Page 43 of Secrets

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The twenty-million-dollar mansion along the Gold Coast lakefront of Chicago was one of the most prized residences in the city. When Dyatlov proposed their marriage, or really merger, Beatrix was insistent on living in one of the historic homes.

She got her wish with a 14,000-square-foot mansion. Built in 1888, it had six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, original hardwood and marble floors, and so much more. It was the house she’d dreamed of as a little girl growing up in a tiny shack in Indiana. She’d made it!

Now, it seemed like an empty tomb. There was already a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard, a subtle message from her soon-to-be ex-husband. His closet was completely empty, the dressers emptied, all of it was gone.

She quickly opened her personal safe and looked inside to find one stack of hundred-dollar bills, a copy of the pre-nuptial agreement, and a message written on his personal stationery.

Good luck. You’ll need it.

“Bastard,” she mumbled to herself. The maid and one bodyguard were still in the house, most likely to ensure she didn’t steal anything.

It had all been so easy in the beginning. When she realized that Mick had no vision, no idea of how to make them rich, she knew she had to take control.

When the two boys came along first, she was thrilled. It would be easy to turn boys into violent killers. After all, their father was already a violent man who enjoyed bar fights, street fights, anything where he could use his fists.

But when her daughter came along, she knew she’d have to change some things. She could already tell that Tick was a strange little boy, wanting to watch his mother shower or his baby sister in the tub.

No, she couldn’t allow that, but she wasn’t sure how she could stop it either. Fortunately, Mick didn’t want anything to do with her after Millicent was born. It was as if they’d lost all feeling and attraction for one another.

At just thirteen, Jay got his first chance to prove himself a man who could bring home the bacon. Luckily for her, it was with the Dyatlov family. They had a wayward uncle who needed to be contained. Permanently.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said to his father.

“You can do it. You have to do it,” he said. “We get fifty thousand if you do this, Jay.”

“Mom is asking for this, isn’t she?” he asked. His father backhanded him, sending him across the floor.

“Don’t mention her name in this house again. Tick and Millicent don’t know about our arrangement.” He helped his son off the floor, and then looked up at his mother, smirking at him.

“He told you,” she smiled. “Don’t worry, son. You’ll do well.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son any longer.” She laughed, and his father just stared at him. They handed him a gun, a crowbar, and an address to find Rumo Dyatlov.

It was all too easy for Jay. The man was in his nineties. They didn’t need to kill him. They only needed to wait, and he would die of old age. But he did his job, showered in the old man’s home, changed his clothing, and left.

By the time he got home, there was fifty thousand on the kitchen table.

“Well done,” smiled his mother.

“You have to leave. The kids will be home from school soon,” said his father.

She left. She was happy to leave the depressing little house near the Brown Line. Happy to return to her mansion of designer carpets, custom-made furnishings, antiques, and an illusion of wealth and status.

Except the illusion was never fully realized. The snobs of Chicago weren’t willing to accept a nobody from Indiana. They were happy to accept her husband. The powerful and terrifying Russian whom their husbands were dying to do business with.

But Beatrix? Not so much.

She shoved the last of her clothing into the multitude of suitcases and trunks, then began packing her jewelry. She opened the massive case, only to find it empty with another note.

I won’t leave you naked, but I will leave you without jewels you didn’t earn.

“Ughhhh!” she screamed. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” asked the maid.

“Yes, Florence, I’m fine. Did my husband take everything other than my clothing?” she asked.

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