31. Lacey
31
LACEY
The heavy wooden doors of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral creak open before us. My heart pounds against my ribs as Vadim's warm hand steadies mine. The weight of the fake bible hidden beneath my wedding dress feels like it's dragging me down with each step.
"Ready, zvyozdochka ?" Vadim's whisper tickles my ear.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The smell of incense fills my nostrils as we enter. Pale light streams through stained glass windows, casting colorful shadows across the marble floor. My legs feel like jelly beneath yards of white silk.
The Archbishop stands at the altar, his ornate robes gleaming with gold thread. An ancient bible rests on a velvet cushion at the lectern in the front.
The one we're here to steal.
The one that could bring down Kirsan's entire trafficking operation.
What if we get caught? What if someone notices the switch?
Vadim's thumb strokes my palm as if sensing my rising panic. The small gesture grounds me, reminding me why we're really here. This is so much more than a heist.
This is about saving lives.
Still, my stomach churns as I think about the insane thing that we're about to do.
I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to look like a blushing bride instead of a terrified thief. The replacement bible feels impossibly heavy against my thigh with each step. How did I end up here? Two weeks ago, I was just a caterer with a cheating fiancé. Now I'm about to help a pakhan steal a bible from a church.
The congregation rises as we approach the lectern, each one of them with a stony look on their face. I spot Olga's cold stare from the front pew, watching us like a hawk. My grip tightens on Vadim's hand. The Archbishop smiles benevolently, completely unaware that we're about to deceive him.
Please let this work. Please don't let us get caught.
My heart pounds like a drum as we take our places before the altar, and I'm terrified that someone in the audience will know what we're up to. We'll have to execute our plan perfectly or face consequences I don't even want to imagine.
The Archbishop gestures for us to place our hands on his bible. My palm settles over Vadim's larger one, and I feel the warmth of his skin through our light touch. The ancient leather binding feels cool beneath our fingers, so different from the fake one pressing against my thigh.
The Archbishop intones something in Russian and we begin to walk.
He leads us in a slow circle around the lectern, our joined hands never leaving the bible. The hem of my dress whispers against the marble floor with each careful step.
Movement catches my eye. Demyon and another of Vadim's men approach from the side, each carrying an ornate crown in their arms.
The golden bands glint menacingly in the colored light filtering through the stained glass.
Vadim's thumb rests on mine, a tiny gesture of reassurance. I focus on that point of contact, using it to ground myself as we complete another circuit. The fake bible seems to burn against my leg with each step as we finally both kneel before the lectern.
I force myself to keep breathing steadily as we take our final circle around the lectern. Behind us, the twin crowns rise high above our heads like executioners' blades ready to fall.
My neck prickles at the thought. One wrong move, one misstep in our carefully choreographed plan is all it takes.
The heavy doors suddenly swing open and slam against the walls, the sound echoing through the cathedral.
My heart nearly stops as a tall woman in black strides down the aisle like a vengeful angel, her high heels somehow gliding soundlessly over the floor with deadly precision.
Sayanaa. It has to be.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in her appearance. Her jet-black hair flows behind her like a war banner, a stark contrast against her alabaster skin. But it's her eyes that freeze me in place—piercing blue like Arctic ice.
They stare at me with intensity.
And they hate.
She moves with a fluid grace, each step precise and purposeful in sharp stilettos that can easily double as weapons. Her black dress hugs every curve, and somehow makes her look more dangerous than seductive. Her chin is lifted with the absolute certainty of someone who's never heard the word "no" in her life.
The congregation parts before her, no one daring to meet her gaze or block her path.
An aura of raw power radiates from her presence. My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the suffocating warmth within the cathedral.
Behind her, men in dark suits fill the doorway, their hands suspiciously positioned beneath their jackets.
"You bastard!" Her voice rings out, rich and accented. "How dare you do this to me?"
The congregation erupts in shocked whispers. I feel Vadim tense beside me, his jaw clenching.
"I was promised to you!" Her eyes flash with fury. "My father and yours made an agreement. You belong to me!"
I lean forward slightly, edging the wedding dress forward to give Vadim easier access to the pocket that contains our replacement bible.
"You think this little nobody can replace me?" Her laugh is cruel and sharp. "Look at her. She's nothing! A whore playing dress-up in clothes she doesn't deserve!"
The Archbishop starts stammering, but she cuts him off with a stream of harsh Russian words. Her men being spreading out along the walls, their intentions clear by the murderous look on their faces.
My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe, but I force myself to stay still.
Vadim promised me that I'd be safer than anywhere else in Paris. That Sayanaa wouldn't be this crazy. But I'm having a hard time believing that right now.
I feel the weight of the real bible still on the lectern under our joined hands, even as its replacement hidden in my dress presses against my thighs trembling in fear.
"Stop this wedding," Sayanaa demands, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Or I promise you will regret it."
My heart nearly stops as Demyon suddenly laughs behind me—a sharp, mocking sound that cuts through the tension.
He holds the ornate crown high, letting candlelight catch its jewels.
"Is this what you want so badly, Sayavochka? Then have it!"
The crown spins from his fingers, hitting the marble with a musical ring as it rolls toward Sayanaa's feet.
"Pick it up like the yapping dog that you are," Demyon mocks her. "And then get the fuck out."
Gasps echo through the cathedral. Several older women cross themselves. The Archbishop mutters something that sounds like a prayer.
In that moment, everyone's attention remains fixed on the crown spinning to a stop at Sayanaa's stilettos.
Her ice-blue eyes narrow at the golden band, hands clenching into fists at her sides. The muscle in her jaw ticks as she stares down at the symbol of everything she believes should be hers.
This is it! This is our chance!
Quickly but deliberately like we practiced in Irina's store, I give Vadim's hand a light brush. Our signal.
He springs to action, fingers moving with practiced precision as he reaches beneath my dress, pull out the fake bible from the hidden pocket, lay it on top of the real one for a brief second, before taking our target and shoving it inside. The weight of the fake bible shifts against my thigh. My pulse thunders so loudly I worry it will give us away.
Then, Vadim's hand rests back on mine, and gives it that same light brush. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and see the tiniest nod that tells me it's done.
We did it!
Holy shit!
We actually did it!
"Enough!" Olga's voice cracks like a whip through the tension. She rises from her pew, her elegant figure radiating aristocratic disapproval. "This is a house of God, Sayanaa Kirsanovna. Whatever grievances you have with Pyotr's bastard, they will not be settled by blood within these walls."
My heart pounds as Sayanaa's face transforms into a mask of contrition.
"Forgive me, Olga Romanovna." She bows her head with exaggerated deference. "You are right— this is not the place for such unpleasantness."
The way she says ' this ' sends chills down my spine. She raises her hands, and her men begin backing away from the walls, their hands leaving from their jackets.
The entire congregation seem to breathe a long sigh of relief.
But Sayanaa isn't finished. Her gaze locks onto me, and I fight the urge to shrink back against Vadim.
"My sincerest congratulations to the happy couple." Her voice drips with honey-coated venom, and she kicks the crown back towards us. "I believe this belongs to you, little thief."
Those piercing blue eyes travel slowly down my body, examining every detail of my wedding dress as if memorizing it for later. When her gaze reaches my throat, she pauses.
The smile that spreads across her face makes my blood run cold.
The necklace suddenly feels like it's choking me. Olga's warning echoes in my mind: " If I can spot this little inconsistency, others at the wedding certainly will too. "
And the look in Sayanaa's eyes tells me that she's seen the same thing as Olga.
Without another word, she turns on her heel and strides back down the aisle, and her men fall in behind her like a funeral procession.