Page 73 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

I slipped in through a service entrance, using maintenance corridors and emergency exits to move throughthe building like smoke. The event was in full swing, Chicago’s elite mingling among Eleanor’s designs while photographers captured every angle, every smile, every moment of her triumph.

And she was fucking radiant.

I watched from the shadows as she moved through the crowd, wearing that dress Anya had designed for her like it was armor forged specifically for war. She commanded attention without demanding it, answered questions with confidence that made my chest tight with pride.

This was Eleanor Voronov at her most dangerous. Not the frightened girl I’d kidnapped, not the angry bride I’d forced into marriage. This was the woman who’d looked at my world and decided to conquer it instead of survive it.

The first threat came twenty minutes into the event. A server, wrong build, wrong movement pattern, hand reaching toward something that definitely wasn’t a champagne bottle. I was behind him before he could complete the draw, my blade finding the space between his ribs with surgical precision.

He dropped without a sound, and I dragged his body into a storage closet before anyone could notice the brief commotion. One down.

The second attempt was more sophisticated. A photographer with legitimate credentials and a camera that concealed a rifle barrel. He’d positioned himself with a clear sight line to the stage where Eleanor was giving her thank-you speech, adjusting his “lens” with the kind of focus that had nothing to do with capturing images.

I put a bullet through his head from across the room, the sound lost in the applause that followed Eleanor’s speech. His body crumpled behind the lighting equipment, and I was gone before the blood could pool.

Two down.

The third threat was the most dangerous because it was the most subtle. A woman in an evening gown, elegant and perfectly dressed, who moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that screamed professional training. She was getting close to Eleanor, close enough for poison or a concealed blade or any of a dozen other methods that didn’t require guns or distance.

I intercepted her near the bar, my hand closing around her wrist as she reached for something in her purse. The small vial of clear liquid that fell from her fingers and shattered on the floor told me everything I needed to know.

“Cyanide?” I asked quietly, applying pressure to nerve points that made her gasp in pain.

“Ricin,” she whispered back in accented English. Russian. Definitely Russian.

“Who sent you?”

She smiled, the expression cold and professional. “Go fuck yourself.”

I snapped her neck with a quick twist, catching her body as it fell and propping her against the bar like she’d simply had too much to drink. My men would clean the mess up.

Three down.

Two more men caught my eye, but instead of neutralizing them, I had them contained for questioning. I couldn’t let my rage get the better of me and lose a potential lead.

The rest of the event passed without incident, but I stayed in the shadows until the last guest departed, until Eleanor’s car disappeared into the night surrounded by her security detail, until I was certain she was safe.

Only then did I allow myself to feel the satisfaction of a mission accomplished. Eleanor’s show had been a complete success. The reviews would be glowing, the orders would pour in, and her place in Chicago’s fashion world would be secured.

More importantly, she was alive.

By the time I arrived at Rafael’s warehouse on the outskirts of the city, it was nearly midnight. The building looked abandoned from the outside, but the basement held facilities that would make CIA interrogators jealous. Soundproof walls, drainage systems for easy cleanup, and equipment designed to extract information from even the most reluctant subjects.

The two men I’d captured at the venue were already secured to metal chairs, zip ties cutting into their wrists as they tested the restraints. Both Russian, both professional, both carrying the kind of gear that suggested extensive training and significant financial backing.

I recognized them.

Andrey Petrov and Konstantin Orlov. Moscow muscle, the kind of enforcers who specialized in high-value eliminations and had reputations that stretched across continents. The fact that they were here, in Chicago, targeting my wife, meant someone with serious resources wanted Eleanor dead.

“Gentlemen,” I said, settling into a chair across from them. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Andret, the older of the two, spat blood onto the concrete floor. “Fuck you.”

“Creative. Let’s try again.” I picked up a pair of bolt cutters from the tool table, testing their sharpness against my thumb. “Who hired you?”

Silence.

I moved to Andrey first, positioning the cutters around his pinky finger. “I’m going to count to three. One….