Heart of the Devil Read online

  I hold up a hand, and he goes quiet.

  “I’m not saying this to be a dick, and it’s not personal either. All I want is a ride, and after that . . .” I suck in a shaky breath as tears obscure my vision. “I don’t want to see anyone connected with Jericho Forge ever again.”

  All three of them stare at me. The pity in their eyes stokes the inferno of rage that I’m hoping will meld my broken heart back into something recognizable. The fires of the forge.

  No. Fuck that. I’ll let it stay broken.

  “But, ma’am,” Superman says, and I shake my head.

  “Let’s go. Please.” I take a seat facing the open water, and stare blindly ahead as they throw off the lines and Dorsey guides the boat away from the dock.

  Once we’re out to sea and headed back to Ibiza, it’s impossible not to take one final look over my shoulder at Isla del Cielo.

  I wipe the tears away as I let go of the picture of the future I was able to see for a short time.

  It shouldn’t hurt so much.

  But it does, and I hate him for it.

  Forcing myself to turn away, I focus on rebuilding the wall around my heart, brick by brick.

  19

  Forge

  My gaze is locked on the boat as it cuts through the water, even though I told myself I wouldn’t watch her leave. My fingers uncurl from the fists they’ve been clenched in, and I press my palm to the glass.

  Pain, physical pain, sears me.

  My mind conjures Indy’s face when I told her I wanted her gone. When I lied to her. It cuts me, straight to the bone.

  I’m a piece of fucking shit. Not worth a goddamn. Uncle Ruben was right.

  With a roar, I grab the chair behind my desk and hurl it across the room.

  “Fuck!”

  It crashes into a painting on the wall and glass shatters. My gaze drops to the signature page of the petition for divorce on the desk. It’s fucking over, and I ended it.

  I spin around and slam my fist into the wall, cracking plaster and busting my knuckles open. Blood drips from my hand, but the pain is nothing compared to the agony tearing me apart inside.

  I reach down to pick up her ring, but instead, I drop to my knees.

  “Fuck!”

  Tears, like I haven’t cried since the day I lost Isaac, stream down my face.

  There’s honor for you, Federov. It’s fucking hell.

  20

  India

  I wave off Superman and Spiderman at the entrance to my building. I don’t care what their orders are. It doesn’t matter to me, because I’ll never follow another order given by Jericho Forge.

  Each step up to my floor takes a ridiculous amount of effort. It’s like I’m walking through wet cement, and it’s trying to keep me in place. The whole goddamned building can crumble around me and be washed out to the ocean for all I care.

  Why am I so surprised? That’s the part that kills me. I set myself up for this, and I knew better.

  Happily-ever-afters don’t start with losing a bet, kidnappings, and negotiations. Only a naive idiot, which I am not, would believe otherwise.

  But that doesn’t mean I can stop the tears or the ache from the gaping hole in my chest.

  How could he do this to me?

  By the time I reach my door in a sniffling mess, I can barely see where I’m going. I fumble for my keys, which Dorsey retrieved along with my purse from the bedroom, and I unlock my apartment door.

  I take two steps inside the silent space, kick the door shut, and collapse against it.

  I’m done being strong.

  Now I’m just broken.

  It could have been minutes or hours or days. I have no idea how much time has passed when the lock above me jiggles as someone pushes a key inside it.

  I lift my head, like I’ve been in a catatonic state, and blink. Afternoon light cuts through the blinds, but the room might as well be pitch black to reflect how I feel.

  When the knob turns, I scuttle away from the door, sliding my butt across the tile floor until I ram into the couch.

  Who the fuck is coming to my—

  The door swings open, and we both scream. Me and Summer.

  “What the fuck are you doing here! You scared the hell out of me!” she squeals.

  My lungs heave in oxygen and my heart races like I stepped on a live wire. “What the hell are you doing breaking into my apartment?” I ask, my voice coming out in a rasp.

  “I have a key! You told me I could stay here whenever I needed.”

  I blink at her, which apparently is becoming a habit of mine when people say things to me I don’t know how to react to. “When did I say that?”

  My sister shrugs. Except . . . she’s not really my sister. The fact hits me like a slap to the face. Shivering, I huddle on the floor as tears flood my eyes again.

  “Oh my God, Indy. What’s wrong?” Horror flashes across Summer’s delicate features, and she drops her bag and slides across the tile to kneel in front of me. “What happened? Who do I need to kill?”

  Through my tears, I manage a brittle laugh, but it’s muffled as Summer wraps her arms around me.

  “You’re scaring me, Indy. Please say something.”

  I snuffle, sounding like the mess I am, and sob into her shoulder. “It’s over. My marriage is over.”

  “Oh shit,” she whispers. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Indy.”

  And instead of asking me the hundred questions that must be on her mind, Summer squeezes me tighter. Together, we rock on the floor until I have no more tears.

  21

  Forge

  “Sir, I need to speak with you.”

  Dorsey’s voice comes through my office door after she’s knocked three times and I haven’t answered.

  “Not now,” I bite out.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t care if you don’t want to speak to me right now. I need to speak to you.”

  The door opens, and I grit my teeth. I’m not fit for human interaction right now, and I tried to warn her, but apparently Dorsey is willing to risk her job to say whatever she has on her mind.

  “Talk, and then get out.”

  I don’t need to look at her face to see the shock as she surveys my destroyed office. She gapes at the bloody smear on the wall.

  My busted knuckles ooze blood and burn every time I flex my hands, but I deserve more than this pain. Because I’m a piece of shit, and even with all the fucking money in the world, I’ll never be worth a damn.

  And I never fucking learn.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dorsey whispers.

  “If that’s all you have to say, get the fuck out.” I hit Send on an email, because what the fuck else do I have to do but work and get my revenge. That’s all I’ll ever have.

  And I can’t even fucking find de Vere. My sources on Ibiza could give me nothing. He’s gone to ground, and no one has seen him in days. But I will find him.

  The petition for divorce sits on my desk, and I wish I could tear it to shreds. But Indy deserves her freedom, and so I’ll give it to her. She’ll take the goddamned money too. I don’t give a fuck if she wants it or not.

  “Your hand, sir. Let me get the first aid kit.”

  “No.”

  Dorsey takes another hesitant step forward, like I’m a wounded beast instead of a man.

  But maybe she’s right. I’m not a fucking man. I don’t even merit the description. I couldn’t protect my woman when I needed to. I left her at the mercy of anyone. Her father had to come protect her.

  “I take it . . . Mrs. Forge isn’t coming back?”

  I grunt in response.

  “She asked if I could . . .” Dorsey pauses, probably to stare at the rest of the destroyed room.

  “What?” I bark out, clenching my busted hands into fists.

  “If I could pack up her things and return them to her.”

  Another agonizing stab of pain jams into me. “Do it. Do it right now. Get it all out of here.”

  “Y
es, sir.” Dorsey takes a few steps backward, as if afraid to let me out of her sight as she leaves. Like I might take a swipe at her. “Is there anything you need before I go, Mr. Forge?”

  I finally lift my gaze to the shattered bottles of liquor that used to be on the sideboard in my office.

  “A bottle of whiskey. The cheapest shit you can find. Tell everyone I’m not to be disturbed.”

  An expression of pity curves her lips into a frown, but I don’t fucking want anyone’s pity. I don’t want anything but to get so fucking drunk I can’t remember my own name.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree . . .

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  She backs out of the doorway, but before she can close it, I bark out, “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell her if she tries to return the money, I’ll make a bonfire out of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dorsey whispers as she shuts the door and leaves me to wallow in my own fucking misery.

  Which is compounded when my phone buzzes. I don’t want to look at it. Don’t want to touch it. But I can’t help it. It’s Federov’s number.

  I punch the screen to answer. “You don’t have to force my hand. I let her go. Now fucking leave me alone.”

  “Did you now?” Federov sounds surprised.

  “What do you want, old man?”

  “I thought you would want to know that the Bratva that supplies de Vere’s drugs . . . they were not surprised to hear Pallovich took a side job. They also owe me a favor, and I called it in. They’re going to set a trap for de Vere. I’m going to help you get your revenge.”

  My revenge. Feels fucking hollow now.

  “Fine. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

  “No, I wish to talk about the deal—”

  I end the call and hurl the phone across the room.

  Fuck the deal. Fuck everything.

  22

  India

  I don’t remember falling asleep, or climbing up on the couch, or being covered with a blanket. But when I open my eyes, that’s exactly where I am. A steaming cup of tea sits on the table in front of me, and before I see her, I know Alanna is here.

  Summer called her because she’s never seen me like this. I’ve never broken down like I thought my life was over before. Not even the day when I realized our mom—who wasn’t actually my mom—was never coming back for us.

  How I am I ever going to tell Summer the truth? That she’s not my sister? That her mom was my father’s mistress and kidnapped me?

  My stomach twists and flips. I want to burrow my head under the blanket and forget about all of it, but Alanna peeks around the couch and sees my eyes open before I can feign sleep and avoid the conversation that is inevitably coming next.

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” Her lips quiver as she comes around to sit beside me and throws both arms around my neck. “So, so sorry,” she whispers.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and try to speak, but the words get caught.

  “Here, drink this.” She presses a mug of hot tea into my shaky hands.

  Dutifully, I sip the chamomile-flavored water. If nothing else, Alanna believes in the restorative powers of a cup of tea like she’d been born in Britain rather than America.

  “You don’t need to be sorry,” I say, handing the mug back to her. With how much I’m trembling, I don’t trust myself not to spill it everywhere. “You didn’t do this. I did it to myself.”

  “I refuse to believe that whatever happened is all because of you. It takes two to tango, my dear.”

  It’s a phrase she often pulled out for Summer when she was going through one tumultuous breakup after another. But I’m not my sister, whose heart bounces back instead of shattering.

  She’s not my sister, I remind myself, and another tear trails down my cheek.

  “Indy, sweetheart, talk to me. Please. You’re scaring an old woman, and you know that’s not fun.”

  I look around the room for my sis—Summer—but she’s gone. “Where is she?”

  “Summer had to go back to work. She came home on her lunch hour because she didn’t want to use the work facilities to . . . you know . . .”

  I would have sworn it was impossible to bring a smile to my face at that moment, but the reminder that my sister can’t take a crap in a public restroom manages to do it.

  “My flat is now her designated toilet? Wait, no, she said she’s been staying here.” The smile fades when I remember she works for Juliette Preston Priest.

  Alanna nods. “She told me you said it was okay.”

  Another Summer white lie. “I didn’t, but I would’ve. It’s not a big deal. How is her job going?”

  I hate that I feel petty when I ask, because it reminds me of how Juliette was so shocked that Forge had “settled down.” I still remember what he said in reply. “Because I hadn’t met Indy yet.”

  Bullshit. Shivers ripple through me, and the tears slide down my face. Alanna reaches out to wipe them away before I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Why don’t we talk about you first, dear?”

  I shake my head. “I would prefer not to.”

  “I know, but sometimes you have to get it out before you can start healing.”

  Healing? That sounds like a foreign concept if I’ve ever heard one. I plan to harden, since the chances of me healing are slim to none.

  I can’t bring myself to talk about what happened with Forge, so I blurt, “Summer isn’t my sister.”

  Alanna’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. “What? What are you talking about?”

  I bite down on my lip, wishing I hadn’t said anything. The last thing I want to do is cause anyone else even a fraction of the pain that I’m feeling right now.

  “I met my father,” I say, pausing when I remember that Alanna doesn’t know anything about this. I didn’t tell her anything because not only am I a shitty daughter, I’m also a shitty adopted daughter.

  “Your father? How? When?” She curls her hands into the blanket that covers me.

  I inhale a shaky breath and let it all spill out. How I was kidnapped. Why Summer was kidnapped. How my father found me. Why Forge married me. Why Bastien was causing trouble. Through it all, Alanna sits on the couch, staring at me in disbelief.

  “Oh, my goodness gracious. If this is what you’ve been holding in, no wonder you’re a mess, sweetheart.” She pulls me into another hug and squeezes me almost hard enough to break a rib.

  My tears, which I thought were dried up, pour out like a tidal wave.

  “Shh . . . shh . . . it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay,” she murmurs, soothing me in a way that I never let her as a prickly and wary teenager.

  “How can it ever be okay? My sister isn’t my sister!” My voice breaks on the last word, and I meet Alanna’s gaze. She reaches out to smooth my wild hair away from my face before her expression turns authoritative.

  “Don’t you ever say that about Summer. I don’t give a damn if there’s not a single drop of blood shared between you, because that’s not what matters. I may not have carried you in my womb, or given birth to either of you, but you’re my daughters all the same. Family doesn’t just mean blood, Indy. Family is much more than that.”

  “But—”

  She shakes her head. “No buts. You raised Summer from the day she was born. You protected her. Fed her. Clothed her. Love her more than life itself. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  A tear in my soul mends together at her words.

  “It means everything,” I whisper.

  Alanna’s lips pinch together. “Damn right it does, and don’t you ever forget that. Summer will always be your sister.”

  I lean against her shoulder, soaking up her comforting presence as I let her words sink in and wrap around me.

  Summer will always be my sister. No matter what.

  “You’re right. I just . . .” I look past her to the closed shades, trying to find the words I want to say.

  She squeezes
my knee. “You’ve been hit with the equivalent of a dump-truck load of information and no time to process it. At least, that’s how it looks from where I’m sitting.”

  “Yeah. Something like that,” I say, dragging my gaze back to hers.

  “What about Mr. Forge?” she asks, her tone hesitant.

  I bite down on my lip as my vision turns blurry. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”

  Alanna pats my knee. “Then you won’t talk about it yet. But we do need to talk about the man in a suit at the door of your building who’s acting like a bulldog and checking the ID of everyone who enters. And then there’s the one who watches from a black sedan in the same place they parked before.”

  Spiderman and Superman.

  I swipe at my tears. “They need to leave.”

  Her gaze locks on mine. “Are you in danger, Indy? Is there more going on that we need to know about?”

  I can’t help but picture Bates and Donnigan’s bodies in the hallway of the hotel in Prague, and I utter a silent prayer for them. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything at all anymore.”

  23

  Forge

  I toss the rest of my shit in the duffel, zip it up, and throw it over my shoulder as I leave the bedroom. There’s no reason for me to stay.

  Dorsey waits in the hallway, another duffel in hand. One that I don’t want to look at or acknowledge.

  Inside, I’ve iced over like the Chesapeake used to do in the winters of my childhood. It’s better to feel nothing.

  The hole in my chest might still gape, but I’m pretending it’s not there.

  “You’re in charge of the island.”

  “Yes, sir. When will you be back?”

  I shrug because I don’t have an answer for her.