Page 7 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
Pitch black.
Chapter 2 – Maxim
The anonymous tip arrived on a Tuesday morning, clean and precise as a blade between the ribs. No frills, no bullshit, just a name and enough evidence to make my blood sing with anticipation.
William Beaumont.
The bastard who’d orchestrated Prague. The puppet master who’d pulled the strings while good men bled out on concrete floors. The architect of betrayal, who thought he could hide behind his American empire and pretend the Bratva had forgotten.
He was wrong.
I stared at the documents spread across my desk, rain drumming against the windows of my Chicago office like bullets against steel. Six years I’d waited for this moment. Six fucking years of planning, hunting, following cold trails that led nowhere. And now, finally, I had a name.
The scar beneath my right eye throbbed, that familiar ache that reminded me every morning why I existed. Prague had carved more than flesh that night. It had carved purpose into my soul, etched revenge into my bones until it became the only thing that mattered.
I pressed the intercom button. “Cassandra, my office. Now.”
She appeared within thirty seconds, efficient as always. Twenty-one years old but sharp enough to cut glass, with those calculating eyes that missed nothing. Rafael had found her in a Seattle dive bar, pouring drinks and dodging groping hands. He’d seen potential in her desperation, turned it into loyalty that ran deeper than blood.
“You called?” She stood in the doorway, tablet in hand, ready for whatever hell I was about to unleash.
“William Beaumont.” I slid the documents across my desk. “I want everything. Every breath he’s taken, every dollar he’s earned, every secret he thinks he’s buried. No mercy, no gray areas. I want to know what he ate for breakfast twenty years ago.”
Cassandra picked up the papers, her dark eyes scanning the information with mechanical precision. “Timeline?”
“Two days.”
“That’s tight for a deep dive.”
“Then don’t sleep.” I leaned back in my chair, watching her process the request. She never questioned orders, never asked for explanations. That was what made her valuable. “This isn’t a research project, Cassandra. This is war preparation.”
“Understood.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Weaknesses. Pressure points. Places where a man like William Beaumont might bleed if you knew exactly where to cut.”
She nodded and disappeared, leaving me alone with my rage and the sound of rain against glass. Six years of waiting, and now the hunt was finally beginning.
***
The file arrived exactly forty-eight hours later, thick as a phone book and twice as damning. Cassandra had outdone herself, digging through layers of corporate bullshit and political connections to expose the man underneath.
William Beaumont. Construction tycoon. Fifty-eight years old, built his empire from nothing through sheer fucking brutality and political cunning. His company had tentacles reaching into every major project in Chicago, every political campaign that mattered, every judge who needed their palms greased.
But that wasn’t the interesting part.
The interesting part was how clean he looked on paper. Too clean. The kind of cleanliness that screamed money laundering and political protection. He’d learned to hide his dirt behind legitimate business ventures, using construction projects to move money that couldn’t be traced through normal channels.
Smart bastard. But not smart enough.
I flipped through pages of financial records, political connections, and personal information until I found what I was looking for. Family. The soft spots where even the hardest men became vulnerable.
Ruth Beaumont, wife of twenty-five years. Former socialite, now professional trophy wife. Predictable and useless for my purposes.
But then there was the daughter.
Eleanor Grace Beaumont. Twenty-one years old, chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and completely fucking innocent of her father’s crimes. She ran some fancy fashion company, designed clothes for rich bitches who had more money than sense. Independent, successful, living her own life separate from Daddy’s empire.
Perfect.