34. Vadim
34
VADIM
I sit in the chair outside of the bedroom suite after Lacey has finally fallen asleep, thumbing through the bible, but the names and numbers blur together even as I commit them to memory.
My hands refuse to stay still.
The weight of Irina's death presses against my chest like a stone.
"We'll be landing in thirty minutes, Vadim Petrovich." Demyon's voice cuts through my thoughts. "I've arranged for the discrete transport of Irina's body."
I close the bible and press my palms against my eyes. Irina's final moments replay in my mind—her triumphant smile, the bloody flower blossoming on her chest from that single shot. The sound of Lacey's scream.
"She deserved better than this." My voice comes out hoarse. "After everything she survived..."
"She died protecting what she believed in." Demyon's hand grips my shoulder. "The same way she lived."
My gaze drifts to the cabin where Lacey rests. Her blood-soaked wedding dress is still there, crumpled in the corner. I remember how she trembled in the shower as I washed Irina's blood from her skin. The way she couldn't stop staring at her hands.
"I promised to protect her." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Instead, I've stained her with blood."
"Vadim—”
"Look at what I've done to her, Demyushka." I gesture toward the cabin. "She was innocent."
I've put blood on Lacey's hands. My entire life, I've tried to fool myself into believing that I'm different from Pyotr. But now?
A familiar self-loathing rises in my throat.
"The only thing you need to do right now," Demyon says quietly. "Is make sure that Irina's death wasn't in vain."
But as I stare at the pages of the leather-bound book in my lap, I wonder if any of this was worth the cost.
If I had any right to drag Lacey into this darkness with me.
The plane begins its descent, and Seattle's lights glitter below us through the ever-present rain like fallen stars. Somewhere in that glittering web is the life Lacey left behind. A life I tore her away from, just like Pyotr tore my mother from hers.
I open the door quietly. Lacey lies curled on her side, still wearing the clothes I helped her change into. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths.
" Zvyozdochka ." I touch her shoulder gently. "We've landed."
She jerks awake with a gasp, her eyes wide with fear. My heart clenches as she scrambles back against the seat before recognition floods her face.
"C'mon," I whisper, withdrawing my hand. "It's time to go."
Lacey nods, but her movements are mechanical as she stands. I steady her when she sways, and guide her toward the exit. The air hits us with a blast of cold soft rain under Seattle's telltale clouds.
It's fitting for what we've endured.
Two black SUVs idle on the tarmac. Demyon opens the rear door of the first one while men in dark suits approach the cargo hold where Irina's body rests.
"This way." I try to lead Lacey to our waiting car, but she plants her feet.
"No." Her voice is raw but determined. "I want to go with her."
"Lacey—"
"Please." She meets my eyes, and I see the same fierce protectiveness that I've come to love in her. "I can't just leave her now."
My objections die in my throat. This is the woman who faced down Sayanaa in that cathedral, who refused to break even with blood on her hands. Who am I to deny her this?
"Alright." I signal to Demyon to take the first car. "We'll go together."
She squeezes my hand. As we get into the SUV with Irina's body, I wonder if there's still hope for forgiveness.
The funeral home's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Irina's lifeless face. Lacey stands beside the metal gurney, her fingers trembling as she smooths down the fabric of a dress Demyon retrieved from Irina's shop—one of her final designs.
"I want to help dress her." Lacey's voice is quiet but firm. "Please."
I nod, unable to find words as the mortician leads her through the swinging doors.
"Vadim Petrovich." Demyon approaches from the shadows.
My jaw clenches as I think of Sayanaa's face in the church.
"The Golden Crown on Fifth and Pike. And Club Medusa in Pioneer Square." I recite the two entries I saw in the bible we'd taken. "Both with hidden basement levels where they keep their victims. I want them gone."
"Now?"
"Now." I watch through the window as Lacey gently lifts Irina's arm. "Get the victims out. And then kill anyone associated with Kirsan. Show no mercy."
"You're not thinking clearly."
"I am thinking clearly." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "And I'm doing what you said: making sure Irina's death wasn't in vain. Get this done. Eto moi prikaz. "
Demyon studies me for a long moment before nodding. "It will be done, Vadim Petrovich."
As he turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of Lacey carefully brushing Irina's hair, tears streaming down her face. My heart constricts at the tenderness in her movements.
"One more thing." I grip Demyon's arm. "Make them hurt."
I step through the doors, my footsteps echoing in the stark room. Lacey's hands still as she finishes arranging Irina's hair, each auburn strand perfectly placed against the silk pillow.
"Would you like to say something?" Lacey's voice breaks the silence.
I step closer to Irina's body, my chest tight with grief. All I can see is the same terrified girl forced to kneel beside her father in front of Kirsan and Pyotr in Pankration.
In the years since her escape, she transformed that pain into purpose.
Used her talent to save others like her.
My throat tightens. She looks so peaceful, as if she might wake any moment to share another secret about her designs or tease me about my inability to appreciate haute couture. I lean down, my lips close to Irina's ear.
"You were the first person who believed that I could be more than Pyotr's son," I whisper in Russian, my voice rough with emotion. "Where everyone else saw a monster's shadow, you saw something else. Someone worth believing in."
"Remember how you used to tease me about my 'boring' suits?" A sad smile tugs at my lips. "Yet you never stopped trying to teach me. About haute couture. About the difference between batiste and voile..."
The words catch in my throat as old memories flood back from a more innocent time. The sound of her infectious laugh, the fire of her fierce determination, and the way she'd light up when describing her latest designs.
But most importantly, the way she channeled every bit of her own suffering into creating beauty and hope for others.
"I'm sorry." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you in the end. But I swear on my life, I will destroy every piece of Kirsan's empire. Every trafficker, every enabler, every single person who helped him. They'll all pay. I swear it. His entire world will burn for what he's done to you."
Grief turns to rage as I think of how her body crumpled and collapsed under that single bullet. My fingers curl into fists.
"Your fight is over now, Irinochka. Be at peace, and give my best to your father when you arrive."
I straighten and step back, giving Lacey space.
I watch as Lacey's shoulders tremble. Her fingers trace the delicate lace patterns on Irina's dress.
"You showed me what real strength looks like," Lacey whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Not just in how you died protecting me, but in how you lived. The way you turned your pain into something beautiful, helping others escape..." She swallows hard. "Every stitch you made carried hope. Every pattern weaved a story of survival."
My chest tightens as Lacey adjusts Irina's collar with trembling hands. The same hands that tried desperately to stop the bleeding just hours ago.
"You didn't just measure fabric, you measured hearts." Lacey continues softly, her voice breaking. "And now I understand why Vadim trusted you so much. Why everyone who knew you loved and treasured you."
"I wish…" Lacey's tears fall freely now, dotting the silk of Irina's dress. "I wish I'd had more time to know you. To learn from you." She gently adjusts a strand of Irina's hair. "But I promise you this. I'll carry forward what you stood for. Your courage, your compassion." She draws a shaky breath. "The way you fought to give others a chance at freedom."
The raw honesty in Lacey's words makes my throat constrict. She sees Irina exactly as she was. Not just as a victim who survived, but as a warrior who never stopped fighting for others.
"Thank you," Lacey whispers, pressing a final kiss to Irina's forehead. "For everything."
The mortician wheels Irina's body toward the crematorium doors. Lacey's fingers interlace with mine, squeezing so tight that I can feel her entire body trembling. Her other hand presses against her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs I can feel building in her chest.
The doors open with a mechanical hiss. Heat radiates from within, and I'm transported back to the way Irina's body felt when I lifted her into the cargo hold—still warm, as if some a part of her spirit lingered, unwilling to leave this world where she'd fought so hard to make a difference.
Lacey's grip tightens as Irina disappears into the flames. A guttural cry rips from her throat—raw and primal, filled with all the anguish I've been struggling to contain.
She turns and buries her face against my chest, her body wracked with violent sobs.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer as my own tears finally break free. In this moment, holding Lacey as she grieves, all my carefully constructed walls crumble. Every emotion I've suppressed since watching Irina fall crashes through me like a tidal wave.
Rage, guilt, and devastating loss.
Irina was more than just an ally. She was living proof that someone could emerge from darkness and create light for others.
Now she's gone, and I've dragged another innocent soul into my blood-soaked world.
Lacey's fingers clutch my jacket as she weeps. Her pain mirrors my own, pure and tainted by the violence that's shaped my life.
I press my face into her hair, letting my tears fall freely. Together we stand, clinging to each other as the flames claim what remains of a woman who still dared to believe in beauty despite having seen the depths of human cruelty.
The city lights blur past as we drive through Seattle's empty streets. Lacey's head rests against my shoulder, her breathing still uneven from crying. The scent of smoke clings to our clothes, a bitter reminder of what we've lost.
My phone vibrates. A message from Demyon: "First location secured. Twenty-three rescued."
I slip the phone back into my pocket. The car turns onto the winding road leading to Pankration, and my chest tightens as I think of the bloody trail that led us here.
Nathan. The bible. Irina.
Each death adds another layer of darkness around Lacey's light. How many more before that light is extinguished forever?
"Stop the car," I tell the driver. He pulls over, just outside of Pankration's gates.
The mansion's lights are visible through the trees ahead.
Lacey lifts her head, confusion crossing her tear-stained face. I take her hand, running my thumb across her knuckles where Irina's blood has left invisible stains.
"Your part in this is over," I say quietly. "If you want to leave, I won't stop you."
Lacey lifts her head, her amber-flecked eyes searching mine in the darkness. "What do you mean?"
"You've done more than enough." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "There's no reason for you to stay involved in..." I gesture vaguely at the looming mansion. "Any of this."
"Vadim—"
"I won't force you to stay in this darkness with me." My fingers tighten around hers before letting go. "Not after what happened to Irina. So if you want this to end. Just say so."
Lacey's hand finds mine again in the darkness.
"No."
The single word carries more weight than I expect.
"No?"
"I'm not going anywhere." Her voice is quiet but firm, carrying the same steel I heard when she stared me down in Mrs. Klossner's dry cleaner. "For better or worse, I'm already involved in this."
"Lacey—"
"Let me finish." She shifts in her seat to face me fully. Even with tears staining her cheeks and exhaustion shadowing her eyes, there's a fierce determination in her expression that makes my breath catch. "Someone needs to continue Irina's work. Everything from her designs to the work she does with Svoboda."
My chest tightens at the mention of Irina's name. "You don't have to."
"But I do." She tightens her hold on my hand, fingers still trembling slightly. "What Irina did, using fashion to save trafficking victims, giving them hope and a fresh start. That wasn't just a job for her. It was her life's mission. Her purpose."
The passion in her voice reminds me so much of Irina that it physically hurts.
"It's dangerous work." I remind her.
"I know, but I don't care." Lacey's grip tightens. "Irina made armor from cloth. And now she's gone.” Her voice catches. "But her work, what she stood for? That can't die with her."
"You could have a normal life."
"After everything I've seen and lived and learned?" She shakes her head. "I can't just walk away and pretend none of this exists. Not when I can help you make a difference." Her other hand reaches up to touch my face. "You'll need someone with an eye for design."
The echo of Irina's words in Lacey's determination strikes me speechless. Where I expect to find fear in her eyes, I see only resolve.
"For better or worse," Lacey whispers, "I'm already part of this. Let me honor her memory by continuing what she started."
My heart swells at Lacey's words, at the unwavering conviction burning in her amber-flecked eyes.
"Are you sure?" I cup her face, searching her eyes for any hint of doubt. "Once you step through those doors, there's no going back to your old life."
Lacey's hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer until our foreheads touch. The scent of lavender and citrus and something uniquely her fills my senses.
"I've never been more sure of anything." She leans into my touch, her hand coming up to cover mine.
The raw honesty in her voice breaks something loose in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I pull her closer and capture her lips with mine. She responds instantly, her fingers threading through my hair as she deepens the kiss.
It's different from every kiss we've shared before. There's no pretense now, no calculated moves in a dangerous game. Just raw honesty and shared grief transforming into something else.
Something that terrifies me.
Her lips are soft against mine, yet I can't stop tasting of salt from her tears.
My heart thunders against my ribs as an unfamiliar warmth spreads through me. She responds with equal fervor, pressing closer until I can feel her heartbeat racing in time with mine.
I can't tell anymore where I end and she begins.
The sensation scares me more than any bullet or blade ever has. I've spent years building walls around myself, keeping everyone at arm's length. Yet somehow this woman has broken down every defense.
I break the kiss, resting my forehead against hers as we both catch our breath. The realization hits me like a physical blow.
I don't just want her body or her skills.
I want her .
All of her.
I don't want to let her go. Not tomorrow, not ever. The thought of her walking away now feels like someone reaching into my chest and trying to tear out my own heart.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to become more than a means to an end. I wasn't supposed to feel this crushing need to protect her, to keep her close.
But I do.
Because she's mine.