8. Lacey
8
LACEY
THE NEXT DAY
I can feel Vadim's tension as we pull up to the modest house. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I notice his breathing has grown shallow. Without thinking, I reach over and place my hand on his thigh.
"She's your mother," I whisper. "And I'll be right here beside you."
Vadim's hand covers mine, and I feel a slight tremor in his fingers. For someone who commands such power and authority, seeing him this vulnerable makes my heart ache.
" Zvyozdochka ," he says, his voice barely audible. "What if she?—"
"I'll be right here beside you," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "Just like everything else."
We make our way up the stone path to the front door. The garden is well-tended, with bright splashes of wildflowers adding cheerful color. It's hard to imagine this peaceful place housing such painful memories.
Vadim's knock seems to echo in the still afternoon air. I slip my hand into his, our fingers intertwining. For a moment, we both hold our breath.
The door swings open to reveal a large man with a neatly trimmed white beard. Despite his imposing size, his green eyes crinkle warmly at the corners. He has the easy stance of someone comfortable in their own skin.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice carries a hint of gravel.
I feel Vadim's grip tighten slightly on my hand.
"Does Polina Vladimirovna live here?" Vadim asks, his voice steady despite the tension I feel through our joined hands.
The man's friendly demeanor shifts, eyes narrowing with sudden wariness. His large frame fills the doorway more deliberately now, protective rather than welcoming.
"Who's asking?" The gravel in his voice takes on a harder edge.
Before Vadim can respond, I step forward slightly.
"This is her son, Vadim." I explain softly. "We're here because?—"
"Her son?" The man's brow furrows in genuine confusion. "There must be some mistake. Polina doesn't have a?—"
"Vadim!"
The familiar voice cuts through the tension like a knife. We all turn to see Serena bounding down the stairs behind the man, her face lit up with joy. She pushes past him and throws herself into Vadim's arms, nearly knocking him off balance.
"What are you doing here?" she exclaims, then turns to me with an equally bright smile.
The man in the doorway looks between Serena and Vadim in light confusion, as he tries to work out just what is going on.
"Dad, this is my brother," Serena breaks from the hug and turns to the man. "He's the one who brought me back."
The man's shoulders relax and a genuine smile breaks across his weathered face. He steps forward, extending a large calloused hand.
"Is that right?" He extends his hand towards Vadim and gives it a firm shake before turning to me, grip is gentle but sure. "Martin Chambers. Polina's husband."
I introduce myself and watch as Martin's eyes study Vadim's face with intense curiosity.
"Polina never told me she had a son," Martin says softly, almost to himself. "You have her eyes. Same color. Same shape too." He shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away thoughts. "Should've noticed it right away. Well, come in."
I feel Vadim tense beside me for a moment, but Martin either doesn't notice or chooses not to comment on it. His easy warmth seems to fill the space between us, somehow making this impossible moment feel almost normal as he shows us inside.
The interior of their home wraps around us like a warm embrace. Every surface tells the story of a life well-lived—not through expensive furnishings or elaborate decorations, but through countless framed memories capturing precious moments.
My heart catches as I watch Vadim's eyes drift over the photos. In one, Polina beams at the camera while Martin hugs her from behind, both of them covered in flour and laughing. Another shows Serena in her soccer uniform. Each image reveals a side of his mother I know he's never seen before—one where joy reaches all the way to those storm-gray eyes they share.
His fingers brush over a silver frame on an end table, and I notice the slight tremor in his hand and the fierce way he blinks his eyes. The photo shows Polina in a garden, head thrown back in genuine laughter while holding a basket overflowing with fresh-cut flowers.
"Have a seat," Martin gestures to the comfortable-looking couch. "Serena, would you go get your mother?"
"Sure, Dad!" Serena practically bounces up the stairs, her excitement palpable.
Vadim remains standing, his gaze fixed on another photo: one of Polina cradling baby Serena. The raw longing in his expression makes my chest ache. Without thinking, I slip my hand into his and give it a gentle squeeze. His fingers tighten around mine gratefully, though his eyes never leave the picture.
The floorboards creak overhead, and my heart pounds as footsteps approach. Serena appears first, practically skipping down the stairs. Behind her, a woman emerges, and my breath catches. Even after all these years, Polina remains beautiful, though time has left its gentle marks around her eyes and mouth.
She takes one step into the living room before freezing mid-stride. The color drains from her face as her storm-gray eyes—so like Vadim's—lock onto her son. Her hand flies to her throat, fingers clutching at nothing as her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.
I feel Vadim's grip tighten painfully around my fingers. The tension in the room becomes unbearable as mother and son stare at each other across what feels like an infinite divide. Polina's lips part in a silent scream that never quite materializes, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"Hi mom," Vadim says softly, his voice carrying an undertone of vulnerability I've never heard before.
Martin moves to Polina's side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. She flinches at his touch but doesn't pull away, her wide eyes never leaving Vadim's face.
"What are you doing here?" Polina's voice cuts through the room like ice. Gone is the warmth I saw in those photographs, replaced by a haunted emptiness that must've been the only thing Vadim ever saw from her.
Beside me, Vadim's whole body goes rigid. His hand trembles in mine as he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. I've never seen him so utterly powerless before.
"I gave you to him willingly so that I might be free of that place." Polina's eyes dart around the room wildly, as if searching for shadows in the corners. Her fingers keep clutching at her throat. "Why do you insist on forcing me to remember?"
Martin wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, but she shrugs it off, taking a step back.
"I can still remember those walls. That room." Her voice breaks. "I can still smell him, feel his hands—" She cuts herself off with a choked sound.
Vadim's fingers slip from mine as his arm falls limply to his side. I want to reach for him again, but something in his posture stops me. He looks exactly like he did that night when I accused him of becoming like Pyotr—completely shattered.
"Get out." Polina's words come out as barely more than a whisper. When Vadim doesn't move, she raises her voice. "Get out!"
I watch Vadim struggle to form words, his lips moving soundlessly. The proud, powerful pakhan who commands armies with a word seems to have vanished.
And instead, there's just a boy desperate for his mother's love.
"I'm sorry," Vadim whispers, rising to his feet. "We shouldn't have come."
My heart breaks at the defeat in his voice. Before he can take a step, I grip his arm.
"No." The word comes out sharp and clear. "You don't get to do this to him."
Polina's storm-gray eyes flash with anger. "You dare?—"
"Yes, I dare." I stand beside Vadim, chin lifted. "Your son is not the monster who hurt you. He's spent his entire life trying to be everything Pyotr wasn't."
"Is that right?" Her gaze drops to my neck, where the last yellowing traces of bruises peek above my collar. "Tell me, did he force himself on you like his father did to me?"
"Mom!" Serena gasps.
"No." I touch my neck deliberately. "He didn't."
Vadim's hand finds mine, trying to pull me back. "Lacey, don't?—"
"She needs to hear this." I squeeze his fingers before turning back to Polina. "Your son fights to save women from monsters like Pyotr. He's dismantling the very system that hurt you. He saved your daughter. The least you can do is to look at him and acknowledge that he's different."
" Zvyozdochka , please," Vadim whispers. "We should go."
"No!" I plant my feet firmly. "She needs to understand that you're nothing like him. That you've spent your entire life being accused of the crime for simply being born!"
"Should I just forgive him then?" Polina's voice rises, brittle and sharp. "Should I forget how he killed my brother in front of me? How he made me look into Misha's dead eyes while he—" She chokes on the words.
"No one is asking you to forgive Pyotr!" I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "But Vadim isn't the one who hurt you. He's carried the weight of your pain his entire life, trying to prove he's different."
"Different?" Polina laughs, a hollow sound that makes my skin crawl. "He has Pyotr's blood. His face. His?—"
"But not his heart!" My fingers tighten around Vadim's hand.
Polina's eyes flash dangerously. "You don't know what I suffered."
"No, I don't," I admit. "But I know what your son has done to make sure no one else has to suffer like that again."
The tension crackles between us like lightning about to strike. Neither of us willing to back down, both protecting the people we love.
"Mom." Serena's quiet voice breaks through our standoff. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Vadim."
Polina's head snaps toward her daughter, storm-gray eyes widening.
"I thought... I thought I was going to end up like those other girls," Serena continues. "But Vadim came for me."
I feel Vadim trembling beside me as Serena's words hang in the air. Polina's face crumples, her hand flying to her mouth as she looks between her children.
I watch as something shifts in Polina's expression. Her shoulders slump, and the fierce anger in her eyes dims to something closer to shame.
"When I came to him that night..." She refuses to look at Vadim as she talks, voice barely above a whisper. "I was desperate." She swallows hard. "I wanted to reach Olga first, but I had no way to contact her."
The admission knocks the air out of me. All this time, even after everything that happened, Polina still thought of Olga first.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. "Olga's the one who arranged Serena's kidnapping!"
"How dare you!" Polina's voice sharpens.
Her storm-gray eyes flash with the same familiar fury as Vadim's, and she takes a step toward me.
"I will not have you sullying Olga Romanovna's good name. She saved my life. She?—"
"Led you through the backdoor of the conservatory at Pankration?" I press on.
I see the disbelief flash across Polina's face. "How could you possibly know about that path?"
"Because Olga used the same route to deliver me to Kirsan's daughter." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "Right after she tried to convince me that Vadim was exactly like Pyotr."
"No." Polina shakes her head violently. "You're wrong. Olga saved me. She helped me escape when no one else would."
"She didn't save you." My voice softens with understanding. "She used you as a weapon against Pyotr. Just like she tried to use me against Vadim."
"That's not true!" But I hear the first trace of doubt creeping into her voice.
"It wasn't mercy that drove her actions. It was spite," I press gently. "Every time Pyotr took another woman to his bed, Olga's hatred grew because she was afraid that they could give him what she never could."
"It's not true." Polina covers her mouth as her body starts shaking. "She protected me..."
"She protected nothing but her own interests." The truth is sharp on my tongue. "You were just another pawn in her game. Another way to hurt Pyotr. To hurt your own son."
I watch as decades of certainty begin to crack in Polina's eyes. Her fingers press closer against her face, as if trying to grasp onto beliefs that are suddenly slipping away.
"Mom," Serena's voice carries a gentle but firm resolve. "I never told you about that morning."
I feel Vadim's hand tighten in mine as his sister continues.
"This woman—tall and beautiful in this cold way—she was the one who forced my car off the road." Serena's words come faster now, like she needs to get them out before they choke her. "She walked up to my window, looking down at me like... like she knew me."
Polina's face drains of color, her storm-gray eyes widening with each word.
"But it was what she said that scared me most." Serena wraps her arms around herself. "She looked at me and said how much I looked like 'her.' Especially my eyes."
A choked sound escapes Polina's throat as she stumbles backward. Martin catches her, but she barely seems to notice.
"No," she whispers. "No, that's not true. That can't be true."
"Olga was never your savior, Polina," I say softly. "But there is someone who has never stopped loving you, even when you rejected him." I squeeze Vadim's hand. "Your son."
The truth of my words seems to hit Polina like a physical blow. Her eyes finally— finally —find Vadim's, and I watch as decades of carefully constructed walls begin to crumble.
"All these years," she breathes. "I thought..."
Her gaze drifts to Vadim's face, really seeing him for perhaps the first time. Not as Pyotr's shadow, but as her son.
With tears in her eyes, a single word finally falls from Polina's trembling lips.
"Vadyusha."
Time seems to freeze entirely. I feel Vadim's hand tremble in mine as his breath catches. For a moment, he's utterly still, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment.
Her storm-gray eyes shine with tears—same as his—as she takes a hesitant step forward.
I feel Vadim's grip loosen against mine.
Then, something breaks.
A sound escapes him—half a sob, and half a gasp—and suddenly he's moving. Three long strides carry him across the room, and he gathers his mother into his arms.
She looks so small against his broad chest, like a bird with broken wings finally finding shelter.
Polina's hands clutch at Vadim's jacket as she bawls completely, decades of pain and guilt pouring out in gut-wrenching sobs.
"My boy," she keeps whispering between sobs. "My beautiful boy."
I watch through my own tears as Vadim holds his mother, his face buried in her hair as his shoulders shake with silent sobs.