Page 81 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to hear them crack. He curled into a ball, gasping and choking on his own blood.
“Eleanor.”
“Beautiful Eleanor.” The words came out in a wheeze. “Beaumont’s dirty secret. The daughter who isn’t really his, married to the monster who thinks he’s protecting her.”
I knelt down beside him, pressing the gun against the back of his skull. “You’ve been planning her death from the beginning.”
“I’ve been planning your destruction from the beginning.” Each word was a struggle now. “The girl is just a means to an end. Kill her, break you. Break you, replace you.”
“And Beaumont goes along with this because?”
“Because he gets his reputation back. The strong leader who won’t be manipulated by Bratva scum.” Dmitry rolled onto his back, blood pooling beneath his head. “He thinks he’s using me. I’m using him. We’re both using you.”
I stood up, looking down at his broken body. Six years of lies. Six years of manipulation. Six years of dancing to this bastard’s tune without even knowing it.
“Any last words?”
“Yeah.” He managed to lift his head slightly, meeting my eyes. “You won’t kill me. You need me too much. Rafael needs me too much. I’m the only one with these connections, these relationships.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Confidence crept back into his voice despite the blood pouring from his wounds. “Kill me, and you lose everything I’ve built. Every contact, every deal, every advantage.”
“Maybe.” I raised the gun, pointing it at his forehead. “But I’ll still have Eleanor.”
“For how long?” He smiled, showing red teeth. “How long before another enemy comes for her? How long before your protection isn’t enough?”
“Long enough.”
“You’re making a mistake, Maxim.”
“Probably.” I clicked off the safety. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
“Rafael won’t forgive this. When he finds out what you’ve done, when he realizes you killed his most valuable asset over some cunt who isn’t even….”
I pulled the trigger before he could finish the sentence. The suppressor muffled most of the sound, but the impact was devastating. His head snapped back, brains and blood splattering across the expensive carpet.
Dmitry Chertov lay still, finally fucking quiet.
I stood there for a moment, looking at what was left of him. Blood covered my hands, my shirt, probably my face. The metallic smell filled the room, mixing with the lingering scent of vodka and sex.
My phone buzzed. Text message from Lev:Clean?
I typed back:Clean.
Within minutes, Lev and two of his men were in the suite with plastic sheeting and cleaning supplies. Professional. Efficient. The kind of cleanup we’d done a hundred times before.
“Any problems?” Lev asked, already rolling Dmitry’s body into the plastic.
“None.” I wiped my hands on a hotel towel, but the blood was already drying under my fingernails. “It’s done.”
“What about his network? His connections?”
“We’ll burn them all.” I pulled out my phone, scrolling through contacts. “Every name, every deal, every bridge he built. Turn it all to ash.”
“And Rafael?”
I looked at the red stain spreading across the carpet, thinking about six years of manipulation. Six years of being played like a fucking violin.
