Chapter 20 – Maxim
I watched the car with Eleanor disappear around the corner, her security detail flanking her like shadows made flesh, and felt the familiar weight of deception settle in my chest. She thought I was staying home, buried in business, while she faced her biggest professional moment alone.
The truth was more complicated.
I hadn’t told her about my plan to attend because Eleanor had exactly zero ability to keep secrets from the people she cared about.
Tell her I’d be there, and within an hour, Zara would know, then Anya, then probably half of Chicago’s social scene.
In our world, surprise was often the difference between life and death, and tonight I needed every advantage I could get.
Because despite the additional security, despite the surveillance and the background checks and the metal detectors, I knew tonight would bring trouble. Too many variables, too many unknowns, too many people who wanted my wife dead gathered in one convenient location.
I changed into dark clothes, strapped on body armor that felt like a second skin, and checked my weapons one final time. Glock at my hip, backup piece at my ankle, tactical knife in my boot. Enough firepower to handle whatever the evening might bring.
The venue was a converted warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial lighting that somehow managed to look elegant instead of brutal.
I’d had teams sweep it three times in the past week, installed additional cameras in every concealment point, and positioned snipers on surrounding rooftops.
But the best security system in the world was still vulnerable to the human element.
I slipped in through a service entrance, using maintenance corridors and emergency exits to move through the 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….
“We don’t know names,” Konstantin said quickly. “Only contact protocols.”
“Two….”
“Payment came through intermediaries,” Andrey added, his voice strained. “Dead drops, encrypted communications, untraceable transactions.”
“Three.”
The finger came off with a wet crunch. Andrey’s scream echoed off the walls, high and desperate and absolutely fucking beautiful. Blood sprayed across the concrete, and I tossed the severed digit into a bucket at my feet.
“Nine more where that came from,” I said calmly. “Plus toes, if we’re feeling ambitious.”
“Please,” Andrey gasped, his face gray with shock. “We’re telling the truth. We never met the client directly.”
“But you know who they work for.”
“Russian government,” Konstantin said. “FSB, maybe GRU. Someone with access to state resources.”
Interesting. Russian intelligence targeting Eleanor suggested this was about more than just Beaumont’s personal vendetta. This was geopolitical, which meant the stakes were higher than I’d realized.
“Why Eleanor?”
“We weren’t told specifics. Only that the target was high value, that her elimination would send a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“That American Bratva isn’t untouchable. That Russian interests still have reach in Chicago.”
I moved the cutters to Andrey’s ring finger. “That’s not the whole story.”
“There was something about her father,” Konstantin said desperately. “Some kind of business deal that went wrong. Our handler mentioned revenge, settling old scores.”
“William Beaumont?”
“Yes.”
Before I could ask the next question, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Lev. I considered ignoring it, but something about the timing made me pause. Important enough to interrupt an interrogation.
“Yeah?”
“Maxim, you need to hear this. I finally cracked the encryption on those calls between Dmitry and Beaumont.”
“And?”
“And Dmitry isn’t just providing information. He’s actively coordinating attacks, scheduling eliminations, and planning strategic strikes against our organization.” Lev’s voice was tight with rage. “He’s been feeding intelligence to our enemies for months.”
The revelation hit me like ice water. I looked at the two Russians, pieces of a puzzle clicking into place with sickening clarity.
“How long?” I asked Lev.
“At least six months. Maybe longer. Maxim, he’s not just a traitor. He’s been systematically weakening our defenses, creating vulnerabilities, setting us up for a complete takeover.”
“By who?”
“That’s the fucking terrifying part. Based on these conversations, it sounds like he’s working with multiple parties. Russian intelligence, Beaumont, maybe even other crime families. He’s playing everyone against everyone else.”
I felt rage building in my chest, hot and murderous and absolutely focused. Dmitry hadn’t just betrayed us. He’d orchestrated a complex campaign designed to destroy everything we’d built, and Eleanor had been caught in the crossfire.
“Where is he now?”
“His apartment, as far as I know. Maxim, what are you planning?”
I looked at Andrey and Konstantin, both of whom were listening to my side of the conversation with the kind of attention that meant they understood more English than they’d let on.
“Change of plans,” I said into the phone. “Come to my house. We need to discuss Dmitry’s retirement package.”
I ended the call and turned back to the Russians. They’d served their purpose, confirmed what I’d already suspected, and provided the final pieces of evidence I needed to justify what came next.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” I said politely.
Then I put bullets through both their heads.
The drive back to the mansion gave me time to think, time to plan, time to consider the full scope of Dmitry’s betrayal.
He wasn’t just a traitor. He was an architect of chaos, someone who’d been playing a game so complex that we’d only just begun to understand the rules.
We knew he’d been playing multiple sides, but we hadn’t realized just how intricate his plan had been.
But now that I knew what he was, now that I understood the threat he represented, I could plan accordingly. Dmitry Chertov had made one critical error in his elaborate scheme.
He’d targeted my wife.
And that was going to be the last mistake he ever made.
***
Lev was waiting for me in my office when I arrived, documents spread across my desk, and his expression was grim with the kind of focus that meant we were about to plan something that would reshape the landscape of organized crime in Chicago.
“Show me everything,” I said, pouring two glasses of vodka and settling behind my desk.
“Dmitry’s been busy,” Lev said, pointing to a timeline he’d constructed. “Six months ago, he made first contact with Russian intelligence. Four months ago, he started feeding them information about our operations. Two months ago, he connected with Beaumont.”
“What’s Beaumont’s angle in all this?”
“Revenge, mostly. But also business. Dmitry’s been helping him position his construction company to take over territories we’ve controlled for years. Infrastructure contracts, municipal projects, real estate development.”
“And tonight’s attack?”
“Was supposed to be the opening move in a larger campaign. Eleanor’s death would have triggered a war between us and Russian interests, which would have weakened both sides enough for Beaumont and Dmitry to consolidate power.”
I stared at the timeline, the careful documentation of months of planning and betrayal.
Dmitry had been patient, methodical, absolutely fucking ruthless in his approach.
If tonight had gone according to his plan, Eleanor would be dead, I’d be at war with Moscow, and he’d be positioning himself as the reasonable voice calling for peace and stability.
“How do we kill him without triggering the very war he’s trying to start?”
“Carefully. Quietly. In a way that looks like natural causes or an accident.” Lev leaned back in his chair. “But first, we need to understand the full scope of his network. Who else is compromised, how deep the corruption goes, what other operations are at risk.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few days, maybe a week. Dmitry’s careful, paranoid. If we move too quickly, he’ll disappear and we’ll never find all the connections.”
I thought about Eleanor, upstairs in our bed, probably still glowing from the success of her show. She deserved to sleep peacefully, to enjoy her triumph without knowing how close she’d come to dying tonight.
“One week,” I decided. “Then Dmitry Chertov suffers a tragic accident.”
“What about Beaumont?”
“Beaumont is Eleanor’s problem to solve. But Dmitry….” I smiled, and it felt like sharpened steel. “Dmitry belongs to me. ”