Page 88 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“I know everything.” I moved closer to his desk, noting the way his eyes tracked my movements. “I know about Garrison. I know about the divorce. I know you’ve been trying to have Eleanor killed to send a message to your wife.”
“Former wife,” he corrected. “The papers were finalized yesterday.”
“Congratulations. How does it feel to lose the only thing that made you look human?”
“Ruth was never mine anyway.” His voice turned bitter. “She belonged to that pathetic artist from the day I met her. I just borrowed her for twenty-one years.”
“And Eleanor?”
“Eleanor was part of the package deal. A reminder of my wife’s previous life, living in my house, bearing my name.” He shrugged. “I tried to make the best of it. Gave her everything she could want. Education, opportunities, money.”
“Everything except love.”
“Love?” He laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Love is for fools and artists, Voronov. I deal in reality. And the reality is that your wife has become a liability I can no longer afford.”
“Former liability.” I pulled out my Glock, letting him see it. “As of tonight, she’s a widow.”
Beaumont’s smirk never wavered. “You won’t kill me.”
“Won’t I?” I clicked off the safety. “Why does everyone keep saying that? What makes you all so fucking certain I won’t pull this trigger?”
“Because you’re not a killer, Voronov. You’re a businessman who got in over his head. You kidnapped my daughter for revenge, sure, but murder? That’s not who you are.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m certain.” He leaned forward, confidence radiating from every pore. “You want to scare me? Fine. You want to threaten me? Go ahead. But you won’t actually pull that trigger because you know what happens next. You know the kind of heat that comes down when someone like me dies violently.”
I stared at him for a long moment, this man who’d spent twenty-one years making Eleanor feel unwanted, unloved, like aburden he had to carry. This man who’d tried to have her killed out of spite.
“You’re wrong about one thing, William.”
“What’s that?”
“I am a killer.” I raised the gun, pointing it at his forehead. “And you’re about to find out exactly what kind of man your fake daughter married.” I paused, then, adding, “Also, I’m not just doing this for me. Eleanor asked me to take care of you.”
It was true. After her meeting with her mother and the revelations that had followed, we’d sat down and discussed the situation with Beaumont. I’d mentioned Rafael’s orders, and she’d taken to them surprisingly well.
“You can pull the trigger, if you want,” I’d offered.
She’d sat across from me on the bed, her fingers curling in her lap as she stared at my chest, unable to meet my gaze. “No,” she murmured. “That won’t help me.”
Before I could come up with a solution, Eleanor had finally looked up, resolve hardening her hazel eyes. “You can do it,” she’d said. “He’s taken enough from me, and it’s time he paid the price.”
Now, as I stood with my gun trained on him, Beaumont finally grasped the severity of the situation.
His smirk disappeared, collapsing as his expression gave way to one of cowardice. “Wait, we can make a deal!” he scrambled to say. Sweat broke out along his forehead. “I have money, resources, connections. Whatever you want, I can….”
The first bullet took him in the center of his forehead, snapping his head back against his chair. The second bullet, fired half a second later, opened up the side of his skull in a spray of blood and brain matter.
William Beaumont slumped forward onto his desk, blood pooling around his head like a crimson halo.
I stood there for a moment, looking at what was left of Eleanor’s tormentor. No satisfaction, no vindication. Just cold efficiency.
Then I got to work.
I spent the next twenty minutes turning the study into a crime scene. Shattered the window with a paperweight, scattered papers, and knocked over furniture. Cleaned out his safe, taking cash and jewelry that would never be recovered. Made it look like a violent burglary.
On my way out, I put a non-fatal bullet in the leg of one of the surviving guards, enough to wound him, make him a witness to the “robbery,” but not enough to kill him. He’d wake up with a story about multiple intruders, masked men who’d invaded the house looking for valuables.
