9. Vadim
9
VADIM
The Ferrari travels down the long-hidden road. Soon, the highway is far behind us as the rain fades to a light drizzle.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Lacey’s ghostly reflection in the window.
She tucks her legs together and leans forward, inadvertently showing off the graceful line of her calves. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I continue driving.
In the distance, the familiar sight of an ivory mansion rises from the misty pines into view. Gradually, her fear is replaced by curiosity as she presses her head to the glass and cranes her neck for a better view.
She has none of the thin and angular lines of the models on the runway, but soft curves in all the right places. Yet she still moves with a natural grace that imbue each motion with an effortless sensuality.
"Where are we?" Lacey's voice breaks through my thoughts, barely a whisper.
"My late father Pyotr's pride and joy." I guide the Ferrari past the gate and around the circular driveway. “Although 'ego trip' might be more accurate."
Her eyes widen as she takes in the sprawling Italianate palazzo, all pale limestone and soaring columns. The morning light catches on the carved balustrades, casting pale shadows across the facade that bears a resemblance to The Breakers of Rhode Island.
Despite its grandeur, the mansion would always remain a pale imitation of its inspiration. After all, Pyotr never saw the originals in person.
"It's beautiful," she mutters.
"I had the same thought my first day here. Pyotr built it to impress his rivals, not to nurture or care for his family." The car comes to a stop at the grand entrance. "He named it Pankration thinking it would give him the class he desperately wanted. I doubt he ever knew that it was just a fancy word without meaning."
Lacey's gaze darts between me and the mansion, disbelief clear in those amber-flecked eyes. I remember that same feeling of unreality when I first arrived—a bastard boy plucked from the mud suddenly thrust into this world of obscene wealth and power.
I kill the engine and step out of the car. "Welcome to my home, Ms. McKinney."
One of my men hurries from the garage to park the car for me, but I shake my head.
“Vasily.” My voice cuts through the morning air. "Fetch Lenka Feliksovna."
"Of course, Vadim Petrovich." With a quick bow, he hurries back inside.
Once we're alone, Lacey lifts her chin. Despite her bound hands, she meets my gaze directly. Even in the dull morning light of Seattle’s gray skies, light seems to dance in her expressive eyes.
"Well, you've brought me to your mansion. Just what do you intend to do with me now that I'm here, Mr. Stravinsky?"
Her question sends my discussion with Demyon in that basement rising back to the surface—about the cathedral, about the Bible, about how the only time someone other than the Archbishop can lay their hands on it, and about finding a woman who's just as stubborn, reckless, and committed to the idea of justice and fairness as me.
And like that, the solution to my problems crystallizes in my head.
The perfect means to an end.
And she’s standing right in front of me.
"What I intend, Ms. McKinney," I say evenly. "Is to marry you."
I expected a number of different reactions from Lacey. Laughter wasn't one of them.
It starts as a giggle, then builds into full-throated peals that echo across the mansion's facade.
"Marry you?" She shakes her head, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "That's—" Another burst of laughter. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
But when she meets my steady gaze, the laughter dies in her throat. Her expression shifts from amusement to dawning horror.
"Oh God, you're serious." Her voice drops to barely a whisper.
"Completely."
"No." She takes a step back, nearly stumbling. "Absolutely not. I just caught my fiancé cheating on me. The last thing I need is another man trying to?—"
"I'm nothing like Nathan," I cut in.
The color drains from her face. Her amber-flecked eyes widen as she stares at me.
"How did you know his name? I never mentioned it to you before." She swallows, breathing hard. "What were you really doing in my apartment?"
The morning breeze caresses my hand, and peppers it with light gentle rain. The wetness reminds me of the blood that stained them earlier.
Nathan's blood.
I curse at myself for mentioning that asshole's name. "That's a complicated question, Ms. McKinney."
"Then uncomplicate it." Her voice trembles but holds firm.
"I can't," I say, but even to my own ears the words ring hollow. "The less you know, the better. I'm trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" Her laugh holds no humor this time. "The only person I need protection from right now is you . You broke into my apartment, kidnapped me, and now you're telling me that you're going to marry me?" She shakes her head. "Abso-fucking-lutely not! I will never marry you. You can't force me."
Before I can respond, she spins and tries to run toward the tree line. But with her hands bound behind her back, she loses her balance on the uneven ground. I surge forward, catching her before she hits the wet gravel.
Time seems to stop as I hold her against my chest. Her rapid heartbeat pounds through the thin fabric of her clothes. That intoxicating blend of citrus and lavender fills my senses, making my head spin. Her soft curves press against me in all the right places, stirring something primal deep inside.
"Lacey—"
"Let me go!" She struggles harder. The raw fear in her voice cuts deeper than any knife.
There’s nothing to be gained lying to her. So, I opt to tell her the truth. Just not the full truth.
"Nathan was working for a man named Kirsan Kuular," I tell her. "For the last three years, he's been moving money through fashion companies to fund Kirsan's operations."
She stills in my arms. "What kind of operations?"
"Human trafficking." The words taste bitter as I say them. I loosen my grip but don't let go completely. "Operations that I've been trying to dismantle."
"Dismantle? How?"
"Through Svoboda," I answer.
I let her go and take a step back, giving her just enough space to make sure she won't bolt again.
"Your company? I don't understand."
"Fashion provide the perfect cover for traffickers. Models traveling across borders for shows raises few questions." My jaw clenches. "Kirsan takes advantage of this and uses modeling contracts to lure young women from Eastern Europe and Asia. He promises them fame and fortune, and then sells them to wealthy clients instead. We use that same cover to move the victims to safety."
"Svoboda," she whispers.
"Yes." I nod. “The word means 'freedom' in Russian. It's what I named my company because that's exactly what we do—we free people." I run a hand through my hair. "One half of the business produces high-end fashion. The other half helps victims of human trafficking escape and build new lives."
"And what happens after you help them escape?"
"We give them new identities, jobs, housing—whatever they need to start over. And for those that want it, we reunite them with their families." I meet her gaze directly. "Every collection we release funds another rescue operation. Every fashion show lets us reach victims where they’re held."
Her expression softens slightly. "How many have you helped?"
"Thousands." The weight of those we couldn't save settles on my shoulders. "But it's never enough. Kirsan has been expanding his operation. Specifically, he’s taking advantage of the fact that bespoke items selling for thousands are now a regular occurrence among the rich and powerful."
"Your suit jacket." She furrows her brows, and I can hear her mind turning as she takes in all of this information. "That piece of paper…"
"It's a list of fashion boutiques here in Seattle that are a part of Kirsan's network." I nod. "Each SKU is a victim they parade as models."
“You mean…” Her face pales. "All those insane numbers. They're prices ?"
“Yes. But not for clothes, Lacey. For people."
She sways on her feet. "Two years ago, when I first met Nathan, we bonded over fashion. He promised..." Her voice breaks. "He promised to help me start my own company. Said he just needed time to arrange the funding..."
"He was grooming you to be a part of Kirsan's operation," I say bitterly. "He didn't see you for your talent or your passion. He saw you as an opportunity to make money ."
She lurches forward, and I catch her as her knees give out. Her entire body trembles against mine as the reality of her narrow escape sinks in.
With a practiced motion, I undo the restraints keeping her hands pinned against her back and release her hands.
Lacey stumbles slightly as she regains her balance, and I steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow.
"But why a marriage?" she asks, rubbing her wrists. "Why do you need to marry me?"
"Ten percent of Kirsan's trafficking proceeds are being funneled through a church in Paris, the Alexander Nevsky cathedral,” I explain. "And I have every reason to believe that the transaction records are kept in the Archbishop's bible."
“That’s not answering my question.” Her voice is insistent even as it betrays a hint of cracking. "If you need to get into a church, surely there are other women you could marry. Women who are actually in fashion. Women who know what they're doing. Why me? "
"Because I know you'll fight and defend those who needs defending the most." The words come easily, just as they did at Mrs. Klossner's. "Because eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes after your engagement ended, you were fighting for a dry cleaner that you didn't need to fight for."
I hold up my right hand, showing her where her teeth marked me.
"When you were cornered, you didn't back down or beg for mercy. You fought even when you knew you couldn't win. That's why I need you, Lacey McKinney. That's why it can only be you."
"Can't you just break into the cathedral?" Lacey asks, her brows furrowing. "Wouldn't that be easier than... this?"
"The bible is usually kept on the Archbishop's person." I shake my head. "The only time it's brought out is during wedding ceremonies when the bride and groom are led through the Crowning ceremony."
She wraps her arms around herself, her eyes distant as she processes everything. "But how will we get the bible during the ceremony? Won't everyone be watching?"
For a moment, I consider warning Lacey about Sayanaa. About how I intend to use Sayanaa's obsession and jealousy to our advantage. And about the very real danger that we'll both be in as a result of that.
But the less she knows about that particular threat, the safer she'll be.
"Let me worry about the details," I say instead, keeping my voice steady.
"And is there a plan for how you intend on getting the bible out after you take it?" A small laugh escapes her throat, though it holds more nervousness than humor. "Am I supposed to stuff it under my wedding dress?"
My hand freezes on its way to running through my hair. The image forms instantly in my mind. The voluminous skirts of a wedding dress, the way the fabric cascades in layers that could easily conceal...
Brilliant.
I keep my expression neutral, not wanting to give away how perfect her offhand suggestion truly is. Somehow, she keeps finding new ways to impress me.
"That's not a bad idea," I say.
The nervous smile on her face falters when she realizes that I'm taking her idea seriously.
"This is insane," she whispers. " All of this is insane. Is there no other way?"
"There isn't."
She wraps her arms around herself. "So I'm just... a means to an end?"
The hurt in her voice makes me wince.
"No, zvyozdochka ," I say. "You're much more than that. You're a chance to save countless lives. To help me bring down a monster who's destroyed thousands of families."
Lacey rubs her wrists, drawing my attention to the angry red marks left by the restraints. My chest tightens with regret. The urge to take her hands in mine, to press gentle kisses along those marks until they fade, nearly overwhelms me.
But I want to do more than plant gentle kisses along her wrists.
I want to do so much more .
There’s a wildness in Lacey McKinney, a savage desire that I’ve seen only a tantalizing glimpse of.
A desire that is practically screaming for release.
And from the way her body moved against mine, first at the Vorobyov event when we danced, and earlier at her apartment when I had her pinned—both against the wall and the bed—I know she can feel it too.
Especially when I saw how her cheeks burned when I told her that I wouldn’t hurt her unless she asked me to.
"I'm—" I start, but my housekeeper Lenka's footsteps on gravel interrupt me.
"Vadim Petrovich." Lenka dips her head in greeting under her umbrella, kind eyes darting between Lacey and me as she takes in the scene before her.
"Lenka Feliksovna." I straighten, grateful for the distraction from my thoughts. "Would you please show Ms. McKinney to one of the guest rooms? The blue suite."
"Of course." Lenka's voice carries its usual warmth. She extends her hand toward Lacey. "Come with me, dear. You look like you could use some coffee.”
Lacey hesitates, her amber-flecked eyes finding mine again. Questions dance in their depths—about Nathan, about the trafficking, about this marriage proposal and what I’m asking her to do. The dull morning light catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold in the rain, and my fingers itch to run through those silken strands.
But I force myself to remain still as Lenka gently guides her toward the mansion's entrance. At the door, Lacey glances back one final time. The lingering questions in her gaze make my heart flutter.
Only when they disappear inside do I realize I've been holding my breath. My pulse pounds in my ears, far too fast for someone who prides himself on always maintaining control.
She's means to an end, I tell myself. Nothing more.
But even in my head, that doesn't sound convincing.