Page 57 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“Alive. Shaken but whole.” I moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring three fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. “What’s the damage assessment?”

“Two dead shooters, both professionals. No identification, no traceable weapons, no obvious connection to any of our known enemies.” Cassandra’s fingers flew across her tablet screen. “But the execution was clean, organized. This wasn’t some street gang taking a shot at us.”

“Bratva?”

“Had to be. The style, the precision, the knowledge of Eleanor’s route.” Rafael leaned back in my chair, his dark eyes studying me with uncomfortable intensity. “Which brings us to the elephant in the room.”

I took a long pull of whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. “Say it.”

“How the fuck didn’t you know Eleanor’s exact location when she wasn’t at the house?”

The question hung in the air like smoke, heavy with implication and disappointment. Rafael had every right to be pissed. In our world, situational awareness was the difference between life and death, and I’d failed at the most basic level.

“She told Anya she was going out for errands. Anya covered for her, thought she was giving Eleanor some breathing room while keeping her protected.”

“And you didn’t think to verify this personally?”

“No.” The admission tasted like failure. “I was distracted, dealing with internal security concerns, trying to balance keeping Eleanor safe with giving her the freedom she needed. I let my personal feelings cloud my judgment.”

Rafael’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes that meant he was considering whether to dress me down or cut me loose entirely.

“Your personal feelings nearly got your wife killed,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“If Dmitry hadn’t flagged the anomaly….”

“I know.”

Cassandra looked up from her tablet, her expression thoughtful. “Speaking of Dmitry, who else knew about Eleanor’s location besides the three of us?”

“No one,” Rafael said immediately. “The tracking data goes directly to my office, gets filtered through Dmitry, then comes to me.”

I felt something cold settle in my stomach at the mention of Dmitry—something I hadn’t picked up on earlier because I’d been too consumed in thoughts about Eleanor’s safety. “Wait. Dmitry brought the anomaly to your attention, right?”

Rafael nodded. “Called me the moment Eleanor’s car stopped moving in the wrong sector. Said it looked like an ambush scenario.”

I set down my whiskey glass with deliberate care, my mind racing through implications I didn’t want to face. “Who is Dmitry Chertov, exactly?”

“What do you mean, who is he? You’ve worked with him for three years.”

“Humor me.”

Rafael’s eyes narrowed, picking up on the shift in my tone. “Dmitry Chertov, thirty-nine years old, Russian national. He’s been with the organization for over a decade, worked his way up from courier to logistics coordinator. Moved to Chicago seven years ago to help establish our North American operations.”

“What did he do before Chicago?”

“Intelligence work, mostly. Liaison between Bratva operations and certain government agencies back home. Cleanrecord, steady performance, never given us a reason for concern.”

“Government agencies.”

“Yes. Why?”

I felt pieces of a puzzle clicking together in my mind, forming a picture I really didn’t want to see. “He works between us and the US government, too?”

“Of course. How do you think we maintain our operational freedom? Dmitry handles the delicate negotiations, makes sure the right palms get greased and the right blind eyes get turned.”

“So he has contacts in both worlds. Russian intelligence and American law enforcement.”