36. Vadim
36
VADIM
SIX DAYS LATER
I check my watch again, forcing myself to remain still in my seat despite every instinct screaming at me to prowl the venue to search for Kirsan.
The bastard hasn't shown his face all week while my men dismantled his operation piece by piece. Three hundred and twenty-seven women and girls rescued so far, each with a story more horrific than the last.
My phone buzzes with notification of yet another interview released from Megan.
I scroll through the comments, feeling satisfaction at the way the comment sections are filled with calls for action.
The fashion industry's darkest secret exposed at last. Soon she'll release the final article revealing Svoboda's true purpose.
But none of that matters right now.
My eyes scan the crowd, cataloging faces. I recognize several politicians busy chatting with each other and laughing. The lights dim and my hand instinctively moves to the gun concealed beneath my jacket.
The first few models walk. I barely notice them, too focused on watching for any sign of movement in the shadows.
Lacey is scheduled to close the show. But Kirsan is still nothing to be seen.
Where are you hiding, you piece of shit?
Another buzz from my phone. It's Demyon confirming that our men are in position throughout the venue.
But still.
No Kirsan. The sick feeling in my gut grows stronger. He's here. He has to be. This is too perfect an opportunity for him to miss—a chance to hurt me by hurting Lacey.
The music changes and my heart stops. This is her cue. I force myself to breathe and stay seated, even though every fiber of my being wants to rush backstage and get her out of here.
There!
Flanked by several CEOs with models hanging off their arms, the devil himself walks in.
My jaw clenches at the sight of Kirsan's fluid movements, the way he glides between people like a snake sizing up its prey.
I fire off a quick text to Demyon. "East entrance."
My eyes dart between the catwalk and Kirsan. The models near him are wearing a familiar vacant expression. It doesn't take a genius to know that none of them are here by choice.
Kirsan scans the crowd with those pale predatory eyes, as if he's looking for someone.
Then, they lock with mine, and an oily smile starts to spread across his face.
A savage sense of anticipation rushes through me at his acknowledgement.
But something doesn't feel right.
Kirsan murmurs something to the men around him and breaks away, moving through the crowd with that same fluid grace that makes my skin crawl. He slides into the empty seat beside me, close enough that I catch a whiff of his expensive cologne.
"Vadim Petrovich," he greets me with that cultured accent. "It's been a very long time."
My fingers itch to grab my gun and end this right here. But there are too many witnesses, and far too many potential casualties.
"You've been quite busy this week," he continues, his voice light and conversational. "Three hundred and twenty-seven lost merchandise. Very impressive."
"You're not leaving Los Angeles alive," I tell him, keeping my voice equally measured despite the rage burning in my chest.
He turns those pale snake eyes to me and smiles.
"Oh, I think both of us know that I've accepted my death the moment you put a bullet in my Sayavochka's head."
"Sayanaa brought that fate upon herself," I tell him, keeping my voice low and steady despite the burning rage in my chest.
Kirsan's pale eyes narrow, but his smile remains fixed in place. "Her only sin was loving you, Vadim Petrovich."
"And who put those ideas in her head?" I growl. "Who twisted her into becoming the monster she was."
The smile finally slips from his face. For a moment, I see a flash of something that looks almost like regret in those predatory eyes.
"Yes," he admits softly. "I did that to her. But I acted as any father would—out of a desire to give my children a future where they can be safe."
His words make my stomach turn. The casual way he justifies corrupting his own daughter, as if it was some noble act of parental protection rather than the systematic destruction of an innocent soul.
"Safe?" My fingers curl into fists. "You dare speak of safety?"
"The world is cruel, Vadim Petrovich. I simply taught my Sayavochka how to survive in it. How to take what she wanted instead of being taken herself."
"You sold your own daughter to Pyotr's heir," I remind him, unable to keep the disgust from my voice.
"Ah." That oily smile returns. "Is that what you think happened? That I simply... sold her?" He shakes his head with a condescending chuckle. "There is so much you don't know about your father, Vadim Petrovich."
"Enlighten me then."
"When Pyotr and I forced Savin into our service, he was already plotting against me in secret." Kirsan's pale eyes grow distant. "It was only a matter of time before my Sayavochka became a pawn on his board."
There's something in his voice that gives me pause—a hint of genuine pain beneath the cultured accent.
"That was always Pyotr's nature," Kirsan continues. "He would smile and embrace you like a brother while sliding a knife between your ribs. What was I supposed to do? Sit meekly until the moment of betrayal comes?"
"You could have done the right thing," I tell him, though the words feel hollow even as I say them.
He turns those predatory eyes to me again, but this time there's something else there—a deep, festering wound that's never quite healed.
"The right thing?" He repeats my words with a bitter laugh. "Tell me, Vadim Petrovich, what would you have done in my position? What would you do now, if someone threatened your unborn child?"
Applause erupts around us as the announcer introduces Eleftheria. The first models emerge onto the catwalk, but Kirsan's eyes remain fixed on me.
"Look at me, Vadim Petrovich."
I turn to face him, even though every instinct screams to watch for Lacey. His pale eyes glisten with unshed tears.
"I agreed to give my Sayavochka to Pyotr's heir because I thought that's what it would take for her to be safe." His voice cracks with genuine emotion. "And you... I tried to treat you like the son I never had. I truly believed that you would be different from him ."
He lets out a bitter laugh that sounds more like a sob as his face twists with grief and rage.
"How did my Sayavochka die? What were her final words to you?"
I clench my jaws, remembering the way Sayanaa begged me to spare her life at the end, the desperate pleas of her love for me in her voice as she begged uselessly after she'd tried to make Lacey become as twisted as she was.
"Well?" Kirsan whispers.
"She tried to tell me that she loved me."
"And how did you repay her love?"
"Your daughter was never capable of love," I tell him, keeping my voice low and controlled despite the burning rage in my chest. "Not after you turned her into a shield to keep yourself safe."
Kirsan leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Look up at the catwalk, Vadim Petrovich."
My eyes snap to the runway where Lacey has just emerged. She looks breathtaking in the dress hugging her curves, but something in her expression changes as our eyes meet.
A flash of shock crosses her face, and my heart stutters at the fear I see there.
Kirsan embraces me, and leans in until his lips are pressed at my ear.
"Remember this moment," Kirsan whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Think about how much you love your unborn child. That love you feel right now? It only grows stronger with each passing year. Every smile, every tear, every triumph and failure. Those will only make that love deeper, more desperate, more consuming ."
His words send ice through my veins as understanding dawns. Before I can react, white-hot pain pierces my belly.
"You took my child from me," Kirsan hisses as he drives the blade deeper. "So I will make you watch as I do the same to you."
Another stab. The pain is excruciating but distant somehow, overwhelmed by the horror of watching Lacey's face as she realizes what's happening.
Her mouth drops open in a scream. But I don't hear it over the sudden roar as bombs start going off all around us.
The first explosion rocks the venue before I can react. More follow in rapid succession, each deafening blasts drowning out the screams of panic.
Blood soaks through my shirt where Kirsan stabbed me. Every breath sends fresh agony through my core. But none of that matters as I watch him rise from his seat, pale eyes fixed on the catwalk where Lacey stands frozen.
Gunfire comes to life all around us. I recognize the sharp crack of my men's weapons answering the heavier boom of assault rifles. Bodies start falling like autumn leaves in the wind, and people stampede toward the exits.
My vision blurs at the edges as I press my hand against the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The metallic scent fills my nostrils, mixing with smoke and cordite.
No. Not like this.
I force my eyes to focus on Lacey. Our gazes lock across the chaos. She's still standing on the catwalk, one hand protectively curved over her belly. Over our daughter.
Kirsan moves with that fluid grace, stepping between the screaming attendees as he approaches the stage. His men provide covering fire, keeping my security team pinned down.
I try to stand but my legs won't cooperate. The blood loss is already affecting me. All I can do is watch as he gets closer to her with each step.
Run , I mouth silently, willing her to understand. Please run.
The terror in her eyes tells me she sees the blood seeping between my fingers. Sees Kirsan approaching. But she's not moving.
Run! Please!