Page 82 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Rafael will understand.”
“You sure about that?”
I wasn’t sure about anything anymore except one thing: Eleanor was mine, and anyone who threatened her would end up like Dmitry. Broken. Bloody. Dead.
“Yeah,” I said, watching Lev’s men carry the body bag toward the service elevator. “I’m sure.”
The suite was clean within an hour. No trace of what had happened, no evidence of Dmitry Chertov’s final moments. Just another hotel room waiting for the next guest.
I drove home through the dark Chicago streets, hands still stained with blood, thinking about lies and truth and the price of betrayal. By the time I pulled into my driveway, the rage had settled into something colder. Something permanent.
Dmitry was right about one thing. This wouldn’t end here. There would always be another enemy, another threat, another bastard who thought they could use Eleanor against me.
Let them come. I had plenty of bullets left.
Chapter 23 – Eleanor
I found my mother in the sunroom of her apartment, the one I’d only discovered she had a month ago. She was watering her orchids, looking more peaceful than I’d seen her in years. That peace was about to be shattered.
“Mom.”
She turned, and her face immediately shifted when she saw my expression. The watering can trembled in her hands.
“Eleanor? What’s wrong? You look….”
“I look like someone whose father has tried to kill her twice.” I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. “So I need you to explain to me why William Beaumont wants his own daughter dead.”
The watering can slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor and sending water and ceramic shards across the white tiles. Ruth stood frozen, her face draining of all color.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” I moved closer, my hands shaking with rage and confusion. “Two assassination attempts, Mom. Two times someone has tried to put bullets in me, and both times it traces back to dear old Dad.” My voice cracked on the last word. “So tell me why. Tell me why not loving me isn’t enough for him. Tell me why he needs me fucking dead.”
Ruth sank into the nearest chair like her legs couldn’t hold her anymore. She pressed her hands to her mouth, and I could see tears forming in her eyes.
“Oh God. Oh, Eleanor, I never thought…I never imagined he would go that far.”
“Go that far with what?” I knelt down in front of her chair, grabbing her hands. “Mom, talk to me. What the hell is going on?”
She was quiet for so long I thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
“You’re not his daughter.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Even though I suspected, I felt the air leave my lungs, felt the room spin around me. “What?”
“You’re not William’s daughter, Eleanor.” Tears were streaming down her face now. “You never were.”
I sat back on my heels, trying to process what she’d just said. Even though, deep down, I knew I still had to cycle through the expected questions. “But I look like him. People always said….”
“You look like me.” Ruth reached out, touching my cheek with trembling fingers. “You have my eyes, my nose, my stubborn chin. The only thing people saw was what they expected to see.”
“Then who…?” The question died in my throat because I already knew the answer. The man I’d seen her with outside the coffee shop. The man who’d looked at me with such familiarity and warmth.
“Garrison,” I whispered.
Ruth nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “Garrison Thatcher. Your real father.”
I felt like I was drowning. Like the ground beneath me had opened up and swallowed me whole. “How long have you known? How long have you been lying to me?”
