Page 4 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I touched the fresh wound beneath my eye, feeling the blood still seeping from where shrapnel had caught me. “Long enough to remember every detail of tonight.”
The Prague job was over, but the war had just begun. Someone had tried to bury us in that warehouse tonight. Instead, they’d only succeeded in digging their own grave.
I would make sure they filled it.
The blood on my hands had dried, but the memory of it would stay fresh forever. Every detail catalogued, every face remembered, every betrayal documented in the perfect clarity of my photographic memory.
Six years to plan. Six years to prepare. Six years to turn revenge into an art form.
The warehouse had been their mistake. What came next would be their nightmare.
I looked at Rafael, wounded but alive, already planning our next moves despite the bullet hole in his gut. That was the difference between us and them. We didn’t stay down. We got back up, we adapted, and we came back stronger than before.
“The inner circle,” I said finally. “Someone in our inner circle sold us out tonight.”
“I know.” Rafael’s voice was quiet, but I could hear the fury underneath. “Question is, which one?”
I stared at the wall, my mind already working through the possibilities. Faces and names and loyalties, all of them suspect now. All of them potential targets.
Someone close enough to know our business. Someone trusted enough to have access to operational details. Someone who thought they could betray the Bratva and walk away clean.
They were about to learn how wrong they were.
The warehouse in Prague was just the beginning. What came next would be a masterclass in revenge, taught by two men who had stared death in the face and laughed.
Six years to find the traitor. Six years to plan their destruction. Six years to build something stronger from the ashes of tonight’s betrayal.
I cracked my knuckles and smiled, the expression cold enough to freeze blood. Someone was going to pay for Prague, and payment would be extracted with interest.
Compound fucking interest.
Chapter 1 – Eleanor
The caffeine buzz wasn’t working anymore. My hands shook as I held the steaming mug, the fourth one since dawn, but my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Two days. Two fucking days without sleep, without a shower, without anything resembling a normal human existence.
But normal was for people who didn’t have everything riding on one collection.
The fashion studio stretched out before me like a battlefield after the war. Fabric samples covered every surface, pinned to boards, draped over mannequins, scattered across tables in organized chaos that only made sense to me. The late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the Manhattan skyline beyond. The city looked golden and perfect from up here. Down there, people were living their regular lives, going home to dinner and Netflix. Up here, I was slowly losing my fucking mind.
“Eleanor, honey, you look like death warmed over.” Zara’s voice cut through the fog in my head. She stood in the doorway of my office, all five foot six of her radiating the kind of energy that could power a small city. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in that perfect high ponytail that never seemed to move, even when she was gesticulating wildly about PR disasters and social media metrics.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I muttered, not looking up from the sketch I’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. The lines blurred together, black ink swimming on white paper. “Really feeling the love.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure sugar?”
I tried to remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had become this weird, fluid thing that didn’t follow normal rules. “I had half a bagel this morning.”
“That was yesterday morning, and it was a croissant.” Zara walked into my office, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. She was wearing one of those blazers that cost more than most people’s rent, tailored to perfection and paired with leather pants that looked like they’d been painted on. Everything about Zara screamed success, from her perfectly applied red lipstick to the designer bag slung over her shoulder.
I loved her. I also wanted to strangle her most days.
“Whatever. Food is for people who have time.” I finally looked up at her, and I could see my reflection in her concerned green eyes. Jesus, I really did look like death. My chestnut hair had escaped from its ponytail hours ago, hanging in messy waves around my face. The freckles across my nose stood out stark against my pale skin, and my hazel eyes had dark circles that concealer couldn’t hide anymore.
“Food is for people who want to stay alive long enough to see their fashion show actually happen.” Zara pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “Which, by the way, is in three days. Three fucking days, Eleanor.”
“I know how to count.”
“Do you? Because you’ve been living in this office like some kind of fashion hermit, and I’m starting to wonder if you’ve lost track of basic human functions.”
