa cushion. “What do you mean? How does that add up? I don’t understand.”

  “Belevich.”

  As soon as he says the Russian poker player’s name, my jaw goes slack. I fucking knew he had inside information.

  “What does he have to do with this?” I grit the words out from between clenched teeth.

  “His father was a friend. His whole family has been to my home in Russia, and when Dmitri was there, he saw a picture of Irina in my office. It hangs over my fireplace. When he saw you in a shop in Ibiza, he contacted me, saying he’d seen her double. I could not believe it. But when I had you investigated, I had hope for the first time in many years that we would be reunited. But somehow . . . word got out. I had a leak in my organization.”

  Belevich is the one who started all of this. That motherfucker. He could have told me. Why didn’t he?

  “When the hell was this?” I demand.

  “Not long before they took your sister, thinking she was you. They ransomed her back to me, telling me she was you.”

  Belevich knew when we played at La Reina. He knew why I was playing. He knew Summer had been kidnapped because they thought she was me. And he said nothing. He and I have a score to settle.

  I drop my gaze to the empty whiskey glass and wish for it to refill magically. When it doesn’t, I look up at Federov.

  “They really took Summer because they thought she was me?”

  His blue eyes are solemn. “Yes. Because they knew I would pay anything to get you back.”

  “But . . . Jericho is the one who got Summer back.” I press two fingers to my temple as it throbs with the beginning of a massive headache from trying to process all this information.

  “I asked him for a favor. But I did not know the kidnappers learned the woman they held wasn’t you. They tried to ransom her to both you and to me after that. Forge learned who the girl was to you without telling me either. And then he pulled his biggest trick of all.” Federov pauses, and I know what he’s going to say.

  Jericho made his bargain with me.

  “He married you.”

  Right now, in this moment when my spark of love has grown into a raging inferno, isn’t the time I want to remember that Jericho married me under false pretenses. It doesn’t matter. Does it? Because this isn’t about a deal anymore. This is real.

  A tendril of doubt curls in my chest, but I mentally brush it away.

  “He married me to protect me,” I say, conviction reinforcing my words.

  “He did it for an advantage in business. For leverage,” my father says, contradicting me. “But . . . when I saw him after, I wondered if it was still only business. I did not believe a man could stay hard-hearted against a daughter of my blood. I have been in his position. I couldn’t give up Irina, even though she deserved a better man. Forge and I are cut from the same cloth. We take what we want, for our own reasons, and will never apologize for it.”

  His comparison is the last thing I want to hear. I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about that right
now.”

  I grip the tumbler of water tightly, because if I give in to the million other questions on my mind, I’ll lose focus on what matters—Jericho.

  Glancing up at the blond man, I ask, “Can’t you get an update? I don’t want to wait here all night, wondering what the hell is going on. We have to do something.”

  I drop the photo on the table in front of me, even though part of me wants to keep it. Federov grasps it, presses a kiss to the worn paper, and tucks it away in his wallet.

  “Kostya.” He turns to look at the man behind him and gives an order in Russian.

  The blond, who must be Kostya, makes a phone call.

  The room goes silent except for harsh sounds of a language I’ve never wanted to understand more. When Kostya hangs up, he says something to Federov that causes my father to rise and bite out a terse response. Kostya replies and turns to leave, clearly having been given his marching orders.

  “What? What’s going on?”

  With a glower settling over his face, my father speaks through gritted teeth. “We have a lead.”

  “What kind of lead?” I jerk my gaze from him to Goliath and back again. “Is he okay? Where is he? Who has him?”

  “Someone who says they want a hundred million dollars in exchange for his return.”

  9

  Forge

  I wake to the coppery tang of blood in my mouth and the scent of raw meat. The incessant thundering in my head tells me I’m not dreaming. But I’m not dead either.

  My shoulders burn, and my arms feel like they’re being pulled from the sockets, dragged down by my body weight. The zip ties bite into my wrists, and my exposed skin drips with condensation as the cool air lowers my core temperature.

  I’ve faced worse.

  It takes a hell of a lot more to kill a man like me, and tonight, I refuse to fucking die.

  Someone sold me out. I don’t know who and I don’t know how, but if I get out of here . . . No, not if. When.

  From behind me, a door creaks, and shoes squeak on the floor of the meat locker as someone approaches. I relax as much as possible, wanting to preserve any advantage I might have by appearing to be unconscious.