Page 8 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I studied her photograph, memorizing every detail. She had her father’s eyes, but softer, lacking the cold calculation that made William Beaumont dangerous. There was something almost naive about her smile, like she still believed the world was fundamentally good.
She was about to learn differently.
“Sir?” Cassandra’s voice came through the intercom.
“Come in.”
She entered carrying fresh coffee and wearing that expression that meant she had opinions about my plans. “I’ve been thinking about the Beaumont situation.”
“Have you now?”
“Maybe we should wait for Rafael to return from Vegas. Get his input before we move.”
I set down the photograph and looked at her directly. “Rafael is off-grid, drinking bourbon by a pool with his wife and kids. He’s earned his vacation. This doesn’t require committee approval.”
“This is big, Maxim. The kind of move that changes everything. Maybe—”
“Maybe nothing.” I stood up, the decision crystallizing in my mind like ice forming on water. “I’ve waited six years for this moment. I’m not waiting another fucking day.”
She nodded, recognizing the finality in my voice. “What do you need?”
“Lev. Tell him we’re going hunting tonight.”
***
The weather was cooperating beautifully. Rain had been falling since noon, turning Chicago’s streets into rivers of gray water and making visibility shit. Perfect conditions for what I had planned. Empty streets, blurry security cameras, and the kind of weather that made people hurry indoors instead of lingering on sidewalks.
I pulled on my black jacket and checked my weapons. Makarov in the shoulder holster, backup piece tucked against my ankle, knife in my boot. Standard loadout for a job that required precision over firepower.
My phone buzzed. Lev.
“Ready when you are, brother.”
“Fashion district in twenty minutes. Come prepared for a quick extraction.”
“Always am. Target?”
“Eleanor Beaumont. William’s daughter.”
There was a pause on the other end, and I could practically hear Lev’s brain processing the implications. “Taking it personal, are we?”
“Prague was personal. This is business.”
“If you say so. See you in twenty.”
The fashion district was exactly what I’d expected. All glass and steel and pretentious bullshit, designed to separate rich people from their money while making them feel sophisticated about it. Eleanor’s building stood out among the rest, sleek and modern with floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
I parked across the street and settled in to wait, rain drumming against the windshield like a metronome counting down to violence. The building’s security was adequate but not exceptional. A few cameras, basic access controls, the kind of setup that kept out casual thieves but wouldn’t stop someone with professional skills.
My earpiece crackled to life. “In position.” Lev’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Copy. Status?”
“Building’s mostly empty. Cleaning crews on floors two through seven, but they’re wrapping up. Security guard’s making his rounds, should be back at the front desk in fifteen minutes.”
I checked my watch. Eight-thirty PM. Most legitimate businesses would be closed by now, but fashion people kept different hours. They thought working late made them important, gave them some kind of artistic credibility.
Tonight, it was going to get Eleanor Beaumont kidnapped.