BEAUTIFUL AGONY

STRAVINSKY BRATVA

BOOK 2

BROOK WILDER

Copyright © 2025 by Brook Wilder

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Foreword

1.  Vadim

2.  Lacey

3.  Vadim

4.  Lacey

5.  Vadim

6.  Lacey

7.  Vadim

8.  Lacey

9.  Vadim

10.  Lacey

11.  Vadim

12.  Lacey

13.  Vadim

14.  Lacey

15.  Vadim

16.  Lacey

17.  Vadim

18.  Lacey

19.  Vadim

20.  Lacey

21.  Vadim

22.  Lacey

23.  Vadim

24.  Lacey

25.  Vadim

26.  Lacey

27.  Vadim

28.  Lacey

29.  Lacey

30.  Vadim

31.  Lacey

32.  Vadim

33.  Lacey

34.  Vadim

35.  Lacey

36.  Vadim

37.  Lacey

38.  Lacey

39.  Vadim

40.  Vadim

41.  Lacey

42.  Vadim

43.  Lacey

44.  Lacey

45.  Vadim

46.  Lacey

FOREWORD

This novel contains strong themes.

Please see the full list of triggers on my website here:

https://brookwilder.com/books/beautiful-agony/

1

VADIM

THE RAIN CONTINUES to pour as I watch my mother shiver, refusing to step into Pankration as drops of rain join the streams of tears on her face.

"Let me call someone to take you home," I say, pulling out my phone.

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. The sight breaks something in me. Here stands the woman who gave me life, yet she can barely look at me because I wear my father's face.

While we wait, neither of us speak. The silence stretches between us like an open wound. I want to reach for her, to comfort her, but I know my touch would only cause her more pain.

A few minutes later, a car pulls up to the gate. Before she turns to leave, my mother's eyes finally meet mine.

"Give Olga Romanovna my best," she says softly.

"I will, mamechka." I don't try to correct her misconception about Olga's kindness, that Olga helped her escape this place out of anything other than a desire to spite Pyotr.

Let her keep that one comfort—the belief that someone in this mansion once showed her real mercy.

Without another word, she climbs into the waiting car, and I watch until the taillights disappear into the rain.

Slowly, I turn and walk inside Pankration, mind still reeling from finally seeing my mother in person again after so many years. My phone buzzes. An unknown number.

Against my better judgment, I answer.

"Privyet, Vadyusha." Sayanaa's voice slithers through the speaker. "Did you miss me?"

My jaw clenches. "What do you want?"

"Straight to business, then?" She laughs giddily. "You have twenty-four hours to give me back what you stole from daddy."

The bible.

"Never going to happen."

"Oh, I knew you'd say that." Her voice drops lower, more dangerous. "That's why daddy gave me two new toys to play with. A scared little kitty with beautiful gray eyes and a pretty little thief with soft, delicate hands.”

My blood turns to ice.

"Twenty-four hours, Vadyusha." Sayanaa's voice drips with cruel pleasure. "Or I start sending you pieces. Maybe I'll start with the little kitty's gray eyes... or perhaps you'd prefer the little thief's hands. Those same soft hands that spent too many nights touching what rightfully belongs to me."

"You're lying."

"I don't lie, Vadyusha, I'm not you. But go ahead, check for yourself. You know how to reach me."

The line goes dead before I can respond.

My hands shake as I process Sayanaa's words. The little thief with delicate hands and the scared kitty with gray eyes. There are only two possibilities.

Lacey and Serena.

Serena, I can believe. But Lacey? Last time I saw her this morning, she'd been asleep in bed.

I sprint up the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time. "Lacey!" My voice echoes through the empty halls.

Bursting into my bedroom, I find rumpled sheets but no sign of her. The bathroom stands empty, steam long since dissipated. Her clothes from yesterday are still scattered across the floor.

"Lacey!" I call again, moving room to room with growing desperation. The blue suite. Empty. Her office. Empty. The library. Empty.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I search every corner of the second floor. Where could she have gone? When did she leave? Why didn't anyone see her?

"Vadim Petrovich," Lenka's voice cuts through my panic. She stands in the doorway of the drawing room, concern etched on her weathered features. "What's wrong?"

"Have you seen Lacey?" The words come out rougher than intended. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"Not since this morning. I thought she was resting in your room?"

"She's gone." My hands clench into fists, reopening the bite marks she left. "Get everyone looking for her. Now. Search every room, every closet, every corner of this fucking house."

Lenka's eyes widen at my tone but she nods, already turning to mobilize the staff.

I lean against the wall, mind racing. Think. How long has she been missing? Who saw her last? Did anyone notice anything unusual?

The answers elude me as the sound of doors opening and closing echoes through Pankration, accompanied by voices calling Lacey's name.

I slam the door to my office and boot up the security system, hands still trembling from Sayanaa's call. The monitors flicker to life, bathing my face in the cold glow as I start scanning through exterior camera feeds.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

My jaw clenches tight enough to hurt. How the fuck did Sayanaa get to her? The mansion is a fortress. There are cameras covering every angle, and guards at every entrance. No one gets in or out without being seen.

Unless...

The thought hits me like ice water in my veins.

Someone must've snuck her out from the inside.

I rewind the footage, scanning backwards through the morning hours until movement catches my eye. There! Lacey walking towards the conservatory about an hour ago, right around the same time as my meeting with Megan in Monroe.

But something about her gait seems off, almost hesitant.

Rewinding further, my unease grows as I spot another figure heading the same direction. Olga. Her silver-streaked hair and ramrod straight posture are unmistakable, even from this angle. The rings on her fingers catch the light as she moves with that cold grace she's perfected over the decades.

I look at the timestamp.

She entered the conservatory an hour before Lacey.

What the fuck were you doing, Olga?

I get up from my chair and walk towards the conservatory.

When I arrive, I find the door is slightly ajar.

Pushing it open, I'm hit by the musty smell of earth and aging flowers. A streak of lightning tears across the sky, and briefly lights up the glass ceiling, casting long shadows across forgotten plants.

My eyes find the back door's handle. It turns without resistance.

Unlocked.

The door creaks open to reveal an overgrown pathway winding through dense foliage. Branches hang low enough to obscure any view from the main house. The path curves away from Pankration's walls before connecting to the service road that leads to the highway.

This spot sits in a perfect blind spot between our security cameras.

The thick vegetation blocks sight lines from the guard towers. The curve of the path keeps it hidden from the road cameras.

This is the same path Mom took when Olga helped her escape, all those years ago. It has to be.

And Lacey…

Lacey must have gone to Olga after what I did to her on the stairs. After I proved myself to be exactly like Pyotr.

My stomach churns as I recall her words: "You took all my choices away." Just like Pyotr did to my mother. Just like Pyotr did to countless others in this very mansion.

The bitter irony of Lacey seeking help from Olga—just as my mother once did—isn't lost on me. History is repeating itself in the cruelest way possible.

But the very route that once offered salvation has now been used to deliver Lacey into Sayanaa's hands.

The pieces start falling into place, each revelation hitting harder than the last. Olga's unexpected arrival in Paris. Her revealing Sayanaa to Lacey in their first conversation together. Her convenient arrival back here in Pankration.

Olga was the one who told Kirsan where to find my mother.

There's no-one else who could.

I slam my fist against the doorframe, reopening the bite mark on my palm. Blood oozes, but the pain barely registers through the fury coursing through my veins.

And Mom spoke about Olga with such reverence.

"Give Olga Romanovna my best," she said.

That traitorous bitch played us all perfectly. She waited until I was far enough away before making her move. She found all the gaps in our armors, and pried them apart at her leisure.

The rage building inside me feels different from anything I've experienced before. This isn't the cold calculation of a pakhan, or even the hot anger that drove me to kill Nathan Walker. This is something else entirely.

Olga didn't just betray the bratva. She betrayed my mother's trust. She endangered my sister.

And she's handed the woman I love over to a monster.

This is beyond unforgivable. This is beyond revenge.

This is war.

I pull out my phone as soon as I return to my office, and dial Sayanaa's number, knowing she'll answer. And she does on the first ring.

"Well, Vadyusha?"

"How did you get them both?" My voice comes out deadly calm despite the rage burning through me. I need to hear her confirm my suspicions.

"Mmm, straight to business again?" She giggles. "But I suppose I can tell you, since you asked so nicely. Your stepmother was very helpful. Always thinking about what's best for the bratva."

My grip tightens on the phone. "When I get them back—and I will get them back—I'm going to kill you, your father, and that treacherous bitch Olga."

"Oh yes," Sayanaa's breath hitches. "Tell me more about just how you're going to kill me. Are you going to wrap those big strong hands around my throat and squeeze until you've choked the life out of me? Are you going to make me hurt before you kill me? I love it when you talk like this."

"You're sick."

"It's so hot when you make these threats." She moans into the phone. "But know this, Vadyusha. Every threat you make now, I'll repay tenfold when your time runs out." Her voice drops to a whisper. "And who knows? Maybe I won't be able to wait that long. Twenty-four hours is such a long time to wait. I might get impatient..."

"Shut the fuck up and tell me where you are." My voice drops dangerously low as I plug my phone into my laptop.

The tracing program boots up, scanning for her location. But I need to keep her talking for a few more minutes.

"Mmm, so commanding." Sayanaa's breathy moan makes my skin crawl. "But that would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?"

With bile rising up in my throat, I know what I have to do.

"You want to know what I'm going to do to you?" The words taste like acid in my mouth.

"Yes." She practically gasps. "Tell me everything."

My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. "I'm going to make you hurt. If you touch a single hair on either of their heads, I'll flay your skin until you're raw and bleeding."

"Oh God, yes." She lets out a breathy moan. "Keep going."

Bile rises in my throat but I force myself to continue. "I'll break every bone in your body. Starting with those fingers of yours."

"Fuck," she moans louder. "Are you hard thinking about hurting me, Vadyusha? About making me bleed?"

The sound of her pleasure makes my stomach turn. But I need more time for the trace. Just a little longer...

"You want me to hurt you?" The words taste like poison on my tongue. "I'll hurt you worse than anyone ever has."

"Yes!" Her moan echoes through the speaker. "Tell me how you'll punish me."

My eyes stay fixed on the tracing program, watching the circle narrow down. Just a little longer.

"I'll cut away those lips of yours." My voice drops lower, channeling every ounce of menace I possess. "The ones you can't seem to keep shut."

Her breathing grows heavier, more erratic. "What else?

"Then I'll move to your throat." I force myself to say. "Wrap my hands around it until you're gasping for air."

"Don't stop." She lets out a high-pitched whine. "I'm so close."

My free hand clenches into a fist, Lacey's bite marks stinging as they reopen. The pain helps ground me, reminds me why I'm forcing myself through this sick game.

The tracking circle continues to narrow. Just a little longer.

"I'm going to break you in ways that would make the devil himself weep," I growl into the phone, hating every word but knowing I need to keep her talking. "And when I'm done, I'll make sure you're still alive enough to feel what comes next—"

Her scream of pleasure cuts me off, echoing through the speaker as she wails like a banshee.

The sound sends my skin crawling.

"Oh God, that was good." Sayanaa's voice comes out breathy and satisfied. "But you know what would make it even better?" Her voice returns to an icy clarity. "If you weren't trying to trace my location this whole time."

My jaw clenches. The tracking circle on my screen is still narrowing, but not fast enough.

"What's wrong, Vadyusha? Cat got your tongue?" She giggles. "Or should I say... kitty? Your sister really does have the most beautiful gray eyes. Just like yours. Maybe I'll pluck out one of them and put it in my martini while I play this conversation back tomorrow night."

My grip tightens on the phone until my knuckles turn white.

"But thank you." Her voice drips with mock sweetness. "For the lovely phone sex. We should do this again sometime. Next time, I'll let you listen while I play with my new toys. I have the feeling that they're both screamers."

And then, the line goes dead.

"Sayanaa!" I yell, but it's no use.

That monster has both my wife and my sister—a sister I never knew existed until tonight.

Twenty-four hours to return the Archbishop's bible, or they both suffer.

That bible contains everything needed to destroy Kirsan's operation. Years of financial records. Names of corrupt officials. Evidence of human trafficking routes across three continents.

With it and the deal I just struck with Megan, I finally stand a chance to end his reign of terror.

But at what cost?

If I hand it over, I'm essentially surrendering. Everything Irina died for would be wasted. The women trapped in Kirsan's web would remain there, with no hope of rescue.

But if I don't...

I close my eyes, but all I hear is the giddiness in Sayanaa's voice on the phone. The things I know she's capable of doing to Lacey and Serena...

The choice tears at me. What matters more—my crusade against evil, or the lives of the two women I'm meant to protect?

What kind of pakhan sacrifices his own wife and sister?

But what kind of man lets innocent women continue suffering just to save two lives?

The tracking window flashes red on my screen, and my heart nearly stops.

Coordinates found.

That psychotic bitch was so caught up in gloating, she didn't realize the trace completed while she was gloating. The map shows movement heading south from the Seattle docks towards Tacoma.

A savage satisfaction courses through my veins. For the first time tonight, something's gone right.

I dial Demyon's number, and he picks up on the first ring.

"Get every boeviki you can find," I command before he can speak. "Olga betrayed us. She handed Lacey and my sister to Sayanaa."

"Your what?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, I need two teams. Send one to the docks—kill any of Kirsan's men still lingering there and pick up anything out of place. The other meets me on the road. I'm going after that crazy bitch myself."

"Understood." Demyon's voice shifts to pure business. "How many men?"

"As many as you can get. I want overwhelming force." My fingers trace Lacey's bite marks. "And Demyon? Tell them no mercy tonight. Every one of Kirsan's men they find is dead."

"Consider it done." He pauses.

I hang up and grab my keys, checking my weapon as I head for the garage. Sayanaa wants to play games? Fine.

I'm going to teach her that there are real fucking consequences for losing.

2

LACEY

THE CONTAINER LURCHES and my stomach drops as gravity shifts. Several women scream around me, their cries echoing off the metal walls. My hand instinctively goes to my throat, seeking the familiar comfort of Mom's necklace, but finds only bruised flesh. The loss hits me harder than the container's movement—another piece of Mom, gone forever under Sayanaa's heel.

A fan sputters to life somewhere above. The weak light filtering through its grate reveals what I couldn't see before: bodies. So many bodies. At least thirty women pressed together in this metal prison, their faces etched with terror and despair.

But one face catches my attention—those storm-gray eyes, that particular shade of blonde hair. She can't be more than sixteen, but the resemblance is unmistakable. My heart pounds as I make my way toward her through the press of bodies.

"Your mother," I whisper, careful to keep my voice down. "Is her name Polina?"

The girl's eyes widen. "How do you—"

"I know your brother. Vadim."

She studies my face, wariness warring with desperate hope. "Brother?"

"Yes. What's your name?"

"Serena," she whispers back. "Serena Chambers."

"How did they get you?" I whisper to Serena, needing to understand.

She wraps her arms around herself, her voice trembling. "For days, this black Mercedes kept showing up. Outside our house, near my school. Mom was terrified but wouldn't tell me why."

"Then this morning, I was driving home from swim practice. These cars came out of nowhere. Forced me off the road near the bridge." Her fingers dig into her arms. "This tall woman with the most terrifying blue eyes got out. She said if I didn't come with her quietly..." Serena swallows hard. "She said she'd hurt Mom. She'd hurt Dad."

Olga. I realize, bile rising in my throat. The same woman who promised to help me escape. The same woman who betrayed me.

Of course, I should've seen it. How could I have been so blind? So stupid?

"She brought me to the docks," Serena continues. "And that's how I ended up here."

Her voice cracks and she falls silent, staring into the darkness.

I reach for her hand, offering what little comfort I can.

"What's he like?" Serena's whispered question catches me off guard. "My brother? Mom never... she won't talk about anything from before she met my dad. But I always wondered. I mean, there must be a past before me, right?"

I pause, weighing my words carefully. How do I explain Vadim to this her? How do I describe the complexity of a man who can order deaths one moment and tenderly kiss away my tears the next?

"What do you know?"

"I found this old photo in her dresser once," Serena pauses for a moment before she starts talking again. "She was holding a baby. She looked so young and beautiful. But when I asked her about it, she got really mad, changed the subject, and told me to never talk about it again."

My heart aches. I think of Vadim's pain whenever Polina rejects him, the way his eyes cloud with hurt before his mask slips back into place.

"Your brother is..." I trail off, searching for words that won't frighten her. "He's extraordinary. Brilliant and determined. When he sets his mind to something, nothing can stop him."

Like dismantling a human trafficking empire piece by piece. Like avenging every woman who's suffered at Kirsan's hands.

"He'll come for us," I say with more conviction than I feel. "He'll find us and get us out of here."

The moment the words leave my mouth, doubt creeps in. How could Vadim possibly track one shipping container? What if Kirsan kills us before he can reach us?

Or separates us?

I mentally shake myself. No. I've seen what Vadim can do. I've witnessed his power, his resources, his relentless drive. If anyone can find us, it's him.

"Really?" Serena's voice is small, hopeful. "You're sure?"

"Yes," I say firmly, squashing my earlier doubt. "I'm sure."

The container jerks to a sudden stop, throwing us against each other. Metal groans and squeals as the doors are yanked open, and our prison is filled with the earthy smell of rain.

My heart drops as Sayanaa's silhouette appears, flanked by men with raised guns.

"Get out," she orders, her voice hard as iron. "All of you."

Nobody moves. The women around me press closer together, as if our combined fear might somehow shield us. Sayanaa's lips curve into a cruel smile.

"Ugh, Tuvans." She barks at them in a language I've never heard before. One that sounds nothing like the rolling rhythm of Russian.

The women still don't move.

Sighing, Sayanaa nods to one of her men. The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The woman by the entrance crumples, blood blooming across her chest. Screams erupt around me, echoing off the metal walls.

Sayanaa's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, speaking that unknown language at them.

Finally, women start scrambling out, pushing and shoving in their desperation to get away from the corpse beside them. Beside me, Serena's hand tightens around mine, her grip almost painful. I look down and see those storm-gray eyes—so like Vadim's—wide with naked fear for the first time since I met her.

I squeeze back, trying to offer what little comfort I can even as my own terror threatens to overwhelm me. The familiar weight of Mom's necklace is gone, crushed under Sayanaa's heel, and with it any illusion of safety I might have clung to.

"Bring those two to me, Grisha." Sayanaa points at me and Serena. "They're my special guests."

A mountain of a man with a nasty scar across his face steps forward at Sayanaa's command. One of his eyes is opaque and blind, giving him a wild cruel appearance. My instinct is to pull away, but Serena's trembling hand in mine keeps me rooted. I won't abandon her.

Sayanaa's eyes drift to where Serena's fingers are intertwined with mine. A cruel smile plays across her lips.

"So precious. The little thief protecting the little kitty." She traces a manicured nail down my cheek. "But holding hands won't save either of you from what's coming."

Movement catches my eye. I turn and my blood runs cold. Men are herding the other women toward a concrete building like cattle, rough hands shoving anyone who moves too slowly. One woman stumbles and is yanked up by her hair, her cry of pain echoing across the yard.

"What are you doing to them?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Sayanaa's smile widens. "I'm preparing the merchandise for market." She leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. "We need to teach them their new reality. Break their spirits. Crush any lingering hope they might have of rescue or escape."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. I want to scream at her. They're not merchandise! They're people! Daughters, sisters, mothers. Each one with dreams and hopes and lives that are being systematically destroyed.

"Some fight it at first," Sayanaa continues, clearly relishing my horror. "But they all break eventually. They all learn their place." She turns to the big man who dragged us out. "Go and join your friends, Grisha, and have fun. God knows you've earned it."

Grisha's heavy footsteps fade as he lumbers, grinning, towards the building. My stomach churns at what is happening inside. Sayanaa's predatory gaze rakes over me, lingering on the bruises Vadim left on my neck.

"Follow me," she purrs. "And don't make me ask twice."

Serena's hand trembles in mine. I squeeze back, trying to project a strength I don't feel. But we have no choice as Sayanaa directs the two of us toward a cellar door set into the concrete building's foundation.

The door groans open on rusted hinges.

"Come along, little thief." She gestures down the dark stairs. "And keep that scared kitty by your side. Wouldn't want her getting lost, would we?"

I draw Serena closer as we descend into hell. Each step takes us deeper into darkness, the wailing echoes all around us above. The dank air reeks of fear and despair.

The heavy cellar door clangs shut behind us, sealing us in darkness until fluorescent lights flicker to life. My heart pounds as I take in our surroundings—it's jarringly mundane. Like any warehouse office a single desk, a few old filing cabinets, and a water cooler in the corner that has seen better days.

Only the muffled screams of women above us remind me this is anything but normal.

"Sit." Sayanaa gestures to two chairs in front of what I assume is her desk.

I help Serena to one of the chairs, keeping my grip on her hand. She's trembling now, and her palm is cold and clammy against mine.

She's just a child. She shouldn't be here. None of us should.

"Vadim will come for us," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "He'll tear this place apart to find us."

Sayanaa's laugh is like breaking glass. "Oh, I'm counting on it, little thief." She perches on the edge of her desk, crossing her legs deliberately. "Why do you think I let him trace my location?"

My blood runs cold. "What?"

"Please." She examines her manicured nails. "Don't you think I know everything there is to know about my Vadyusha? About what makes him tick? About what makes him lose control? I wanted him to come here." Her predatory gaze fixes on me. "What better way to draw him out than dangle the two of you as bait?"

The screams from above grow louder, punctuated by a man's rough laughter. Serena flinches beside me. I squeeze her hand tighter, fighting back nausea as I realize we're not just prisoners—we're pawns in Sayanaa's twisted game.

"Daddy wants his book back." Her smile widens as she leans forward, her voice dropping to a low hiss. "But I want what's mine."

"Vadim will never give you what you want," I spit out. "You're delusional if you think he'll—"

Sayanaa's hand shoots out, and slaps me across the face hard enough to send my ears ringing. "I'm talking now, little thief."

I gasp, tasting blood in my mouth.

"You know," she continues, "I had an epiphany in that cathedral, watching you stand where I should've been standing. I realized this whole time that I was chasing the wrong prize all along."

I keep my mouth pressed in a line, letting my silence goad her into revealing more.

"All this time, I thought I wanted Vadyusha." She moves to perch on the desk in front of us. "But the truth is, I wanted the Stravinsky bratva." A cruel smile plays across her lips. "And there just happens to be another Stravinsky brother available. Useless as he is."

I know who she means. Slava.

"That poor shell of a man." She laughs at my expression. "Unable to feed himself, unable to speak, unable to get out of that hospital bed, let alone run an empire. But that doesn't matter." She leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "I just need his cock to work. All I need is for him to give me a child. A single legitimate Stravinsky, and everything I want becomes mine."

"You're sick," I can't hold back anymore.

"Funny. That's exactly what Vadyusha said." Her eyes flash with rage as they drink in the bruises around my neck. "But tell me, little thief. What's sicker? Accepting that you are the monster people make you out to be? Or pretending to be some noble crusader while you follow the footsteps of the monster you claim you are not?"

I feel my stomach turn and the bruises around my neck seem to burn. Sayanaa's eyes glitter with malicious delight as she catches my reaction.

"His heart is too soft," she purrs, running her fingers through my hair. "He's so desperate to prove he's not Pyotr's son when he should've embraced the strength his father had."

She grips my hair in her hand and forces me to look at her, as she pulls out her phone. Nimble fingers tap three times on the screen.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" The dispatcher's voice crackles through the speaker.

"Help!" I shriek as loud as I can, my voice raw and desperate.

Sayanaa's smile widens, and her cold eyes gleam with satisfaction. But she makes no move to stop me. Instead, she taps the screen, and I see the mute icon appears.

That's when I realize.

She wants me to scream.

She wants the dispatcher to hear the panic, the fear, the desperation in my voice before she cuts me off.

She's letting them trace the call, letting them hear just enough to draw them here.

To ambush Vadim.

Serena trembles besides me. I want to tell her it'll be okay, that Vadim will save us before Sayanaa's trap can spring shut.

But I don't know if I can believe that anymore.

"Ma'am?" the dispatcher calls out on the other end. "Ma'am, are you there?"

Seconds tick by like hours. Then, with a satisfied smirk on her face, Sayanaa ends the call.

"When Vadyusha comes charging in here, all rage and righteous fury to save his precious wife and sister, he'll make this whole operation look like it's his." Her eyes gleam with savage satisfaction. "And the only witnesses who might dispute his account?" She laughs. "Merchandise too brutalized to talk, assuming if they can even find anyone who can translate Tuvan. And the two of you, I suppose. Not nearly enough to overturn the overwhelming evidence. Especially if they find daddy's book."

My heart pounds as she continues, "Poor Grisha." She sighs theatrically. "At least he'll get one last good fuck before Vadim puts him down like the dog he is."

The casual way she dismisses her own men's lives makes my skin crawl. These are people who trust her, who follow her orders, and she's throwing them away like pawns in her twisted game.

This woman isn't just evil.

She's the literal fucking devil.

"Daddy never understood," she muses, and for the first time, a hint of vulnerability seeps into her voice. "He never appreciated what I could do. All he ever saw in me was just a pretty face to dangle in front of potential allies."

Her eyes harden, as she takes a shuddering breath before she continues, words dripping with venom from years of resentment.

"Just another merchandise to be sold like the rest of you worthless whores."

Slowly, she removes one of her earrings, and uses the pushback to pop the SIM card out of her phone.

"And by the time he sees his mistake."

The tiny card glints between her perfectly manicured fingers before she drops it to the floor.

"It'll be too late."

The sharp crack of her heel against it echoes in the basement office.

The motion is identical to when she destroyed Mom's necklace, and fresh tears spring to my eyes at the memory.

"Oh," she soothes, cupping my face with a gentleness that terrifies me more than her violence. Her thumb wipes away a tear. "Don't cry, little thief. This isn't goodbye forever."

Her lips brush my cheek in a mockery of tenderness. I try to jerk away but her grip tightens, holding me in place as she whispers against my skin:

"We'll see each other again very soon. And when we do, the three of us are going to have so much fun."

3

VADIM

IN THE DISTANCE, a concrete building—where Sayanaa's tracked location is pinging— rises from the darkness like a ghost in the mist. My hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make my knuckles white as I bring my car to a stop. Behind me, two more cars mirror our action.

My hand still throbs in pain, but it gives me focus.

"Out," I command my men. "We proceed on foot."

It takes us no more than five minutes to sneak up in the rain, and I look at the situation before us. Three guards stand outside, smoking.

Lacey and Serena are there.

They have to be.

"Gotovi?" I ask my men. Ready?

Nods all around. Good. These are my most loyal boeviki, handpicked for their ruthlessness. I won't need to repeat myself.

"Kill them all," I order. "Anyone who stands between us and that building is a dead man."

My men fan out, weapons already drawn. The guards barely have time to reach for their guns before my boeviki open fire. Three bodies hit the ground as thunder rumbles overhead.

We rush towards the building. Somewhere inside, that psychotic bitch Sayanaa is probably getting off on all this.

The front door suddenly bursts open. Armed men stream out, weapons raised. More of Kirsan's thugs, responding to the gunfire. I count at least twelve of them.

"Kill them!" I command.

My men take positions behind any cover they can find, already returning fire. The air fills with gunshots and dying men. But I keep moving forward, one step at a time. Nothing will keep me from that building. Nothing will keep me from Lacey.

The first wave falls quickly under our coordinated assault. I step over their bodies and rip the door open. My boeviki follow closely behind me.

Gunfire erupts from inside. I dive behind a concrete pillar as bullets chip away at the edges. The dark red lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows across the warehouse floor.

A woman's scream pierces through the gunfire.

I peek around the pillar and see one of Kirsan's men dragging a terrified woman in front of him. My finger tightens on the trigger, but I can't get a clean shot without risking her.

A gunshot rings out and the woman crumples. Then another. And another.

"Fuck!" I curse, recognizing what's happening.

"Take the shots if you have them!" I command my men in Russian. "Don't let them murder any more!"

I move from cover to cover, looking for angles. Another scream cuts off with a gunshot. These animals are systematically executing everyone who could testify against them.

I spot movement to my left—one of Kirsan's men raising his gun to another victim's head. My bullet takes him through the temple before he can pull the trigger. His victim collapses, in shock but still alive.

But for every one we save, I hear another execution. The sound of each gunshot feels like a personal failure. These women were supposed to be rescued, not slaughtered!

I press forward, staying low, searching for any sign of Lacey or Serena among the chaos. The concrete walls amplify every shot and scream into a hellish cacophony.

A flash of movement catches my eye. One of Kirsan's men grabs a young woman, using her as a human shield.

His eyes are wild, desperate. He knows he's cornered.

"Stay back!" he shouts, pressing his gun to the girl's temple. She whimpers, tears streaming down her face.

I keep my weapon trained on him, looking for an opening. His shoulder is exposed—just barely—as he shifts his grip on the terrified woman.

I take the shot.

The bullet tears through his shoulder. He screams, releasing his hostage as he crumples to the ground. His gun clatters across the concrete floor.

I kick the weapon away and press my boot into his wounded shoulder. "Where are they?" I demand in Russian. "Where's my wife? Where's my sister?"

He spits blood at my feet. "Fuck you!"

My finger tightens on the trigger, rage burning through me. But movement catches my eye—the women huddled against the walls, watching with terrified expressions.

I can't execute someone in front of them. They've seen enough violence tonight.

"Get them out of here," I order one of my boeviki in Russian. "Call ambulances. Make sure they're taken care of."

I grab the wounded man by his collar and drag him toward the exit.

"Take this mudak outside," I tell another of my men. "Make it quick."

I search through the building, my heart pounding harder with each woman I pass who isn't Lacey. Some huddle against walls, trembling. Others lie motionless on the ground. My men escort the survivors out while I move deeper into the building.

"Lacey!" My voice echoes off concrete walls. No answer.

No… No! No! No!

I start checking the corpses, rolling each one over with shaking hands. Dark hair, not blonde. Wrong build. Too tall. Each corpse that isn't her brings both relief and escalating panic.

Where the hell can they be?

"Vadim Petrovich," one of my men calls. "We've cleared the building. No sign of her."

I slam my fist against the wall as I storm back outside in the rain, the pain barely registering through my fury. That's when I spot it—a heavy metal door set near the back wall.

A cellar entrance.

The man I ordered executed lies crumpled nearby, blood pooling beneath him. I step over his body.

"Open it," I command my men, gesturing to the cellar door.

Two boeviki grab the handles and heave it open. I draw my gun and start down the concrete steps, my footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. Stale air wafts up from the darkness below.

At the bottom, fluorescent lights flicker to life, illuminating what looks like an office. And there, tied to a chair, is Lacey. Beside her is a girl who looks almost like a mirror image of my Mom.

Serena. I think. It has to be.

The two of us stare at each other, and time seems to freeze. Neither of us moves as our eyes—so much like Mom's—drink in every detail.

There's recognition Serena's eyes, and for a moment, I'm a boy again as I stare back through a haze of tears at Polina to look at me one last time before Pyotr ripped me from her arms.

Then, a gentle hint of citrus and lavender comes drifting over, and my eyes find Lacey. Her amber-flecked irises shimmer in the light, and relief floods through me.

My hands shake as I holster my weapon and rush towards both of them.

"Zvyozdochka," I whisper. "I should have protected you better. I should have known Olga would—"

"Vadim, listen to me!"

Lacey's voice is panicked and insistent. But I can't stop the words tumbling out, desperate to erase the fear in her eyes. "I'll make this right. I swear I'll—"

"VADIM!" Her voice cracks like a whip. "Stop apologizing and listen!"

My hands still on the ropes as I finally register the urgency in her tone.

"This is a trap," she says, her words coming fast now. "Sayanaa called the police. She's setting you up to take the fall for everything—the trafficking, the murders upstairs, all of it."

Ice spreads through my veins as the pieces click into place. The too-easy phone trace. The systematic executions upstairs meant to eliminate witnesses.

Even Sayanaa's theatrical phone call makes sense now.

She wanted me emotional, reckless, charging in without thinking.

And I did…

"The police are already on their way," Lacey continues. "She wants them to find you here, in charge of all this. We need to go, now."

I finish untying her bonds, my mind racing. If what she's saying is true, we have minutes at most before this place is surrounded.

"Wrap it up and get ready to move now!" I shout up the stairs in Russian. "Police are coming!"

My men respond immediately, herding the shell-shocked women toward the exits. None of them speak English, and none of them are responding to Russian either. I look at their faces, seeing the characteristic features of Tuvans from the Russian Far East, and realize that there isn't a single person here who can talk to them.

I stare at the women huddled in the rain, their terrified faces illuminated by flashing lightning. Every fiber of my being screams at me to help them, to get them somewhere safe and warm. But police sirens are already wailing in the distance, getting closer with each passing second.

"Get in the car. Now." My voice comes out harsher than intended as I usher Lacey and Serena toward our escape vehicle.

Serena pulls back, those storm-gray eye—so like my own, so like Mom's—fixed on the group of women. "But what about them? We can't just leave them here!"

The sirens grow louder. My men are already peeling away in their vehicles, following our predetermined escape routes.

"Listen to me carefully," I grip Serena's shoulders, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I cannot help anyone if I'm arrested. These women will be taken care of by the police. But if they catch me here, everything I've been doing will fall apart. Do you understand?"

She nods, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks.

"Get in the car. Now."

They climb into the backseat together, Lacey wrapping a protective arm around my sister. I slide behind the wheel, my hands clenching white-knuckled around the leather.

The first police cars zoom past us just as we turn the corner, their lights painting the wet road in strobing red and blue.

I force myself not to look back at the women we're leaving behind, and my self-loathing deepens by the second at the choice I've made.

4

LACEY

BY THE TIME we return to Pankration, the sun of an uncharacteristically clear day is rising in the distant horizon.

From where I stand in the foyer, I watch Serena run her fingers along the banister of the staircase. Her movements mirror Vadim's so perfectly it takes my breath away. The same graceful economy of motion, the same measured consideration.

But her face looks different.

All except her eyes.

A crash of shattering porcelain makes us both jump. Lenka stands frozen in the doorway, her usually composed features slack with shock. The remnants of a tea service lie scattered at her feet, dark liquid spilling across the marble floor

"Bozhe moy," she whispers, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. Her eyes never leave Serena's face. "It cannot be..."

Serena shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare. I move closer, ready to intervene, but Lenka is already rushing forward.

"Polinka, is that you?" she breathes, reaching for Serena's face with shaking hands. "No... it can't be..."

Serena takes a startled step back. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Forgive me, devushka." Lenka's voice cracks. "I knew your mother when she first came to this house." Her eyes grow distant. "You look so much like her."

"You knew my mother?" Serena asks softly. "Here? In this house?"

Lenka nods, tears spilling freely now. "I did, devushka. I did."

As Lenka steps back, wiping tears from her eyes, Serena turns to where Vadim and I stand.

"Where am I?" Her storm-gray eyes—so like her brother's—dart between us. "What is this place?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. I look to Vadim, but his jaw is clenched tight, his shoulders rigid with tension.

"Pankration," I say softly when it becomes clear Vadim won't answer. The name feels like ash in my mouth. "It's..." I trail off, unsure how to explain this monument to pain and power.

"Your brother's home," Lenka finishes for me, her voice gentle but firm. She bends down to start gathering the broken pieces of china, her hands still trembling slightly.

"The house of the man who made me," Vadim corrects sharply. The words crack like ice through the foyer. "Pyotr Stravinsky."

I watch Serena process this, her delicate features—so like Polina's—twisting with confusion. "But Mom never mentioned..." She stops, swallowing hard. "She never talks about any of this."

"No," Vadim says quietly. "She wouldn't."

The weight of unspoken history presses down on us all. I reach for Vadim's hand, threading my fingers through his. His grip is almost painfully tight, but I don't pull away.

"Perhaps," Lenka suggests carefully, "your sister would like to rest? Some food from the kitchen? It's been a long night for everyone."

"No," Serena speaks up, her eyes never leaving Vadim. "I want to know why Mom never talked about this place. Why she never talked about you."

I watch the internal struggle play across Vadim's face at the question. His jaw tightens, and a familiar tension returns to his shoulders.

"Because this..." Vadim's voice trails off. His eyes drift to the ornate walls around us, as if seeing ghosts I cannot. "This is a place of pain and misery."

Serena's brow furrows. "I don't understand."

"You don't need to." Vadim's voice turns hard. "All you need to know is that this was her prison. Her hell."

He stops himself, clearly wrestling with how much to reveal to his teenage sister.

I reach over and slip my hand into his. His fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing tight enough that I feel the slight tremor he's trying to hide. The contact seems to steady him, and some of the rigid tension eases from his frame.

"There's a reason your mother never spoke of this place," he continues more gently. "A reason she built a new life far from here. The memories within these walls..." He draws a deep breath. "They're better left in darkness."

I feel Vadim's grip tighten as Serena's voice rises, sharp with anger and fear.

“Better left in darkness?” Her storm-gray eyes flash. "I was shoved into a shipping container with thirty other people. They shot one of them right in front of us just to make a point!" Her voice cracks. "And that woman. She made us listen while..." She swallows hard. "While her men hurt them upstairs."

Vadim's hand trembles in mine. I squeeze it gently, trying to give him strength for what must come next.

"Don't you think I deserve to know why Mom never told me about this? About you?" Serena demands. "What terrible thing happened here that made her choose to erase it completely?"

The silence stretches between them. I watch Vadim's throat work as he struggles to find the words. Finally, he speaks, his voice rough with pain.

"Thirty-six years ago, Mom was brought to this house against her will as a slave." His words come slowly, as if each one costs him dearly. "And I was the result."

Despite the weight of Vadim's revelation, Serena doesn't recoil. Her chin lifts slightly, reminding me of the way Vadim squares his shoulders before facing difficult truths. Maybe it's because she just witnessed the depths of human cruelty in that concrete building, or maybe this strength runs deeper—an inheritance of strength from Polina, passed down to both her children.

Those same storm-gray eyes drift to me, studying my face. Her brow furrows as her gaze catches on my neck. I resist the urge to cover the marks there, knowing it would only draw more attention to them. The bruises from where Vadim's fingers pressed into my flesh during our confrontation on the stairs feel like they're burning under her scrutiny.

Her gaze travels down to my wrists where similar marks peek out from beneath my sleeves. The silence grows heavy as understanding dawns on her face.

"The bruises around your neck." Her voice trembles slightly. "Who did that to you?"

"I did." Vadim's admission is quiet but firm beside me.

The alarm that flashes across Serena's features makes my heart clench. She takes a small step back, looking between us with growing horror.

Before she can say anything else, I step forward.

"Serena, wait." My voice comes out gentler than I intended. "Your brother and I... it's complicated. But you need to understand. He never did anything I didn't explicitly ask for. Want, even."

She looks at me with eyes far too knowing for her sixteen years. Of course she would be perceptive beyond her age.

She's Polina's daughter, raised to see the darkness lurking beneath polite surfaces. To question everything, and trust no one.

"You don't have to defend him," she says quietly, and the protectiveness in her tone makes my chest ache.

"I'm not. I'm simply telling you the truth." I meet her searching gaze steadily. "Your brother is a complex man. In time, you'll come to see that. But please believe me when I say these marks aren't what you think they are."

The skepticism doesn't leave her face, but something in her posture softens slightly. She's still watching us both carefully, weighing my words against her own instincts.

"I can have a car take you home," Vadim says, his voice softening. "Mom is worried about you."

My heart squeezes at the tenderness in his tone. It's the same gentle cadence he used with me in the shower, when his touches turned from brutal to healing.

Serena's eyes drift between us again, lingering on the protective way Vadim's hand rests at the small of my back. I can see the questions in her eyes.

But she doesn't talk. Instead, she just nods slowly, processing everything she's learned in the past few hours.

"Okay," she says finally. "I'll go home." She pauses, then adds. "For now."

"For now." Vadim's voice is rough with emotion. "When the time comes, the doors to this place will always be open, and I'll answer what I can. I promise."

I WATCH as Serena climbs into the back of the black SUV. She gives me a small wave before they drive off, leaving Vadim and me alone in the circular driveway.

"You should go with them," I say softly. "She's your sister."

Vadim shakes his head. "I've caused enough pain in Polina's life. She doesn't want to see me. Not when I've become just like him."

"That's not true." The words burst from me before I can stop them.

"Can you really say that?" His laugh is bitter, hollow. "After what I did to you on those stairs?"

He turns to me, and the raw anguish in his eyes makes my heart crack.

"I hurt you, degraded you, used you the way he would have used her."

"That's not true. You wanted to stop—"

"But I didn't." His voice breaks. "I should have walked away. Instead, I let my anger control me. I became him."

"Vadim—"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and the naked vulnerability in those two words steals my breath. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I understand why you wanted to get away from me. Why you went to Olga for help."

He looks away, and blinks fiercely.

"Like she did."

My chest aches at the self-loathing in his voice. I want to tell him that he's wrong, that the real monster is the twisted part of me that demanded that pain, that pushed him past his limits just to satisfy my own twisted need for punishment.

He wasn't the one who used me.

I was the one who used him.

He turns to stare at the empty driveway where his sister was just a few moments ago.

"You didn't drive me away." I reach for his hand but stop when I see the bandage on the bite mark I left.

"I did." Self-loathing drips from every word. "I forced myself on you—"

"No, Vadim." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "I begged you to hurt me. I wanted..." The words stick in my throat, but I have to say it. I have to let him know. "I wanted you to hurt me."

"Zvyozdochka, I—"

"Let me finish, please," I whisper as I take his hand in mine. "You weren't the one who used me. I used you. For my own selfish needs."

My voice cracks as I continue.

"I forced you to cross that line, Vadim. Partly because I wanted the physical pain to match the guilt eating me up inside since Paris." I take a deep breath. "But also because I knew I could. You can't force yourself to shoulder all the blame because I had my part in it too. I knew that the one thing you were afraid of the most was becoming like him, yet I kept pushing you towards that anyways."

Vadim's jaw clenches. "Lacey—"

"I know you want to think that you're the monster here, but you're not." The words tumble out. "I have my share of the blame as much as you. And that's the real reason why I ran. Not because of anything you did. But because I realized I didn't want to push you deeper into the darkness you've been running from your entire life."

"We both fucked up, haven't we?"

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Spectacularly."

He's quiet for a long moment, and then his hands finally reach for mine.

But where a touch like this used to send an undeniable surge of warmth coursing through me, all I feel now is a coldness seeping from him into my bones.

I grip his hand tighter, hoping desperately to feel that warmth again, but it doesn't come.

And I don't know how I can get it to ever return.

5

VADIM

IT'S ALMOST four o'clock when Demyon walks into my office with bags under his eyes.

"Good news?"

"The best." His voice carries a rare note of satisfaction. "The docks were still active when we hit them. Found shipping containers full of women being processed for 'distribution.' Over a hundred of them."

I look up from my papers. "How many of Kirsan's men?"

"Twenty-three. All eliminated." Demyon's face hardens. "Bastards had no idea we came down on them until it was too late."

My fingers trace the bandage on my hand. "And the women?"

"Mostly Tuvans, some Kazakhs." Demyon's jaw clenches. "And more Kirghiz than we usually find."

I lean back in my chair, studying the ceiling. Over a hundred women saved. It should feel like a victory. But it doesn't, and I know why.

I can't help think about the women used as human shields by Sayanaa's men. The ones that were executed before I had a chance to rescue them.

"What about you?"

"Nothing but bad news." I trace the rim of my empty glass. "Starting with the fact that Olga has thrown in with Kirsan."

"Chto?" Demyon straightens. "How can you be sure?"

"Because she helped Lacey escape Pankration the same way she helped my mother escape thirty-six years ago." The words taste bitter. "Through the conservatory's back door. The one blind spot in all our security cameras."

"And delivered her straight to Kirsan and his psychotic daughter." Demyon's face darkens with understanding. "Suka."

"That's not even the worst part." I lean forward, hands clasped. "Sayanaa knew exactly how to get under my skin. She knew I'd trace her call, knew I'd come charging in like a fucking idiot the moment she threatened Lacey."

"She laid a trap for you."

"And I almost walked right into it."

Demyon sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sayanaa's craftier than her father. Maybe we've been underestimating her this whole time."

I don't respond. My mind keeps drifting to the marks on Lacey's neck—marks I put there. The image haunts me: purple bruises blooming across her delicate skin.

My stomach churns at the memory.

I think of her hand sliding into mine as Serena left. That simple gesture felt different. It felt almost mechanical. Just her fingers intertwined with mine, but without any of the emotional comfort either of us have come to expect.

"The reports can wait until tomorrow," I tell Demyon, my voice rougher than intended. "I need..."

I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Need what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Sympathy that I don't deserve?

Demyon nods, and his eyes soften.

"I found something else, by the way." He rises from his seat. "Thought you might want to have it."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that catches the light. It takes me a second to recognize it, but my heart plummets the moment that I do.

The necklace.

The one that belonged to Lacey's mom.

The delicate chain is broken, the metal twisted where it was clearly ripped away with force. One of the diamonds is cracked, and another one is missing.

My fingers close around the broken pieces, and I feel rage building in my chest. The sharp edges of the broken chain dig into my palm through the bandage where Lacey bit me.

I remember how Lacey's eyes lit up when I first gave her back this treasured piece of her mother. Now it lies broken in my hand.

Just like everything else I touch.

"Where?" My voice comes out rough.

"At the docks" Demyon's tone is carefully neutral. "Looks like someone crushed it deliberately."

Sayanaa. I think, and I feel anger coursing through me at what she's done.

It has to be her. Who else but her would do something so calculatingly cruel?

All to hurt Lacey.

Just like I did.

"Thank you, Demyon," I mutter. "That will be all."

I FIND Lacey in our bathroom, wrapped in a silk robe as she brushes her hair. The sight of her makes my heart stutter. Steam still lingers from her shower, creating a soft haze around her.

Every stroke of the brush reveals flashes of the marks I left on her neck. Guilt and desire war inside me at the sight. She's here, she's safe, she's mine—but I nearly lost her.

And that thought alone is enough to make my chest squeeze.

There's something different about her now. Maybe it's the way the evening light catches in her damp hair, or how the robe clings to her curves. Or maybe it's because for the first time since I've known her, I understand just how easily she could be taken from me.

She catches me staring in the mirror and a small smile curves her lips. "Hey."

Such a simple word, yet it carries so much weight. Her voice is soft, almost tentative. The brush pauses mid-stroke.

I watch her in silence. Each strand of her golden hair hides more of the marks I left on her skin.

"Vadim?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. She's watching me in the mirror, concern etched across her features.

I try to look away but can't. The bruises draw my gaze like a magnet. Even though she's told me it wasn't my fault, that she pushed me to it, it can't absolve me of my sin.

She sets down her brush and then, as if she can read my mind, tells me. "Stop torturing yourself about something you can't fix."

But how can I not? The evidence of my savagery is painted across her skin. I step closer, my hand reaching out to ghost over the marks. She shivers but doesn't pull away.

Her permission for my touch doesn't absolve me.

I trace one particularly dark bruise with my fingertip. She tilts her head, exposing more of her neck to me—an act of trust that makes my chest ache. How can she still trust me after what I've done?

"I should have been stronger," I murmur. "Should have resisted."

Shame and self-loathing wash over me. Everything Sayanaa said rings with a terrible truth—I am pretending.

The guilt threatens to choke me.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches as I force myself to meet her steady gaze in the mirror. Those amber eyes that see right through my façade to the monster beneath. The monster I tried so hard not to become, only to fail when it mattered most.

Slowly, her hand rises up and covers mine.

The tenderness in her gesture nearly breaks me. After everything I put her through, she still looks at me with such concern. Such trust.

My voice catches. "I'm glad you're back."

The words feel inadequate compared to the storm of emotions raging inside me. Relief that she's safe. Guilt over what I did. But most of all, this overwhelming need to hold her, to feel her against me and confirm that this is still real.

I want to feel the familiar comfort of her touch.

I want to know that whatever we had is still there.

That I haven't lost it forever.

I step into her space, unable to resist any longer. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding. My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half moan, half whimper —and it sends my pulse racing through my veins. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp.

The silk of her robe is smooth under my palms as I pull her flush against me. Her body molds to mine perfectly, like she was made to fit there. When her tongue touches mine, I growl low in my throat.

But something feels wrong about this.

Something dark is looming in the background. Something that should stay dead is slowly coming to life.

The kiss grows hungrier, more desperate. Like we're both trying to prove to ourselves that there's still something salvageable between us after everything that's happened.

Her hand slides down my chest, past the top of my pants until those delicate fingers are brushing against my cock through my slacks.

But at the touch, the darkness in me uncoils and surfaces like a shark in a freezing sea. My mind flashes with images of my hands pinning Lacey beneath me on the stairs until there's no escape. Her wet dress hiked up around her waist while I fuck her mercilessly. Her screaming that she hates me with every thrust as she shattered around my cock.

I jerk away from her as if burned. My heart pounds against my ribs, guilt churning in my stomach. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, lips parted and swollen from our kiss.

Her amber flecked eyes are staring at me, but all I see is the ring of bruises around her throat.

The darkness that uncoiled is clawing at my chest, urging me to step forward and take what rightfully belongs to me.

With every second, that darkness strengthens, until I force myself to take a step back.

And in that moment, one thing becomes crystal clear.

Something has changed between us. If I let anything escalate, then I risk losing control again.

And this time, it will be my fault.

Wordlessly, I keep stepping back from her. She doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't call my name. The silence stretches between us like a physical thing, heavy with unspoken words. There's understanding in her eyes, maybe even relief.

The truth hits me like a punch to the gut: she's afraid of me.

Of course she is. How can she not be? She saw the monster lurking beneath my carefully constructed façade.

She'll never admit it, of course. She'll keep insisting that she pushed me to it, and that she wanted it.

But I see the truth from the way her fingers tighten around the brush handle as if it's a knife to keep her safe from me. From the slight tremor in her hands as she looks at me.

And from the relief in her eyes after I pulled away.

Once I'm in the hallway, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

The distance between us now feels vast—an unbridgeable chasm created by violence and pain. And I know the awful truth.

She may be back here physically.

But I've lost something far more precious.

I've lost her love, and I don't know how I can ever get it back.

6

LACEY

FOUR WEEKS LATER

I TRACE my fingers over the fading marks on my neck, barely visible now in the morning light filtering through the curtains. Vadim sleeps beside me, but there's a careful space between us—like an invisible wall neither of us dares to breach.

His breathing is steady, peaceful.

Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm asleep, his gray eyes filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty that matches the ache in my chest.

We're trying.

God, we're both trying so hard to move past that night on the stairs.

But the guilt lingers like a shadow—mine for pushing him to that edge, and his for giving me exactly what I demanded.

And the fear that we might do it again rears its ugly head each time we approach each other.

I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. My silk robe whispers against my skin as I pad to the bathroom, feeling oddly rough and tight for the last several days.

In the mirror, I examine the last traces of bruises. They're almost gone now, like the physical reminder of that night is trying to fade even if the emotional wounds are still raw.

I make my way down to my office, the hallways of Pankration oddly quiet in the early morning hours.

From my office window, I can see where they've cleared the trees behind the conservatory. The space looks naked, exposed. That path—the one Olga led me down—now sits under constant surveillance. Another reminder of how close I came to destroying everything.

My fingers trace over one of Irina's sketches, a cocktail dress with an innovative draping technique. I've been trying to figure out how to translate her vision into reality, but something about the construction keeps eluding me.

For three weeks, I've buried myself in Irina's final collection. Her sketches are scattered across my desk—beautiful dresses that will never see her finishing touches. Each time I look at them, I hear her laugh, see the triumphant look in her eyes in Paris right before all light faded from them.

The pain of her loss still feels fresh, even now.

As for Vadim, he's so busy tearing down Kirsan's empire piece by piece that I'm often asleep by the time he comes to bed.

We're both running from what happened that night, finding refuge in our work rather than facing the growing distance between us.

A wave of nausea roils my stomach, and I swallow it back. It's been like this for a few days now.

A knock at my door makes me jump. For a moment, I think it's Vadim. But when I look up, I see Lenka standing there, her weathered features holding their usual quiet dignity.

"Ms. Huang is here to see you," she says.

My heart leaps at Megan's name. After everything that's happened, the thought of seeing my sister feels like a lifeline being thrown to a drowning woman.

"Tell her I'll be right out," I say, gathering the sketches into a neat pile. My hands tremble slightly with anticipation.

After I returned to Pankration, Vadim caught me up on everything that has happened. Apparently, Megan has been staying at a safehouse in Monroe since the last time I saw her at the police station.

I learned that she's been working with him, while they come up with a strategy to expose Kirsan's operation through carefully crafted stories in the Seattle Voice. A twinge of guilt had run through me when I first learned it, mostly because I had been so opposed to the idea when she suggested it.

Above all, though, was the relief I felt in knowing that she's safe.

But knowing isn't the same as seeing.

I miss her infectious laugh, her quick wit, the way she can read my mood from the smallest change in expression. I miss having someone I can be completely honest with.

I feel a flutter of excitement in my stomach that has nothing to do with the morning nausea. For the first time in weeks, I feel something close to normal anticipation, unmarred by guilt or fear or uncertainty.

Just the simple joy of seeing my sister.

Megan waits in the sitting room, looking oddly at home despite the opulent surroundings. When she sees me, her eyes immediately go to my neck, seeing the shadows of the bruises. I resist the urge to adjust my collar.

I rush into Megan's arms, and she squeezes me back before I can even wrap my arms around her. Relief and happiness balloons in my chest, and cocoons me in a blanket of comfort I didn't realize I desperately needed.

"God, I missed you so much," I whisper into her shoulder.

"Me too, sis." Megan squeezes me tighter. "These past few weeks have been insane. I keep wanting to text you random memes but then remember I'm supposed to be maintaining radio silence."

We pull apart and I wipe at my eyes. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to stay at the safehouse."

"Well, I have this meeting with your scary Russian husband about the first real piece we're publishing." Megan's eyes sparkle with barely contained excitement. "And since I was coming by anyway, I figured I'd see my favorite sister."

"I'm your only sister."

"Details." She waves her hand dismissively. "I tried to convince your husband's hot blond friend to stop by Three Birds on the way here, but apparently he takes this whole security detail thing very seriously."

I can't help but grin at the mention of Demyon. "Oh? Hot blond friend?"

"Don't start." Megan's cheeks flush slightly. "He's just... aesthetically pleasing to look at. You know, in an objective way."

"Uh huh." I raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're speaking very objectively."

Megan's rolls her eyes, her lips curving up in a smirk. "Anyways, just apologizing in advance for not showing up with your favorite emotional support cupcakes from Three Birds."

"Honestly? I probably wouldn't be able to keep them down anyway." I lean back in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position.

"What's wrong?" Megan's brow furrows with concern. "Are you sick?"

"Just some nausea for the past couple days." I wave off her worry. "It comes and goes."

"You're probably working too hard." Megan gives me that look—the same one Laura used to give me when I'd pull all-nighters during high school.

"Maybe." I shrug, not wanting to talk about why I'm throwing myself into my work. "What's this first piece you're working on?"

"Oh!" Her eyes light up. "So I'm sure you know this, but it's about that massive rescue operation—two locations actually. One at the docks and another out in Tacoma. Vadim tells me that he's got firsthand accounts from several victims who were saved, and that he wants me to review them before I take them to the Voice."

I know exactly what rescue operation she's talking about—the one where Vadim saved me and Serena. The memories flood back: the shipping container, the screams from upstairs, Sayanaa's cruel smile.

But before I can say anything, a wave of nausea overtakes me, and my stomach lurches violently. Without warning, I double over and vomit all over the clean marble floors.

"Lacey!" Megan is instantly at my side, holding back my hair.

"I'm fine," I manage to say before another wave of nausea hits and I dry heave, my stomach muscles clenching painfully. Nothing comes up this time except bile.

Lenka appears beside me, her footsteps quick and purposeful on the marble floor. "Let me make you some tea, devushka." She gestures to one of the staff. "Clean this up."

Megan helps me into a nearby armchair, her arm steady around my waist. The plush velvet feels cool against my burning skin.

"Must've been something I ate," I mumble, pressing my hand against my churning stomach. The nausea is starting to pass, leaving behind that hollow, shaky feeling that comes after being sick.

But Megan doesn't respond right away. When I look up at her, she's studying my face intently, like she's piecing together a puzzle. Her eyes drift from my hair to my face to my stomach, and then back to my eyes.

"Lacey..." She bites her lower lip once Lenka leaves to make some tea. "Have you and Vadim been using any protection?"

My cheeks burn hot as I avoid Megan's gaze. "I... we..."

"Lacey." Megan's voice carries that familiar tone—the same one she used when grilling me as a kid.

"No," I finally admit. "We haven't."

"Didn't you tell me you stopped taking birth control because you and Nathan were planning to start trying right after the wedding?" Megan's words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn't even thought about that.

"Oh God." My hand presses against my stomach. The nausea, the mood swings, the way my silk robe felt tight and rough around me lately...

"When was your last period?"

I try to think back, but everything's been such a blur since Paris. The days have bled together in a haze of work and guilt and...

"I can't be," I whisper. "It's impossible."

"Why? Because you've only had sex with him like what? A dozen times?"

Try several dozen. In his office. Against walls. On his desk. In the shower. On practically every surface we can find.

Before I can say anything to rebuke Megan, Lenka returns with a steaming cup of chamomile tea, and sets it carefully on the side table.

"Lenka?" Megan calls out before the housekeeper can leave. "Would you be able to get us a pregnancy test?"

Lenka's eyes widen slightly at Megan's request, and for a moment I see something flicker across her weathered features—concern mixed with what might be hope.

"Of course, dear." She glances at me, her gaze lingering on my face before dropping to where my hand still rests against my stomach. "I will send someone to the pharmacy right away."

"Thank you," I whisper, wrapping my hands around the warm teacup. The chamomile's gentle scent helps settle my churning stomach.

"Perhaps..." Lenka hesitates at the door, her hand resting on the frame. "Perhaps you would prefer to rest in your office while you wait? It would be more comfortable than sitting here."

The tenderness in her voice nearly breaks me. It reminds me so much of Mom—the way she'd fuss over me whenever I was sick, insisting I stay in bed while she brought me soup and tea.

"I'm okay here," I manage to say. "But thank you, Lenka."

She nods once, a small smile tugging at her lips, before disappearing into the hallway. Her footsteps fade away, leaving me alone with Megan and my racing thoughts.

The enormity of what we're waiting to confirm crashes over me like a wave. My fingers tighten around the teacup, seeking its warmth as an anchor.

"Hey." Megan reaches over and squeezes my knee. "Whatever happens, I'm here. Okay?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. The tea trembles in my cup, betraying the slight shake in my hands.

I SIT on the edge of the bathtub in one of the guest bathrooms downstairs, staring at the white plastic stick balanced precariously on the counter. Megan paces in front of me, checking her phone every few seconds.

"How much longer?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Two more minutes." She glances at the timer she set. "God, these things take forever. You'd think they can come up with something better.”

"What am I going to do if it's positive?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Megan stops pacing and sits beside me. "One crisis at a time, okay?"

I lean my head against her shoulder, drawing comfort from her familiar presence. "I should've expected this. I was so careless."

"Hey, now's not the time to blame yourself." She wraps an arm around me. "Whatever that test says, we'll figure it out. Together."

The timer on her phone chimes, making us both jump. Neither of us moves.

"Do you want me to look?" Megan offers quietly.

I shake my head. "No. I need to do this."

Standing on shaky legs, I approach the counter. The test lies there innocently, as if it doesn't hold the power to completely upend my world. Again.

I pick it up, close my eyes, take a deep breath.

"Lacey?" Megan's voice seems to come from far away.

I open my eyes and look down at the window.

And see two pink lines stare back at me.

"I need another one," I tell Megan, my voice shaking. "There has to be some mistake."

Without hesitation, Megan hands me another white stick anyway. "They're all going to say the same thing."

My hands tremble as I take it from her. Five minutes later, I'm staring at yet another pair of pink lines swimming before my eyes.

Positive.

I extend my hand out to Megan for another, and even make her test one of them.

The same result: two lines on mine, and a single line on Megan's.

Pregnant.

I'm pregnant with Vadim's child.

"You're going to be a mom…" She hugs me tight, but I can barely move.

A conflicting storm of fights for dominance inside of my mind—a swirl of monumental joy and icy uncertainty.

Like a slideshow, images flash before my eyes, each one coming faster than before: the faceless birth mother who abandoned me. An endless stream of people asking me where my real parents were. Freddy spitting the word McKinney at me like it's a curse. Mom wiping the tears from my face when I asked her why I don't look like her and Dad.

And at the end of it all, the beeping machines in Mom's hospital room in those final awful days as she begged, voice hardly stronger than a whisper for us to dry our tears so she can remember our smiles before she goes.

"Lacey?" Megan pulls back, studying my face. "What's wrong?"

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

"I don't know how to be a mom." My voice cracks.

"Lace." Megan grabs my shoulders. "Yes you do."

But doubt gnaws at me. "What if I mess this up? What if I'm not good enough?"

"Not good enough?" Megan scoffs. "Who made sure I ate properly during finals? Who helped me curl my hair for prom? Who was the one helping Dad while he forgot his own name? Who gave up on her own dreams to pick up the pieces in the family?"

"That's different—"

"No, it's not. You've been mothering people your whole life. It's who you are." She squeezes my hands. "It's who you've always been."

I press my hand to my still-flat stomach, trying to process the reality that there's actually a life growing inside me. A tiny person who is half me and half Vadim. The thought makes me dizzy.

"I'm scared," I whisper.

"Of course you are. That's normal." Megan hugs me again. "But you're not alone in this. You have me, you have Vadim..."

Vadim. My heart skips. How am I going to tell him?

7

VADIM

THE SIGHT of Megan and Lacey together in the sitting room catches my attention. Something feels different.

Not necessarily wrong, but there's an undercurrent I can't quite place.

Lacey sits perched on the edge of her seat, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. The morning light streaming through the windows catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold.

Megan stands behind her, her hand resting protectively on Lacey's shoulder. The two of them share a meaningful look that makes my skin prickle with unease.

"What's going on?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

Megan straightens, her chin lifting. "Lacey has something she needs to tell you." She squeezes Lacey's shoulder once before heading for the door. "I'll give you two some privacy."

The click of the door closing behind Megan sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence. Lacey's eyes meet mine for a brief moment before darting away. Her teeth worry at her lower lip—that nervous habit I've come to know so well.

My feet carry me closer, though I'm careful to maintain enough distance that she won't feel crowded. The chasm that's grown between us these past weeks feels wider than ever. But despite it, I take her hands gently in mine.

"Zvyozdochka?" I say softly. "What's going on?"

She bites her lower lip, and takes a deep breath before she speaks. "Something wonderful happened."

I lean forward, every protective instinct firing at once. But before I can speak, she pulls back, produces a small white stick, and places it in my hands.

My breath catches as I see the two pink lines. The world seems to tilt on its axis as understanding crashes through me.

Joy, terror, protectiveness, and something deeper I can't even name blankets me, chasing all thoughts out of my mind.

"Are..." The words stick in my throat. "Are you sure?"

Lacey nods, fresh tears running from the corner of her eyes as her smile widens. "I took three tests. All positive. I even made Megan take one just to make sure they weren't defective."

My hand shakes as I stare down at the test, handling it like it's made of the delicate filaments of glass.

Two lines. Two clear, unmistakable lines that mean everything is about to change.

"Pregnant," I whisper, the words feeling foreign yet right on my tongue.

"Yep." Her voice wavers with emotion.

I look up to find her watching me intently, her amber-flecked eyes searching my face. In that moment, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—my fierce, brave wife carrying our child. The urge to protect them both nearly overwhelms me.

"Come here," I say, opening my arms.

She practically launches herself into my embrace. I pull her onto my lap, one hand cradling her head while the other instinctively moves to her still-flat stomach. My child. Our child. The thought sends another wave of fierce joy through me.

My hand rests on Lacey's still-flat stomach, and I can't help imagine what our child will look like. Will they have Lacey's amber-flecked eyes? My height? Her gentle nature?

I'm going to be a father.

The moment that thought enters my head, bile rises in my throat. And all I hear is Pyotr's voice echoing from those dark memories: "A son, I finally have a son."

My hand trembles against Lacey's stomach. What kind of father will I be? The same monster who sees children as pawns to be shaped into weapons? Who views them as vessels for ambition rather than souls to be cherished?

"Vadim?" Lacey's soft voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "What's wrong?"

I try to speak but can't find the words. How do I tell her that the joy of impending fatherhood is tainted by the fear of becoming like him? That even now, decades after his death, Pyotr's shadow threatens to poison this precious moment?

My arms tighten around Lacey protectively, as if I could shield her and our unborn child from the darkness in my blood. But the truth haunts me. The darkness isn't coming from outside. It's already here, coursing through my veins, waiting to corrupt everything I touch.

"Vadim?" Lacey's fingers trace my jaw. "Talk to me, please."

The tenderness in her touch breaks something in me. I can't keep hiding these thoughts from her, not when they threaten to poison this precious moment.

"I feel... excited about being a father, but also scared," I confess. "What if this child proves that I really am no different than him?"

"You are different." Lacey's voice is firm as she takes my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her. "You're not Pyotr."

"But I am. The same blood runs through my veins. The same darkness—"

"No." Her thumb wipes away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "Your father saw children as tools. You're crying at the mere thought of failing our baby. That's not Pyotr. That's all you, Vadim. That's the part of you that Polina gave you."

Lacey's fingers are gentle as she keeps wiping away at the tears, and her words pierce the fog of my dark thoughts.

"You're a good man, Vadim," she whispers, her own tears tracking down her cheeks. "I've seen it in everything you do. In how you fight to save those who can't save themselves. In how you protected Serena. In how fiercely you love."

I try to look away, but she won't let me.

"Our marriage may have started as a means to an end, but you've been the best husband I could ask for." Her voice cracks with emotion. "And I know—I know—you'll be an amazing father. You're protective, loving, and with an infinite capacity for goodness."

"How can you be so sure?" The words escape before I can stop them.

"Because I see you, Vadim Stravinsky. Not as the pakhan or Pyotr's son, but you. What I see is a man who would move heaven and earth in the pursuit of doing the right thing. A man who carries so much light inside him, even if he's surrounded by darkness."

Something shifts between us as she speaks—like ice thawing after a long winter. The chasm that's kept us apart these past weeks doesn't feel quite so vast anymore. A tendril of familiar warmth snakes its way from her fingertips to my core.

I cover her hands with mine, and slowly, I bring them down into my lap between us.

"Lacey…" I lean in, whispering, and then capture her lips in mine.

The kiss is gentle at first, like testing waters I feared had frozen over. But as Lacey's lips part against mine, that familiar warmth returns. Her fingers tangle in my hair as she shifts closer in my lap.

Her lips are soft against mine, tentative at first like she's afraid I might pull away again. But I don't. I won't. Not anymore.

My hands slide up to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks as I deepen the kiss, awakening something in me that's been dormant these past weeks.

Her skin is warm against mine, alive with possibility. The familiar heat balloons and grows, slow and steady like a rising tide. Her fingers trail up my chest to trace a line along my jaw.

The tenderness in her touch awakens something I thought we'd lost. Not the frantic need from before, but something deeper and more precious.

We break apart, both breathless. My mind races with everything we need to do.

"We should book an appointment with the best OBGYN in Seattle immediately. I'll have Lenka order some books on parenting." My hands cup Lacey's face. "And diapers—we'll need so many diapers. And the east wing of Pankration would make a perfect nursery, it gets the morning sun—"

"Vadim." Lacey's finger presses against my lips, stopping my rambling. "Before all of that, there's one thing you really need to do first."

"What's that?"

"You need to tell your Mom."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Polina. Of course. After thirty-four years of rejection, will this news finally bridge the gap between us? Or will she reject this child too, seeing only Pyotr's blood?

Lacey's hands find mine, squeezing gently. "She deserves to know, Vadim."

"What if..." The words catch in my throat. "What if she doesn't want anything to do with our child?"

"She trusted you enough to return to the place of her nightmares because somewhere inside of her, she still believes in you," Lacey says softly. "You need to give her the chance."

Lacey's words pierce through my doubts like rays of sunlight through storm clouds. She's right. I do need to give my mother this chance. The way Lacey sees through my fears and offers her unwavering support makes my chest tighten with emotion.

"If she can come to you as a mother," Lacey continues. "Then you can return to her as a son."

My hands tighten around Lacey's.

Whatever Polina's reaction might be, I owe her this truth. And maybe, just maybe, this news might help heal some of the wounds that have festered between us for so long.

"Will you come with me?" I ask.

"Of course." Her thumbs trace patterns on my palm. "I'll be right beside you the whole time."

The gratitude I feel for her in this moment is overwhelming. This woman who started as a means to an end has become my anchor, my light, my everything. She's carrying my child, yet still finds the strength to help me face my demons.

My free hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin there. "What did I do to deserve you, zvyozdochka?"

"You didn't have to do anything," she whispers. "You just had to be you."

The simple truth in her words steals my breath. All my life, I've had to earn every scrap of affection, prove my worth through action and achievement. But here she is, offering her love freely, unconditionally.

I lean in closer, drawn to her like a moth to flame. Her amber-flecked eyes hold mine, full of understanding and something deeper that makes my heart race. The distance between us feels charged with possibility.

"Zvyozdochka," I breathe against her lips.

The endearment feels right again, natural, where before it had felt tainted by guilt.

She shifts, pressing closer, and I feel her smile against my mouth as we deepen our kiss.

I can taste the salt of our mingled tears, and feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips. Every brush of her lips carries forgiveness, acceptance, love. Things I never thought I deserved but she gives freely.

Whether the tears are hers or mine, I'm not sure. Maybe both. But they aren't tears of pain or guilt this time. They're washing away the darkness that's kept us apart, dissolving another layer of that wall brick by brick.

Her hands frame my face as she pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. The amber flecks in hers seem to glow with an inner light. There's no fear there anymore, no hesitation. Just trust and something deeper that makes my heart clench.

"I've missed you," she whispers. "I've missed this."

"Me too, zvyozdochka," I say as I claim her lips again.

And this time, it feels like coming home.

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.

9

VADIM

"I'M SORRY," she whispers, tears soaking into my shirt. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize, mamechka." I hold her closer. "You have nothing to apologize for."

When we finally break apart, her storm-gray eyes—the same ones I've stared into each time I look into a mirror—are red-rimmed but clear. Martin helps her settle onto the couch beside him. Serena perches on the armrest next to them, while Lacey's warm presence steadies me from my other side.

"Why are you here, Vadyusha?" Mother's voice is gentle now, so different from the cold terror of moments ago.

I exchange a look with Lacey, finding strength in her slight nod and encouraging smile. My hand finds hers, our fingers intertwining as I turn back to face my mother.

"Because," I begin, my heart thundering against my ribs. "You're going to be a grandmother."

Mom's hands fly to her mouth, her eyes widening with shock and joy. She looks to Lacey, searching for confirmation.

"It's true," Lacey says, her hand squeezing mine. "We just found out yesterday."

"How far along?" Mom leans forward, years seeming to melt away from her face. "Have you seen a doctor yet? Do you know if it's a boy or girl?"

"We don't know yet," Lacey answers, and I feel my chest tighten at the warmth in her voice. "We've just found out this morning."

"Are you taking care of yourself, dorogaya?" Mom's brow furrows with concern. "Ginger tea helped me when I was carrying Serena."

Martin wraps an arm around her shoulders, and for the first time, I truly see how happy she is with him. How safe.

"Already fussing like a proper grandmother," he chuckles.

"Have you told anyone else?"

"Just my sister," Lacey says. "She's the one who figured it out, and made me take the test. That's why we came here today. We wanted you to know."

Mom's eyes glisten as she takes Lacey's hands in hers. "Thank you, dorogaya. Not just for this wonderful news, but for reminding me of who my Vadyusha is."

My chest tightens at hearing that name again after so many years. Lacey smiles, and I marvel at her quiet strength, her unwavering faith in me even when I doubt myself.

I can't help think about what I had told her all those weeks ago when I first brought her to Pankration.

"I know you'll fight and defend those who needs defending the most. 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."

And it's the truth.

"I never thought this day would come so soon." Mom's voice breaks. "I never imagined I would have this moment. To see my son happy, to know I'll be a grandmother."

Martin wraps his arm around her shoulders as she wipes her eyes. Serena beams at us from her perch on the armrest. They look so peaceful, so content. A proper family.

That's when a fresh cold realization hits me. This peace is fragile. Olga knows about this house, about Martin and Serena. And now that she's allied herself with Kirsan and Sayanaa, this sanctuary my mother built for herself isn't safe anymore.

I study Mother's face, seeing the light that Martin and Serena brought back to her eyes after years of darkness. The warmth of their modest home wraps around us like a protective blanket, but I know better than anyone how quickly safety can shatter.

Lacey must sense my tension because her thumb starts tracing soothing circles on my palm. Even now, she's trying to anchor me, to keep me from drowning in dark thoughts.

I clear my throat, hating how I must shatter this peaceful moment. "There's something else we need to discuss."

Mom's smile fades as she catches my tone. Even Serena straightens on her perch.

"Olga has allied herself with Sayanaa," I explain, directing this mainly to Martin. "They know about this place. About all of you."

"Sayanaa?" Martin's arm tightens protectively around Mom.

"Kirsan's daughter." I pause, choosing my words carefully.

"Let them come." Martin's voice hardens. "I can protect my family."

I study the man who gave my mother the peace she deserves, noting his powerful frame despite his age. While I don't doubt his sincerity or his ability, I also know that he can't be everywhere at once.

"Kirsan's organization is vast," I explain. "They have resources that one person can't deal with alone—"

"I'm not going back there." Mom interrupts me.

A familiar terror creeping back into her eyes.

"I know, mamechka." I nod. "And I wouldn't ask it of you. Instead, I want to ask you permission to put some of my men nearby. Far enough that you won't notice them, but close enough to respond if needed."

"Like guardian angels," Lacey adds softly beside me. "Just watching from a distance."

Martin exchanges a look with Mom before nodding slowly. "Some extra eyes couldn't hurt. And Vadim is right. I can't be everywhere at once."

I watch Mom wrestle with my offer, her hands twisting together in her lap. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle ticking of a clock somewhere in the house.

I know what she's thinking about. To be placed under the watchful eyes of the very men that once roamed Pankration's suffocating halls… It's just another reminder of the hell she endured under Pyotr.

I brace myself for her inevitable refusal.

How could she possibly trust armed men watching her home after everything she's been through?

But then she lifts her chin, and those storm-gray eyes meet mine with an unexpected resolve.

"Yes," she says quietly. "You have my permission."

For a moment, I can't breathe.

"Are you sure, mamechka?" I have to ask, even though every fiber of my being screams at me not to question this precious gift.

She nods, reaching for Martin's hand. "I trust you, Vadyusha." She swallows hard. "You're not him."

IT'S evening by the time we leave Lacey and I step outside, bidding Mom goodbye.

Before we reach the car, Martin's voice calls out. "Vadim, hold up a moment."

I turn to see him following us onto the porch. He gestures for me to join him.

"I'll wait in the car," Lacey says softly.

Martin's weathered face is solemn as I approach. His shoulders are tense, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets.

"Your mother..." he starts, then pauses to collect himself. "In all my years with her, she's never spoken once about what happened to her. Not once. Even on nights when she woke up screaming at the top of her voice. Whenever I asked, she'd just say it was a past that she wanted to forget."

"But hearing it today... Christ." The porch light casts deep shadows across his face. "I knew that it had to be something terrible, but this..." His voice breaks. "No wonder she flinches sometimes when I move too fast. Why certain things trigger panic attacks."

My throat tightens. "I'm sorry this is how you found out."

Martin shakes his head. "Don't apologize. What happened to her, to you both... that's on the monster who did it." He meets my eyes. "I'm just thankful you saved our daughter from that fate."

"No Martin. I should be thanking you," I tell him. "You gave my mother the life she deserves. You helped her build something beautiful."

"I'm glad you came back," Martin says, his voice gruff with emotion. "Your mother needed this. Hell, you needed this."

"If it weren't for my wife," I look toward the car where Lacey waits. "I'd still be..."

The words catch in my throat. Still be what? Still avoiding a mother who couldn't bear to look at me? Still letting the ghosts of Pankration keep us apart?

Martin follows my gaze, and shakes his head in admiration. "That's one hell of a woman you've got there. You're a lucky man to have her, just as I'm lucky to have your mother."

"I don't deserve her." The admission slips out before I can stop it.

"Don't you?" Martin's hand lands heavy on my shoulder. "She chose you. That's the funny thing about love. You can wake up every day thinking that you don't deserve someone, but it won't change how she feels about you. How she sees you."

Martin looks back at the house longingly.

"I felt the same way about your mother. Woke up every morning asking myself. How can someone like her ever want to spend forever with someone like me? A jaded Marine haunted by ghosts of the friends he's lost overseas. But she did. Hell, she still does."

The simple wisdom in his words resonates with me, and I mull over his words.

He chose to love my mother, knowing that something broke her. He helped her rebuild herself piece by piece with endless patience. He built a family with her.

And today, he accepted me without hesitation.

"Love's a funny thing, ain't it, son?"

"It is." I nod. "Thank you." I extend my hand. "For everything you've done. For her."

Instead of taking my hand, Martin pulls me into a fierce embrace. The gesture is so paternal, so genuine, and so unfamiliar that for a moment I'm overwhelmed by it.

"Don't be a stranger, son," he says as he releases me. "This is your family too."

Family. The word echoes in my chest as I walk to the car where Lacey waits.

And for the first time since I can remember, it doesn't feel like a curse.

THE WARMTH in my heart lingers even as we step back into Pankration's cold marble halls. My heart still pounds from everything that happened at Mom's house.

The reconciliation feels surreal, like a dream I might wake from at any moment.

"Thank you, zvyozdochka," I tell Lacey when we stop at the foot of the stairs. "For pushing me to do this." My voice catches. "For making me face her."

"I was happy to," she says, her amber-flecked eyes soft with understanding.

I take her hand in mine, my heart skipping as a familiar warmth starts spreading through me from the touch.

The same warmth I felt the first time she challenged me at Mrs. Klossner's. The same warmth that grew each time she showed me what real strength looks like.

The same warmth that I thought had been lost forever.

"You're amazing," I tell her, my thumb stroking over her knuckles. "I don't deserve how lucky I am to have you in my life."

"Vadim—" she starts to interject, but I shake my head.

"Let me finish," I say. "I'm the luckiest man alive to have you. You gave me back my mother. You gave me hope that I'm not destined to become him. You're carrying our child. And still, somehow, you look at me like..."

My voice trails off as I take a breath to steady myself.

"Like I'm worthy of you."

The glow in her eyes takes my breath away. All this time, I've been afraid that the chasm between us had grown too wide to cross. But standing here with her, feeling her pulse beneath my fingers, I know the truth.

"You're not just my wife or the mother of my child. You're my compass," I tell her, my voice rough with emotion. "When I lose my way, you guide me back. When darkness threatens to consume me, you shine brighter than any star, zvyozdochka."

Her fingers tighten around mine. A blush creeps across her cheeks, but she doesn't look away.

"You're the strongest person I know," I continue. "Not because you never break, but because you choose to rebuild. You chose to stay after Paris. You chose to help continue Irina's work. You chose to face Sayanaa's cruelty with unwavering courage."

My free hand comes up to cradle her face. Her skin is warm against my palm as she leans into the touch.

"And now you've given me back something I never thought I'd have." I press my forehead to hers, breathing in her familiar citrus-lavender scent. "And in the process, gave me something I didn't dare think about having."

She trembles slightly against me, and I can see tears gathering in those remarkable eyes. But it's her smile that sets my heart beating even faster—a smile can light up even the darkest corners of Pankration's walls.

"And what's that?" she asks softly.

"Family."

Before she can speak, I capture her lips with mine. The familiar taste of her floods my senses as I pull her closer, one hand sliding into her hair while the other wraps around her waist. Her softness presses against me, igniting that ever-present spark between us into a roaring flame.

She melts into me with a small whimper that sends heat rushing through my veins. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens for me without hesitation. The warmth of her mouth matches the heat building in my core as our tongues meet and dance.

Every sweep of my tongue against hers draws out another of those intoxicating little sounds. My fingers tighten in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss further.

To taste her.

To feel the feeling that I've been craving for the past three weeks.

Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me even closer as if she can't bear to leave any space between us. I can feel her pulse racing on her fingers, matching the thundering pace of my own.

The sweet press of her curves against me makes my blood sing with need.

Heat blossoms between us, and the wall that has come up crumbles away.

When she arches into me with a breathy moan, I have to break the kiss to catch my breath. But I can't bring myself to pull away completely. My forehead rests against hers as we both pant softly, sharing the same air.

"Do you mean it?" Lacey whispers against my lips, her breath warm on my skin.

My heart thunders at the vulnerability in her voice. "Yes, zvyozdochka. Every word."

Her fingers trace along my jaw, sending electricity through my veins.

"Then take me to bed, Vadim," she breathes.

The need in her voice matches the hunger burning in my chest. Without hesitation, I sweep her into my arms. She lets out a small gasp of surprise that turns into a delighted giggle as her arms wind around my neck, pulling herself closer.

Her familiar scent of citrus and lavender fills my lungs as I carry her up the marble stairs. Her lips find my neck, pressing soft kisses that make my breath catch.

"Zvyozdochka," I growl as she nips gently at my pulse point.

She hums against my skin. "Yes?"

"Keep that up and we won't make it to the bedroom."

Her answering laugh sends warmth flooding through me. "Promise?"

I tighten my grip on her as I climb the final steps. The weight of her in my arms feels right.

Like she belongs here.

Like she's always belonged there.

10

LACEY

MY HEART FLUTTERS as Vadim lowers me onto our bed tenderly before his lips find mine again.

This time, the kiss is different from all our other ones since we parted ways that night.

There's no hesitation, and no guilt.

Instead, there's only that pure devotion that makes my soul ache.

You've given me back something I never thought I'd have. And in the process, gave me something I didn't dare think about having.

Family.

"Zvyozdochka," he whispers against my mouth, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes at the familiar endearment.

For weeks, I've been terrified that our hateful sex atop the stairs had shattered something precious between us. That the darkness we both invited that night had permanently stained what we share.

But the way he's touching me now, with such reverence and care, tells me I was wrong.

His fingers trail down my neck, ghosting over where the bruises used to be, and instead of flinching, I push eagerly into his touch. He takes his time undressing me. Each button of my blouse is undone with deliberate focus, like I'm something precious.

When my blouse falls open, his hand caresses my stomach where our child is growing. The gesture is so tender it makes my breath catch.

"I've missed you," I whisper, meaning so much more than just the physical distance we've kept.

His gray eyes meet mine, stormy with emotion.

"I'm here now, zvyozdochka. I'm not going anywhere."

The last of my fears melts away as his lips trace down my neck, replacing old memories with new ones. Each touch is a promise, each kiss an absolution. We're finding our way back to each other, stronger for having faced our demons together.

His lips capture mine again as his hands slide up my sides. My breath hitches when his fingers find my bra clasp, deftly undoing it. The lace falls away, and I shiver as the cool air hits my sensitive skin.

Vadim breaks our kiss, and I almost whimper at the loss of contact. But then his mouth starts trailing down my neck, and coherent thought dissolves. Each press of his lips erases the memory of bruises, replacing pain with pleasure. When he reaches my collarbone, his tongue traces the delicate hollow there.

God, how I've missed his touch.

His hands and lips now move with renewed purpose, as if memorizing every inch of me all over again.

His mouth dips lower, and I rise to meet him instinctively. This is a slow and deliberate devotion. The feel of his searing hot lips is a promise—that we're stronger than our demons, that what we share is worth fighting for.

My fingers thread through his hair. Tears prick at my eyes, but they're not from sadness or fear. They're from the overwhelming certainty that this—us—is exactly where I'm meant to be.

His breath ghosts over my right breast and I shiver with anticipation. Even a touch as light as this is setting my nerves on fire. My nipple tightens into a hard peak, aching for his mouth.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for. Just... more. More of his touch and his warmth.

His lips brush against my sensitive skin, so gentle it almost tickles. My back arches involuntarily, seeking more contact. A soft moan escapes me when his tongue finally circles my nipple.

The wet heat of his mouth sends sparks of pleasure straight to my core. My fingers tighten in his hair as he alternates between gentle licks and firm suction. Each pull of his lips makes me gasp and squirm beneath him.

My other breast tingles with neglect until his free hand comes up to cup it, thumb brushing over the left nipple while his tongue laves the right.

Another whimper escapes my lips, and my back rises from the bed to meet him, to give him access to me.

All of me.

These aren't the rough touches from that night on the stairs. This is reverence. My body responds differently too—instead of desperate need, this builds slowly like honey warming in the sun.

His teeth graze my sensitive peak and I cry out softly. He soothes the slight sting with his tongue immediately after. The contrast of sensations makes me tremble.

"Vadim," I breathe, my voice catching as he switches his attention to my other breast. My hands slide up around his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath his shirt as he shifts above me.

His mouth on my right breast leaves me trembling, but I need more contact. My fingers trace down his arms, marveling at how the muscles flex with his movements.

"Please," I gasp, though I'm not even sure what I'm asking for. My fingers dig into his shoulders as he continues his sweet torment.

"Patience, zvyozdochka," he murmurs against my skin. "I want to worship you properly."

Slowly, I unbutton his shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin against mine as his tongue swirls around my sensitive bud. Slowly, I reveal his powerful tattooed body.

My hands roam his newly exposed chest, tracing old scars and the firm planes of muscle.

"I've missed touching you," I whisper, running my palms down his sides. His skin is burning hot under my fingers.

He hums in acknowledgment, the vibration sending new sparks of pleasure through me. Just when I think I can't take any more of his attention on my right breast, he switches to the left.

Cool air kisses my wet skin while his mouth closes around my other peak.

My hands slide up under his shirt to feel his back, relishing the way his muscles ripple as he moves. Every inch of him is strength held in careful check as he moves with my hands to help remove his shirt while his mouth continues to tease.

Vadim lifts his head from my breast, leaving me panting. His lips find mine again in a deep, searching kiss that makes my head spin. I melt into him, moaning, as his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

One large hand slides down my stomach, making me shiver. His touch is gentle but insistent as he nudges my thighs apart. I gasp into his mouth when his other hand finds me wet and waiting underneath the thin fabric of my panties.

He swallows my soft moan as he begins massaging me in slow circles. His movements are unhurried and deliberate, and I feel my pleasure building gradually.

My hands clutch at his shoulders as he continues to kiss me deeply while his fingers work their magic. Each stroke sends shuddering waves of warmth through my body.

"I've missed touching you like this," he murmurs against my lips. "Zvyozdochka, you feel perfect."

I can only whimper in response as his fingers continue their sweet torment.

His mouth captures mine again as his fingers maintain their maddening rhythm. I arch into his touch, silently begging for more. He understands without words, deepening the kiss as his fingers move with more purpose.

I break our kiss with a gasp. "Please," I whisper against his lips. "Don't tease me like this anymore."

A knowing smirk crosses his face. "Oh zvyozdochka, if you think this is teasing, I haven't even started yet."

But his lips find my neck again, trailing kisses down my throat. Each press of his mouth erases the memories of that night on the stairs, replacing them with tender devotion.

His descent continues, worshipping every inch of exposed skin. He pays special attention to my breasts again, making me shiver and whimper. But he doesn't linger long this time.

When he reaches my stomach, he places the gentlest kiss there, soft and tender. The reverence in that simple gesture brings fresh tears to my eyes. He's acknowledging our child growing within me. The life that we made together

Lower and lower he goes, until his hot breath ghosts over where I need him most. My thighs tremble in anticipation as he hovers there, his gray eyes meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

The first touch of his tongue through the delicate fabric makes me gasp, my back rising off the bed. My hands fist in the sheets as sparks of pleasure ripple through me.

"Look at me, zvyozdochka," Vadim commands softly.

I lift my head, meeting his eyes. The intensity of his gaze steals my breath.

His lips brush the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, making me tremble. Each kiss is deliberate. He alternates between my thighs, never quite giving me what I desperately want.

"Vadim, please," I whimper, shifting my hips in silent plea.

He hums against my skin, the vibration making me shiver. "Patience, zvyozdochka."

His mouth traces the edge of my underwear, making my breath catch. But he still doesn't remove the barrier between us. Instead, he continues his sweet torment with feather-light kisses that drive me wild.

My hips buck up involuntarily, seeking more contact. He responds by pressing me back down with one large hand splayed across my stomach. The gentle restraint only heightens my need.

"You're torturing me," I gasp as he places another kiss dangerously close to where I need him most.

His answering chuckle sends warm breath ghosting over my sensitive skin. "Not torture, zvyozdochka. Devotion."

My fingers clutch the sheets tighter as he continues his careful worship. Each brush of his lips brings me closer to madness. I squirm beneath his touch, desperate for more.

I shiver as Vadim's fingers slide under the delicate lace. My breath catches as he slowly peels the fabric down my legs with deliberate care. His gray eyes drink me in with an intensity that makes my heart race.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "Zvyozdochka, you're perfect."

His praise makes me flush as his lips return to my inner thigh, trailing kisses that make me tremble.

"You've always been meant for me," he continues between kisses. "From the first moment I saw you in that dry cleaner's..."

"Stop talking," I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair. My hips lift in silent plea. "Just... please..."

A knowing smirk crosses his face. "I thought you didn't beg, zvyozdochka."

His teasing reminder of my earlier stubbornness makes me groan in frustration.

My fingers tighten in his hair as his mouth finally finds me. The first touch of his tongue makes me arch off the bed with a desperate gasp.

"Oh god," I whimper as pleasure floods through me. After weeks without his touch, the sensation is almost overwhelming.

"No God," he murmurs. "Only me."

His large hands slide under me, cupping my ass as he pulls me closer. My thighs tremble as he gently but firmly spreads them wider, opening me up to his devoted attention.

I can't help the soft cries that escape me as he continues his tender worship. My head falls back against the pillow as waves of warmth ripple through my body. Each stroke of his tongue is deliberate and reverent, building my pleasure with exquisite care.

"Vadim," I gasp as his mouth works magic.

My head falls back and I lose myself to the building pleasure. The silk sheets rustle beneath me as I writhe. Vadim's hands tighten their grip, steadying me as his tongue continues to swirl.

Stars dance behind my closed eyelids as pressure builds low in my belly. My thighs begin to shake as that familiar tension coils tighter and tighter.

"I'm going to come," I whimper, my voice catching.

He responds by doubling his efforts, drawing me closer and closer to that blissful edge.

He presses his face closer between my legs, and his tongue circles my clit in one final long drawn-out circle.

And pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave, raw and intense.

My body rises off the bed as waves of ecstasy ripple through every nerve. Vadim's strong hands steady my trembling thighs as I lose myself completely in the release.

This isn't just physical pleasure—it's freedom. Freedom from the guilt and hesitation that's plagued us.

His tongue slows but doesn't stop, drinking in my pleasure while he teases out one aftershock after another.

When the tremors fade and my fingers release his hair, he moves up my body. His lips find mine in a deep, searching kiss that makes my head spin. The salty-sweet evidence of my pleasure lingering on his lips and tongue, and it sends me towards the edge again.

A finger slides inside me and I gasp at the stretch, my body still sensitive from my earlier release.

A second finger joins the first, and I arch into his touch, desperate for more.

But it's not enough.

I need more of him.

All of him.

The ache inside me grows with each skilled movement of his hand. My hand finds his and our fingers interlock, palm to palm, as his other hand continues its sweet torment.

He curls his fingers, hitting that spot while his palm presses against my clit. My toes curl and my breath catches.

The sensations of his kiss and his touch quickly build into another crescendo, my body climbing higher and higher with each passing second.

When I shatter a second time, my cry is muffled by his mouth on mine. He swallows my moans as waves of pleasure pulse through me again, each one more intense than the last.

I tremble beneath him, whimpering softly as he slowly pulls back. First his fingers, then his lips.

When I finally open my eyes, still gasping for breath, I catch Vadim rising up back from the edge of the bed. He runs his tongue across his lips slowly as he stares into my eyes.

My gaze drifts lower, noting the dark stain of his own arousal straining against his pants. Heat floods through me at the sight.

Slowly, deliberately, I slide down the bed until my knees hit the floor. My fingers reach for his belt as I look up at him through heavy lashes.

"What are you doing, zvyozdochka?" He asks breathily.

Curling up my lips into a teasing smile, I don't answer as I unzip his pants, keeping my touch light and teasing, to free his cock.

My heart skips when it springs free. No matter how many times I see it, I don't think I'll ever be able to get over just how big it is.

His breath catches when my hands wrap around its thick girth and give it a gentle squeeze until precum coats my fingers.

The power I hold over him in this moment—the knowledge that I can reduce this dangerous man to trembling with need from just my touch—is intoxicating.

"It's like you said." I maintain eye contact with him as I slowly stroke him up and down, watching his jaw clench with restraint. "No God, only you."

His fingers thread through my hair, neither pulling nor pushing, just maintaining contact. The gentleness of it, even now, makes my heart swell.

"If that's the case, then this is my altar," I whisper as I kiss the tip of his cock, and lick away the drop of salty precum from my lips. "And I'm going to worship you properly on my knees."

11

VADIM

I THROW my head back as Lacey's lips close around me. My fingers tangle in her soft hair, tightening instinctively as pleasure courses through my body. Her delicate hands rise to grip my tensed muscles, pressing against my skin with just enough pressure to drive me wild, and I feel myself trembling under her touch.

"Zvyozdochka," I breathe. The warmth of her mouth is intoxicating, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts. I force my eyes open to look down at her, needing to see her. The sight of her nearly undoes me.

My beautiful wife. My redemption. My everything.

She responds by increasing her tempo, her head bobbing up and down faster and faster.

Her touch sends waves of pleasure coursing through me, making my muscles clench as I fight to maintain control.

My breath comes in ragged gasps. I tighten my grip in her hair, torn between pulling her away and drawing her closer.

I want to maintain control, to be gentle with her. But she clearly wants to make me lose myself completely. My legs tremble as pleasure builds, threatening to overwhelm me.

The sight of her like this—so determined, so focused on bringing me pleasure—makes my heart race even faster.

Every touch, every movement brings me closer to the edge. I struggle to hold back, to prolong this exquisite torture. But Lacey's relentless attention makes it nearly impossible to think clearly.

"Zvyozdochka.” My voice is barely audible through my labored breathing. "You're going to be the death of me."

She hums in response, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through my body and I try desperately to cling to some semblance of control.

Little moans and whimpers vibrate around me, each one sends another jolt of pleasure straight through my body. Her breathing grows heavier, more ragged, matching my own desperate pants and groans.

The room is filled with the wet obscene sounds of her mouth as it slurps my cock. Blood pounds at my ears, almost loud enough to drown out everything but her.

She pulls back slightly with a soft pop, letting out a long, drawn-out moan that makes my thighs tremble before she looks up, and takes me deeper.

"Fuck," I curse breathlessly, and what remaining shreds of control threatens to shatter.

Her fingernails scrape lightly against my skin. Every gasp and groan that escapes my lips seems to spur her on, making her movements more determined, more intense.

Her other hand reaches between my thighs, cups my balls, and gives them a gentle squeeze. I try and breathe through it, but I know I'm reaching my end.

"Lacey…" I gasp. But it's useless.

My release hits me like a thunderbolt.

My vision blurs as pleasure courses through my body in waves. My fingers tighten in her hair and I spill down her throat. Each pulse leaves my legs shaking.

Through the haze of my climax, I force my eyes to stay open, needing to see her. Lacey's amber-flecked eyes lock with mine, bright with triumph. She doesn't break our gaze, her throat working steadily, as she swallows every drop loudly for me to hear.

The corners of her eyes crinkle into that smile I've come to love so much. Even with her mouth full of my cock, I can see her victory written across her face. She's won this round, and she knows it.

My beautiful, stubborn wife. Always finding ways to break through my control.

My breathing gradually steadies as the last tremors of pleasure fade. Still, she doesn't release me, continuing to suck gently until I'm completely spent.

Lacey's lips finally release me. She rises on her tiptoes, pressing her soft curves against me as she captures my mouth in a deep kiss. The taste of her pleasure mixes with mine into a heady cocktail that's purely us—salty, sticky, and intoxicating.

My hand cups her face as our tongues dance, memorizing this moment of perfect connection as I savor her tongue, her mouth, her lips.

Delicate fingers find my cock again, fingers wrapping around my sensitive flesh. I gasp into her mouth at the overwhelming sensation, my hips jerking involuntarily. The mix of pleasure and almost-pain makes my head spin, but I don't want her to stop.

She guides me backward until my knees hit the edge of our bed. I let her pull me down onto the mattress, following her lead as she opens herself beneath me.

Her hand never stops its steady stroking, and I feel myself beginning to harden again under her expert touch.

When she breaks our kiss, I open my eyes to find her staring up at me with raw desire burning in those amber-flecked depths. I see my own need reflected back at me in them.

Her lips are swollen and red, her cheeks flushed with arousal. She looks utterly debauched and completely irresistible.

She's never looked more beautiful.

"What are you waiting for?" she whispers, her voice husky with need, as she guides me into her slick entrance.

Her eyes hold mine, darkened with desire yet bright with trust. The intimacy of this moment steals my breath.

I angle my hips forward until her warmth envelops me completely. A soft gasp escapes her lips. Her inner walls flutter and grip around my length as I sink deeper.

The sensation is exquisite torture and I don't want to forget a single second.

I set a measured pace, each thrust slow and deliberate. Her hands trace patterns on my back as I move within her, her touch both soothing and inflaming. The wet heat of her threatens to undo my control.

"More," she whispers against my mouth between kisses. Her legs tighten around my waist, trying to pull me deeper. "Please, Vadim."

But I maintain the unhurried rhythm, wanting to prolong this connection. Each roll of my hips draws a breathy moan from her throat that I catch with mine.

"Faster," she pleads, her nails digging into my shoulders. "PLEASE."

Her words trail off into a whimper as I continue the slow pace. The sweet friction of her walls gripping me with each thrust has my blood boiling with need. Still, I refuse to rush this moment.

The knowledge of our child is growing inside her makes me hesitate to unleash my full passion.

"I won't break," she whispers as if she can read my thoughts, and her eyes find mine. Her fingers trace my jawline with infinite tenderness. "I trust you, Vadim. You won't hurt us."

My heart clenches at her words. After everything—the violence, the darkness, and the pain we've caused each other—she still trusts me with her body, her heart.

"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice rough with restraint.

She answers by rolling her hips up to meet my next thrust, taking me deeper. The sensation nearly shatters my control. "Yes. Please, Vadim!"

Gradually, I start to increase my pace, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But I see only pleasure as her head falls back, exposing the delicate line of her throat.

Her legs tighten around my waist as she matches my rhythm. Each thrust draws a soft gasp from her lips that I catch with my own. The way she moves with me, so perfectly in sync, drives me wild.

"Like this?" I growl against her neck.

"Yes," she moans. "Just like that."

She eagerly meets each thrust. The impossible slickness of her walls gripping me threatens to unravel my sanity.

They flutter and pulse around me with every thrust. Her breath comes in short, desperate gasps against my neck as she clings tighter. My name falls from her lips like a prayer, driving me wild with each repetition.

"That's it, zvyozdochka," I encourage, maintaining my measured pace. "Let go for me."

Her fingers dig into my shoulders as her release builds. I can feel how close she is, her body trembling beneath mine. The trust in her eyes is undeniable as they lock with mine makes my chest tight with emotion.

"Mine," she whispers against my lips. "Forever."

Her hips rock in a slow, deliberate rhythm that has me seeing stars.

My hands grip her waist, feeling the strength in her movements. Each roll of her hips draws me further into sweet oblivion. The flutter of her inner muscles around my length is pure ecstasy.

When she finally comes, she presses against me with a soft cry. The rhythmic pulsing of her inner muscles around my length proves too much. My own release follows immediately, intense and overwhelming.

She squeezes around me as I cum, milking me until she's wrung every last drop from me.

Until she knows that I've given her everything I can possibly give.

Until she's claimed me as much as I've claimed her.

I collapse against her, my heart thundering as we both try to catch our breath. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my sweat-slicked skin, soothing and gentle.

Our lips meet in a soft, unhurried kiss. No urgency now, just the pure connection of two souls finding peace in each other, sated and spent.

I gather her closer, savoring the feeling of her curves pressed against me. Her head finds its place on my chest, right above my heart. The gentle puff of her breath against my skin grows steadier as sleep slowly claims her.

My fingers move through her silken hair as she drifts off. The peaceful expression on her face fills me with a profound sense of rightness. This is where we belong.

12

LACEY

I’M STILL CURLED against Vadim's chest when I wake up, my body still boneless and soft from our shared release. His heart thunders beneath my ear, strong and steady. My fingers trace idle patterns on his skin, following the paths of tattoos and scars.

"I have something for you," he murmurs, his voice still husky.

Before I can respond, he reaches into his nightstand drawer. My breath hitches when he withdraws a familiar glint of silver and diamond.

"My Mom's necklace..." The words barely escape my throat.

The delicate chain that had once been broken when Sayanaa yanked it from my neck is whole again. The three small diamonds shimmer in the weak light.

Fresh tears well in my eyes as I touch it with trembling fingers.

"How?" I whisper.

"Demyon found it at the docks and brought it to me..." His voice trails off, and I feel his arms tighten around me. "I had it fixed."

I cradle the necklace in my palm, remembering how it used to rest against Laura's throat, how she'd touch it whenever she smiled. The middle diamond catches a ray of moonlight streaming through the window, sending prismatic sparkles across my skin.

"Thank you," I breathe, unable to say more past the lump in my throat. When Sayanaa destroyed it, it felt like losing Mom all over again.

But here it is, whole again.

Just like me.

Vadim's fingers brush against my neck as he fastens the clasp, sending shivers down my spine. The familiar weight of Mom's necklace settles against my collarbone, and for a moment, I feel a sense of normality returning.

"Look," he whispers, turning me toward the mirror.

My reflection shows me wrapped in nothing but sheets, the three diamonds catching the moonlight. Vadim's large frame towers behind me, his gray eyes intense as they drink in the sight. His hands rest possessively on my shoulders, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin near my throat.

"Right where it should be," he murmurs, bending to press a kiss on my shoulder. "Right where you should be."

I lean back against his chest, watching his expression in the mirror. There's something different in the way he looks at me now—not just desire or possession, but a tenderness that makes my heart ache. His hand drifts down to rest protectively over belly.

The diamonds shimmer as I breathe, three perfect points of light against my skin. They're exactly as I remember them.

Our eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I see the same emotions etched on both our faces. Vadim's fingers trace along the chain, following its path across my skin.

My hand drifts to meet him, and our fingers intertwine where Mom's necklace rests against my throat.

So much has changed since that first day at Mrs. Klossner's when I struggled with Nathan's ring. The woman I was then feels like a stranger now—naïve, uncertain, desperate to belong somewhere.

Now I belong here, with Vadim. With our child growing inside me.

But even as his warmth seeps into my skin, dark thoughts creep in. Olga is still out there, probably plotting her next move against us. The memory of her leading me into Sayanaa's trap makes my stomach clench. And Sayanaa... that twisted, obsessed woman who crushed Mom's necklace under her heel while telling me I was nothing but merchandise.

Behind them all lurks Kirsan, patient and calculating like a spider in his web. The same web that Nathan helped build, that almost caught me too.

My thoughts drift to Dad and his empty house, and even Freddy. With both Megan and I playing our parts in Vadim's war, they're more exposed than ever.

The thought of Kirsan or Sayanaa getting their hands on either of them makes my blood run cold.

I know if that if I just ask, Vadim's protection would extend to them too. The same way he's protecting Polina's new family, keeping them safe from the shadows of his world.

The same way he'll protect our child.

"What are you thinking about, zvyozdochka?" Vadim's voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. His hand hasn't moved from my belly, as if he can shield our child from all the dangers surrounding us.

I lean back against his chest, seeking the solid comfort of his presence.

"About how fragile everything feels," I admit softly. "Olga, Sayanaa, Kirsan... they're still out there. And now there's so much more at stake."

Vadim's arms tighten around me. "Yes, that's true." His breath stirs my hair as he speaks. "But they don't understand what they're up against."

"What do you mean?"

"Us." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Together. There's nothing in this world that can stop us, zvyozdochka. Nothing that can drive us apart."

The conviction in his voice makes my chest tighten. I remember how I felt in that shipping container, certain I'd never see him again. How even in that moment of despair, some part of me knew he would come for me.

I take his hand in mine, bringing his fingers to my lips. They still bear the marks from where I bit him that day on the stairs. The memory no longer fills me with shame—we've moved past that darkness together.

His other hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my sensitive nipple. "I have one more thing for you," he murmurs against my ear.

Vadim pulls away and the sudden absence of his warmth sends a chill through my body.

An unexpected thought suddenly crosses my mind.

What if his war with Kirsan takes him from me? From our child? My arms wrap instinctively around my middle as cold fear grips my heart.

But then he's back, his solid presence chasing away the darkness threatening to consume me. "Give me your hand, zvyozdochka," he murmurs.

I extend my left hand, watching as he slides my engagement ring back onto my finger. The familiar weight returns, and I look at the pink diamond catching the moonlight—just like Mom's necklace.

This is where I belong.

Where I've always belonged, even if I didn't know it that when I met Vadim at Mrs. Klossner's.

My throat tightens as I stare at the ring. It represents so much more now than it did when he first put it on my finger. Back then it was just part of our ruse, another prop in our elaborate performance.

Now it's a promise, a future, a reminder of everything we've built together.

But even as Vadim's arms wrap around me again, I can't completely silence the voice in my head whispering about all the dangers still lurking out there. Kirsan, Sayanaa, Olga—any one of them could take him from me. The thought makes my heart stutter in my chest.

I press closer to him, relishing in the warmth of his body and trying to ground myself in the present moment. His hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining over my stomach where our child grows. The ring catches the light again, sending sparkles dancing across our joined hands.

"Look at us," he breathes against my ear, his hands sliding possessively down my sides. "This is what I've been fighting for all along."

I catch Vadim's eyes in the mirror, dark and intense as they drink me in. His large frame dwarfs mine, making me feel delicate and precious in his arms. The three modest diamonds of Mom's necklace and the massive pink one on my finger dot my body, shining like a constellation in the night sky.

A shiver runs through me at the raw emotion in his voice. His fingers trace patterns on my belly where our child grows.

"You're not just a means to an end anymore," he continues, his voice thickening with each word. "You never were. You're my wife. My life."

My heart thunders in my chest at his declaration. All those weeks of uncertainty, of tiptoeing around each other after that day on the stairs, melt away under the heat of his gaze.

"Your zvyozdochka," I whisper, testing the word he's called me so many times on my tongue.

"Yes." He presses a gentle kiss against my cheek. "My little star."

13

VADIM

I SIT behind my desk with Lacey next to me as Megan's opens her laptop.

Demyon stands by the door, his usual easy smile replaced by a hard line.

"We have six interviews conducted already, and another nine to do later," she explains. "Most of them tell the same story. The current plan is to release them in a drip feed of one per day for the next two weeks. I still have time to have the editing team make any changes you want for tomorrow's upload."

"Let's see it then."

Megan nods and hits the play button.

The girl on screen is looking down at her hands. Even with the makeup, there's no hiding the dark bruises that mar her delicate features. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and her rich brown eyes hold a haunted look that makes my stomach clench.

"Myen ah-myt," Demyon's voice asks in Tuvan off-screen as subtitles appear. "Can you tell us your name?"

"Taliya Darzhaa," she responds, her voice barely above a whisper.

Demyon shifts his weight, and I catch the flash of rage in his eyes.

"How old are you, Taliya?"

Taliya's eyes never leave her hands. "Seventeen."

I grip the edge of my desk, feeling the rage building in my chest at how quiet her voice is. Beside me, Lacey's fingers dig into my arm.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Taliya's fingers twist together as she speaks, her words coming between quiet sobs.

"I needed a job after my parents died," she whispers in Tuvan. "But there were no opportunities in my village." She trails off, wiping her eyes. "One day, I saw an ad looking for models in America."

"Can you tell us for what company?"

Taliya nods, sniffling. "Opaline and Co."

My jaw clenches as she describes seeing the modeling advertisement for Opaline and Co.—how it promised to make her dreams come true.

Through translation, she recounts answering the ad and meeting the recruiter who arranged her travel to Vladivostok. She describes how the entire trip was paid for, and how excited she was at the chance of a new life.

Lacey's hand tightens on mine as Taliya describes what happened next when she arrived.

"They gave me a pair of ordinary looking heels," she says, her voice cracking. "Told me to walk in them, pose in them. They took so many pictures. But something didn't feel right."

I feel Lacey shivering beside me as Taliya explains how the photographer seemed more interested in taking pictures of her legs, her face, and her body rather than the shoes.

She breaks down again on screen, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Demyon's voice comes through behind the camera, gentle but firm.

"Take your time, Taliya. We can stop if you need."

To her credit, she shakes her head bravely, determination flickering across her tear-stained face. She takes a deep breath and continues.

"After more pictures," Taliya continues in Tuvan. "He gave me a dress. It was..." She gestures at herself, struggling to find the words. "You could see everything through it. Like I was wearing nothing at all. I didn't want to wear it, but the way he talked to me… I was scared to say no."

"What happened next?"

"He made me sit like this," Taliya demonstrates, positioning herself with one leg tucked under her and the other folded in front. Even now, weeks later, her movements are hesitant, uncertain.

"I didn't understand," she says, her voice small. "The shoes were barely visible. When I tried to tell him this..."

Her hand rises to her cheek, fingers trembling as they trace where the photographer struck her.

"He hit me so hard I thought I would pass out."

My jaw clenches so tightly that it hurts.

I've seen this pattern too many times, heard this story again and again with every rescue—the gradual escalation from seemingly innocent modeling shots to increasingly revealing poses, followed by violence when the girls start questioning things.

The footage cuts to Demyon's voice-over, showing a webpage for Opaline and Co. of an exclusive pair of shoes named "The Darzhaa" for $150,000.

The product page is a picture of Taliya in a revealing dress, and the exact pose that she just demonstrated. Her face is turned to the side to hide the evidence of the photographer's violence and her eyes are looking down.

Just like she said, the shoes are barely visible.

I watch as Taliya wring her hands, knuckles white with tension, as she continues her story.

"After that last photo..." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Three men came in." Her voice cracks. "They grabbed me and pulled me up."

Through Demyon's translation, I hear how she tried to fight back. My grip tightens on Lacey's hand as Taliya describes the beating that followed—brutal, methodical strikes meant to subdue without leaving visible marks.

Lest Kirsan ruin his merchandise.

"One of them..." She touches her throat. "He had a knife. He pressed it here."

Beside me, Lacey's breath catches. I feel her trembling.

"They told me I had two choices." Her voice grows smaller with each word. "Do what they tell me to, or they'll kill me."

Through tears, she describes being dragged to the docks where the container looming before her like a metal coffin. "They pushed me inside with the others. And there were so many others..."

Taliya breaks down completely then, her slim shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs.

"Thank you," Demyon says gently off-camera. "For your courage in sharing this."

The screen fades to black, white text appearing: "This is the first in a series of interviews conducted by the Seattle Voice with survivors of human trafficking in the Pacific Northwest."

Megan pauses the video, the silence in my office broken only by Lacey's uneven breathing.

"How many views so far?" I ask.

"Two hundred thousand and counting," Megan says, her eyes fixed on her laptop. "And it's only been two hours. Every time I refresh..." She taps the key again. "See? Another thirty-thousand views."

Lacey shifts uneasily. "Are you sure you're keeping yourself safe? These aren't the kind of people who'll just let this slide."

"Everything's going through the Seattle Voice," Megan assures her. "My name isn't attached to any of it."

I study the comments section filling up beneath the video. Most express outrage, horror, calls for justice. Exactly the reaction we need to force Kirsan's operations into the light.

But scattered among them are other comments—ones that make my blood run cold. People asking where they can "place orders" and how they can "contact sellers."

These are Kirsan's buyers, crawling out of their holes like cockroaches drawn to rotting meat.

I make a mental note to have Demyon trace those accounts later. For now, I focus on the climbing view counter, watching as more and more eyes turn toward the darkness that Kirsan hid in the open.

Let the world see.

Lacey's fingers find mine under the desk, squeezing gently.

Lacey's fingers tighten around mine. "Where is Taliya now?"

I turn to face her, seeing the concern etched across her features.

"She's safe," I assure her. "We have her and all the other women who agreed to do interviews in different safehouses with round-the-clock protection."

"That won't be enough," Lacey says, her voice firm. "This video is going viral. People are going to start asking questions. Some won't believe her. Others..." She glances at the comment section again and shivers. "Others clearly want to hurt her."

"She's right," Megan chimes in, scrolling through more comments. "The internet can be vicious. It won't take long for people to start trying to track her down."

"I'll increase the number of men we have to guarding them," I tell Lacey.

The relief in Lacey's eyes makes my chest tighten. She squeezes my hand again, and I feel the familiar surge of warmth of her touch.

Megan starts packing up her equipment, carefully wrapping cords around her arm. "We should get going—still have three more interviews scheduled for today."

I notice how Demyon straightens at her words, his usual easy smile returning as he moves to help her with her bags. The way his fingers brush against hers as he takes her laptop doesn't escape my attention.

"Keep me updated on the view count," I tell them both. "And any concerning comments that need investigating."

"Of course," Megan nods, shouldering her bag, and gives Lacey a quick hug before heading toward the door.

THERE'S a knock at the door, and Lenka's voice comes through.

"Vadim Petrovich, Dr. Chen is here to see you both."

Right. The appointment. With everything happening, I'd almost forgotten.

"Send her in," I say.

Lenka bows and a few minutes later, Dr. Raylene Chen enters, a warm smile on her face.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stravinsky," she greets with a slight smile. "I understand congratulations are in order."

Lacey's hand finds mine again as Dr. Chen sets her medical bag on my desk and starts asking Lacey about her medical history, and the last time she had her period. As she talks, Lacey's hand tightens around mine.

The familiar warmth of her touch grounds me, even as anxiety stirs in my chest. This is our first prenatal appointment—the first real confirmation that this is happening.

That I'm going to be a father.

I watch as Dr. Chen ties the tourniquet around Lacey's arm, preparing to draw blood.

But as the dark red liquid fills the vial, my mind spirals back to that moment on the stairs. When Lacey's teeth broke my skin. When she begged me to hurt her. When she screamed how much she hated me.

My stomach churns. What if that was the moment our child was made?

What if, just like Pyotr, I created life through an act of violence?

Lacey catches my eye and gives me that soft smile that makes my heart ache. She may have forgiven me for that night, but I haven't.

I don't think I can ever forgive myself if our baby came from that moment of darkness.

It'll be too close to my own twisted creation. The violence, the blood, the horror of it all. Is this some sort of sick cosmic joke?

Am I doomed to walk forever in Pyotr's shadow?

"You're looking a bit pale there, Mr. Stravinsky," Dr. Chen comments as she labels the vial. "First-time fathers often get queasy around needles."

If only she knew the real reason for my unease.

But I keep that to myself.

Dr. Chen leans forward, her pen poised over her notepad. "Any symptoms that you have questions about, Mrs. Stravinsky?"

"Just one. The nausea comes and goes throughout the day," Lacey explains, her fingers still interlaced with mine. "Sometimes it hits in the afternoon, or even at night. And certain smells make it worse."

Dr. Chen nods, making quick notes. "That's all very normal. What we call 'morning sickness' isn't limited to mornings at all. Most women find it starts to fade around nine weeks."

She tears off a prescription pad and starts writing. "I'm prescribing prenatal vitamins. Make sure to take them with food to minimize nausea."

"How long before we know..." My voice catches slightly. "How far along she is?"

"The lab work will take a few days," Dr. Chen says, handing Lacey the prescription. "But based on your answers about your last period and when morning sickness started, I'd estimate anywhere between four to six weeks."

My stomach drops. Four to six weeks.

The timing lines up with that night on the stairs. The night of violence and anger. The night Lacey begged me to hurt her and I gave in to that darkness.

I feel the blood drain from my face as memories flood back—her screams of how much she hates me echoing off marble, the sting of her teeth on my palm, and the bruises I left on her skin.

The room spins slightly as Dr. Chen continues talking, but her words fade to a dull buzz in my ears. All I can focus on is the sickening possibility.

Our child conceived in violence.

Just like me.

THE DOOR CLICKS SHUT behind Dr. Chen, leaving me alone with Lacey. My hands won't stop shaking. The timing of everything keeps spinning in my head—five to six weeks. The stairs. The blood. The violence.

"Vadim," Lacey's soft voice breaks through my spiral. "What's wrong?"

"The timing," I manage. "Four to six weeks. That night on the stairs..."

Her fingers find mine, squeezing gently in understanding. "We don't know that for certain."

"But we can't rule it out." My voice catches. "If we made our child through violence and pain..."

"Stop." Lacey cups my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. "You can't torture yourself with these questions. Dr. Chen will tell us exactly how far along I am." Her thumbs brush my cheeks. "And even if it was that night, it doesn't matter. That moment didn't define us then, and it won't define our child now."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you," she whispers. "The same way you knew me well enough to forgive me for pushing you. The same way you told me to stop blaming myself for everything that went wrong that night." Her forehead presses against mine. "If I can forgive you for that, why can't you?"

I close my eyes, letting her words wash over me. "Because I'm terrified of becoming like him."

And that's the truth, isn't it? It's what I've spent my entire life trying to run away from.

"You're not Pyotr," she says firmly. "You never were. You may live in his house, and you may have his blood flowing in your veins. But in your heart, you are Polina's son. And because of that, you'll be an amazing father."

14

LACEY

THREE DAYS LATER

I FLIP through the mail in my hands, my heart skipping when I spot Dr. Chen's letterhead. My fingers tremble as I hold up the envelope. "Vadim..."

He looks up from his desk, tension immediately tightening his shoulders when he sees what I'm holding. Rising, he crosses the room to stand behind me, his chest pressed against my back. His hands cover mine as I start to open the letter.

"Whatever it says," I whisper, "we'll face it together."

The paper rustles as I unfold it, Dr. Chen's precise handwriting filling the page. My eyes scan until I find the key information: "Blood tests indicate conception approximately 6 weeks prior to testing date..."

Vadim and I both freeze, mental calculations spinning. Six weeks before the test would place conception right before Paris. Before everything went wrong.

It was that night when he first told me about his mother after he gave me Mom's necklace, when I saw past his carefully constructed walls to the wounded boy beneath. When I realized he wasn't just a pakhan, but a man fighting to save others from monsters like Kirsan.

I remember how desperately I wanted to comfort him, to show him he deserved love. And I remember how we made love. First on his desk, and then again in the shower.

Vadim lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around me.

"Six weeks," he murmurs, relief evident in his voice. "We didn't make our baby on the stairs."

But where Vadim finds relief, all I find is a new terror as a different memory washes over me.

The sharp crack of gunfire. The triumphant smile on Irina's face before blood starts spreading across her body. Her eyes meeting mine as she fell. Her blood soaking through my wedding dress as I screamed. And the light fading from her eyes as Vadim dragged me away.

The memory hits me with such force that I have to grip the edge of Vadim's desk to stay upright. My other hand instinctively moves to my stomach.

My legs give out, and Vadim guides me into his chair.

That means… My breath catches as I think. Our baby was already growing inside of me in Paris.

"I could've lost both of you," I whisper, my hand pressed protectively over my still-flat belly. "If Sayanaa's men had better aim... if we had just been a few seconds slower..."

Vadim kneels before me, his large hands covering mine. "But we did make it."

I can't stop the memories rushing back at me now. The way Sayanaa's eyes narrowed in the cathedral. The men trying to kill us on the Seine. Irina's blood on my hands.

Our child's first moments were surrounded by death and violence.

Even if they weren't conceived in it.

Vadim pulls me close into his embrace, his thumb stroking over my shoulder as I shudder.

Even as his touch warms me, I can't help but notice how carefully he moves, like he's afraid of breaking me. The same hesitation I've felt from him since returning to Pankration is still there.

We may have bridged the physical distance between us, but something still feels fragile.

His gray eyes meet mine, and I see the guilt we're both carrying.

"You're still afraid of hurting me," I say softly. It's not a question.

His fingers tighten slightly on mine. "And you're still blaming yourself for everything that's happened."

And that's the truth.

We're both still holding back the deeper hurts. Physical intimacy was easier than facing the emotional wreckage we're both carrying.

"We're so worried about hurting each other." I try to smile, but it wavers. "But we can't even stop hurting ourselves."

Vadim presses his forehead to mine, and I feel the slight tremor in his body. "We'll figure it out, zvyozdochka. I promise."

I nod as I turn my attention back to the pile of mail.

My heart stops as I spot the envelope among the scattered mail, addressed in an elegant script: "Dear Little Thief."

"Vadim." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

He looks up from Dr. Chen's letter, his expression immediately darkening when he sees what I'm holding. Before I can blink, he snatches the envelope from my trembling fingers.

"Don't," he growls, holding it up to the light. His hands move with practiced precision as he examines the edges and seams. "It could be rigged."

"It's from her, isn't it?"

I don't need to specify who.

Vadim frowns, turning the envelope over. "It's too light to be an explosive." His jaw clenches. "But that doesn't mean it's safe."

He retrieves a letter opener from his desk and carefully slits the top edge. Nothing happens. Slowly, he tips the contents onto his desk.

Two items fall out: a folded piece of paper and a single bullet that lands with a dull thud.

My hand instinctively moves to protect my stomach as I stare at the bullet. Vadim's face has gone completely still—that dangerous stillness I've learned means he's barely containing his rage.

The bullet gleams mockingly in the afternoon light streaming through his office windows. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach as I stare at it.

Vadim's fingers close around the bullet, his knuckles white. "I won't let her hurt you," he growls.

My hands tremble as I unfold the letter, the heavy cream paper rustling between my fingers.

Dear Little Thief,

Consider this a souvenir from Paris. I thought you might like to know it was me who pulled the trigger. My only regret is that I missed you and hit that bitch instead.

But don't worry. I'll have another chance soon enough. Until then, feel free to keep this bullet that was meant for you.

Next time, I won't miss.

By the way, congratulations on the whelp in your belly. Such happy news! And I must say, I do love the challenge of hitting a small target.

Until we meet again,

Sayanaa

The letter slips from my numb fingers. My stomach heaves and I barely make it to the wastebasket before retching. Vadim's hands are instantly there, pulling my hair back as I empty what little is in my stomach.

When the heaving finally stops, I become aware of Vadim speaking softly in Russian—not to me, but into his phone. His other hand hasn't left my back, moving in gentle circles as I try to catch my breath.

"She killed Irina," I whisper. "She was aiming for me but killed Irina instead."

My hand presses against my stomach, tears blurring my vision as the full weight of Sayanaa's threat crashes over me. Not just me anymore but my baby. The child Vadim and I created that night when everything still felt pure and right.

Sayanaa could've killed my child before I even knew I was pregnant.

My heart twists at the thought of her extinguishing my baby's life so cruelly and callously.

My hands press protectively over my stomach as I think about those words. The whelp in your belly... I do love the challenge...

No, she still wants to.

"She'll never get close enough," Vadim growls, his arms wrapping around me from behind. "I swear it."

But we both know what that means. The walls of Pankration that once felt like a prison now become my only shield.

My world shrinks to these marble halls and gilded rooms.

"I can't leave, can I?" My voice comes out small, defeated.

Vadim's arms tighten around me. "Not until we end this. Not until she's dead."

I lean back against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat ground me. Through the window, I watch guards patrolling the grounds, their weapons visible even from here. More will come, I know. Vadim won't take any chances with our safety.

"I should've known she wouldn't just let us go," I whisper. "That night in Paris, when she looked at me in the cathedral... I saw it in her eyes. This was always her plan."

Vadim's hand covers mine where it rests on my stomach. "We'll find her," he promises. "She won't hide forever."

But I hear what he doesn't say—that until then, I'm trapped here. That our child's first months of life will be spent behind these walls and armed guards. That the freedom I thought I'd chosen has become another cage.

Only this time, the bars aren't just to keep me in.

They're to keep Sayanaa out.

But then, another question surfaces in my mind, and I ask before I can stop myself. "How..." My voice cracks. "How does she know I'm pregnant?"

Vadim's silence tells me he's wondering the same thing. I watch his face as the realization hits him, his jaw tightening.

"Dr. Chen," I whisper. "Either Sayanaa or her spies must have seen her coming here."

My stomach lurches again, but this time not from morning sickness. If Sayanaa's watching Pankration closely enough to spot Dr. Chen's visits...

"Megan." The name comes out as a strangled gasp. "Oh God, she was just here."

My hands start trembling as I think about my sister walking right into Sayanaa's sights. Sweet, fierce Megan who's already risking everything to help expose Kirsan's operation. Who has no idea there's a monster watching her every move.

And if Sayanaa can find Megan...

"Dad," I choke out, gripping Vadim's arm. "Freddy. If she knows about Megan, she'll find them too." The thought of Sayanaa getting anywhere near my family makes my blood run cold. "They don't know what she's capable of. They won't see her coming."

Images flash through my mind—Dad sitting helpless in his favorite chair, unable to speak or defend himself. Freddy, for all his faults, completely unprepared for someone like Sayanaa.

My family might be dysfunctional, but they're still my family. And now they're in danger because of me.

"We have to bring them here," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "Dad and Freddy. They need to be somewhere safe."

Vadim nods, already reaching for his phone. "I'll send men right now—"

"No." I grab his wrist. "I need to go get them myself."

His eyes narrow. "Absolutely not. You saw Sayanaa's threat."

"Dad won't just let your men take him," I explain. "And Freddy..." I let out a bitter laugh. "Freddy would sooner pull a gun than listen to reason. Especially with all of his gambling debts…"

"Then I'll go myself," Vadim counters. "I can bring Megan—"

"No!" The word comes out sharper than I intend. "I won't put my sister in danger. Not when Sayanaa might already know about her."

"And I won't put you or our child at risk." Vadim's hand covers mine where it still rests protectively over my stomach.

"They're my family," I whisper. "Dad won't understand unless I'm there to explain. And Freddy... for all his faults, he's still my brother. I need to be the one to tell them."

"Zvyozdochka..." Vadim's voice holds a warning.

"Please." I meet his eyes. "You can bring as many men as you want. But it has to be me that does this."

Slowly, Vadim's resistance crumbles, his shoulders dropping slightly as he lets out a heavy breath. "Fine. But we do this my way."

My heart pounds as the reality of what we're about to do sinks in. Getting Dad and Freddy to safety means exposing them to the truth about my life now. About Vadim. About everything.

Dad's dementia makes him vulnerable, but in some ways that might be easier. It's Freddy I'm truly dreading. My gambling addict of a brother who's stolen everything he could from our family, who's made it his mission to remind me I don't belong.

"We'll need to be careful how we approach this," I say, unconsciously pressing my hand against my stomach. "If Freddy feels cornered, he'll lash out. And Dad... some days he barely remembers who I am."

Vadim's fingers intertwine with mine. "Tell me what you need."

"Time," I whisper. "And patience. Lots of patience."

My stomach churns as I think about facing Freddy again. The last time I saw him, he was stealing from Dad's house while hurling insults at me.

"Two years you’ve been fucking that banker, and not a single goddamn penny to show for it."

I feel my hands shaking—whether from nerves or rage, I can't tell—as I recall how I didn't have the guts to stand up to him. How all I could do is imagine the words I wanted to shout at him.

Now I have to convince him to accept protection from my bratva husband while a psychotic woman hunts us all.

The weight of what we're about to do settles heavy in my chest as I realize that I'm about to confront the messy truth of who I've become.

A pakhan's wife caught in a war I never asked for but can't escape.

15

VADIM

THE BLACK SUV winds through the suburban streets. Lacey's fingers drum nervously against her thigh, and I catch myself watching the movement instead of the road. Even now, after everything, the smallest gestures from her still captivates me.

"You never told me he has a gun," I say, though I've memorized every detail she shared. The thought of that worthless piece of shit pulling a gun on my pregnant wife makes my blood boil.

"He got desperate once the gambling debts started piling up," Lacey says softly. "And after I confronted him about stealing Dad's medication to sell..."

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles white. Freddy's debts to Kirsan's casinos are substantial—half a million fucking dollars.

The irony isn't lost on me that I'll need to shelter this parasite in Pankration alongside everyone else I'm protecting. The same man who made my wife feel unwelcome in her own family, and who stole from his sick father.

But Lacey wants to save him, despite everything he's done. And what Lacey wants, she gets.

Even if it means housing her thieving stepbrother under my roof.

I glance at her profile, illuminated in the summer sun. Her hand rests protectively over her belly. The fierce protectiveness I feel watching her threatens to overwhelm me.

"We're almost there," she whispers, and I can hear the tension in her voice. I reach over and take her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips.

"Whatever happens in there, zvyozdochka, I've got you. Both of you."

The yellow two-story house comes into view at the end of the cul-de-sac. I pull the SUV to a stop, watching Lacey's reaction in my peripheral vision. Her breath catches as she takes in the sight of the house.

"Look," she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine. "The roses Mom planted are blooming now."

Rich crimson blooms climb up white lattice work beside the sage green door. The summer sun catches morning dew still clinging to the petals. Six weeks ago when she left, those same roses must've barely started budding in Seattle's endless spring rain.

"There's Freddy's car." Lacey points to a rusted Honda Civic with mismatched panels parked crookedly in the driveway. "He never leaves before noon unless..."

She trails off, but I know what she's thinking. Unless he's desperate enough to start pawning things early in the morning.

And unless Kirsan's men are breathing down his neck about his debts.

I stroke my thumb across her knuckles, feeling the familiar weight of her engagement ring. "Are you sure about this, zvyozdochka?"

"I am." She straightens her spine, though I can see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "I need to make sure they're safe." She swallows hard. "Even Freddy."

I want to argue that her worthless stepbrother doesn't deserve her compassion. But I know better than to voice that thought. Instead, I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her knuckle before we both step out.

The wooden steps creak under Lacey's feet as we approach the front door. She turns to me, those amber-flecked eyes searching mine.

"Wait here," she says softly. "It's probably best if you don't go inside. Less chance of spooking Freddy."

I nod, though every instinct screams to follow her inside. "I'll be right here if you need me, zvyozdochka."

She squeezes my hand before pushing open the door. The stench hits me immediately—stale food and neglect thick enough to taste. The sour odor of unwashed dishes mingles with something else, something that reminds me of desperation and decay.

"Dad?" Lacey calls out, her voice echoing in the musty air. "Are you home?"

Thundering footsteps from above, and then he appears on the stairs.

Freddy Huang.

Even without ever seeing a photo, I know it's him. The same bastard who made my wife feel like an outsider in her own family. Who pawned his mother's jewelry. The same useless piece of shit who stole his father's medication.

He freezes mid-step when he spots Lacey inside. Recognition flashes across his face and then twists into a sneer, as if he's got anything to be fucking proud about.

My hands itch to wrap around his throat.

This parasite dared tell my Lacey she didn't belong, when he's the one who disappointed his family at every turn. But I stay rooted in place, watching him through narrowed eyes, wishing he'll give me an excuse to beat him to a fucking pulp.

From inside the house, I hear Freddy's voice as he approaches Lacey.

"Thought you left for good," he says. "What the fuck are you doing back here, Lacey McKinney?"

The way he spits out her name makes my jaw clench. Through the doorway, I watch him descend the rest of the stairs, his gut hanging over his belt.

"Where's Dad?" Lacey asks, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her shoulders.

"Oh, here we fucking go." Freddy throws up his hands. "Come to lecture me again? Dad's fine, no thanks to you."

"Listen to me," Lacey says, taking a step forward. "We're in danger. There are people—"

"We? We're in danger?" Freddy cuts her off with a harsh laugh. "There is no we, Lacey. You made that clear when you fucked off six weeks ago to fuck your way through Paris."

"That's not what happened!"

"No?" Freddy cocks his head. "Pretty sure that's what you texted Megan. What did you say? Oh yeah, something about blowing your honeymoon budget on a self-pity journey of discovery? Guess that banker finally woke the fuck up about the kind of doormat he was about to marry."

"I didn't come here to argue with you!" Frustration creeps into Lacey's voice. "If you'd just listen—"

"I don't need to listen to shit from you!" Freddy advances on her, his face reddening. "You're not even part of this family!"

I see his hand rise before Lacey does. In a heartbeat, I'm through the door. My fingers lock around his wrist before he can complete the swing, and I slam him against the wall hard enough to rattle the family photos on the walls.

"Touch her," I growl in his ear. "And I'll break every bone in your pathetic body."

The color drains from Freddy's face when he sees me. His eyes dart between me and the door like a trapped animal.

"I-I'll have your money," he stammers, hands raised. "Just need another week, I swear to God—"

Pathetic. I release my grip and he crumples to his knees, groveling. My lip curls in disgust. This sniveling coward dares to lecture my Lacey?

"Please," he begs, voice cracking. "I can get half by Friday. My dad's got some antiques upstairs—"

"Shut the fuck up and get on your feet," I cut him off, my voice ice. "And apologize to your sister."

"Sister?" His eyes dart to Lacey, then back to me in confusion. "Wait, you're not from—”

"I said, get up." Each word drops like a stone.

He scrambles to his feet, still babbling promises about payment schedules and collateral. The urge to break his jaw grows with every word.

"Freddy." Lacey's voice cuts through his desperate rambling. She steps forward, placing a gentle hand on my arm. The touch grounds me, reminds me why we're here. "Vadim isn't here to hurt you. He's here to help keep you safe."

The irony of her defending him after what just happened makes my jaw clench. But I stay silent, letting her take the lead. She's always been better at showing mercy than I deserve to witness.

Freddy's gaze continues darting between us like a cornered rat. Then, his eyes lock onto Mom’s necklace, and I watch recognition bloom across his face. The same necklace he pawned to pay his gambling debts. The same necklace that meant everything to Lacey.

"That's..." His voice wavers.

"Mom's necklace that you pawned?" Lacey's voice carries a sharp edge I rarely hear from her. She reaches up to touch the delicate chain, and I see her draw strength from its presence. "Yes, it is."

The movement catches the light, making her engagement ring sparkle. Freddy's eyes widen further as he finally notices the massive pink diamond. His mouth works soundlessly as he processes what he's seeing.

"You're..." He swallows hard, looking between us again. "With him?"

"Married to him," Lacey corrects, her chin lifting. The pride in her voice makes my chest swell. "And if you're not going to help us keep this family safe, then get out of my way. I need to check on Dad."

Freddy opens his mouth, likely to spew more venom at her. I take a single step forward, letting him see exactly what will happen if he dares. His jaw snaps shut with an audible click, and he presses himself against the wall to let Lacey pass.

Smart choice.

For once in his worthless life, he shows a glimmer of self-preservation.

I wait until Lacey's footsteps fade up the stairs before turning my attention back to Freddy. His face glistens with sweat as he tries to shrink further into the wall.

"Half a million dollars," I say softly, watching him flinch at each syllable. "That's quite a debt you've racked up at Kirsan's casinos."

His eyes go wide. "How did you—"

"I make it my business to know everything about the people in my wife's life." I step closer, enjoying how he tries to retreat from my presence. "If it were up to me, I'd let Kirsan's collectors have their way with you. God knows you deserve it after the way you've treated Lacey."

"Please," he whimpers. "I can explain—"

"Shut up." The words slice through his pathetic attempts at excuses. "The only reason you're still breathing is because my wife still considers you family. Despite everything you've done to hurt her, she still wants to protect you."

A dark stain spreads across the front of his pants, and the acrid smell of urine fills the air. Pathetic.

"So here's what's going to happen," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "You're going to show Lacey the respect she deserves. If I detect even a hint of your usual attitude toward her, I will personally throw you to the wolves. Do you understand?"

He nods frantically, a thin whine escaping his throat.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Y-yes," he stammers. "I understand."

The puddle beneath his feet grows larger.

"And hand me your gun," I say. "Slowly. I don't fucking trust you with one."

Nodding nervously, he reaches back and takes out a six-shooter that had been tucked in the back of his pants. I snatch it out of his hand, put it in my jacket, and step back towards him, watching him shrink further into the wall as Lacey returns with her father.

Clifton, I recall the file that Demyon handed me all those weeks ago about the Huang family.

The sight of Lacey supporting her father's weight with such tenderness makes my throat tight. She guides him forward, each step with infinite patience, murmuring soft encouragements.

Clifton's eyes dart around the room in confusion before landing on me. Fear flashes across his weathered features, and he presses closer to Lacey's side as he tries to shield her behind him.

The gesture is purely instinctive—a father's need to protect his daughter, even when his mind can no longer comprehend the danger.

"It's okay, Dad," Lacey soothes, rubbing gentle circles on his back. "We're going somewhere new for a little while. Just until things settle down."

My heart clenches at the way her voice catches on those last words. Clifton's brow furrows as he tries to process what she's saying. The confusion in his eyes cuts deeper than any knife could.

This is the man who gave her a home when her birth parents abandoned her.

Who loved her as his own daughter.

And now he can barely understand what's happening around him.

I glance at Freddy, expecting to see some reaction to his father's condition. But the worthless fuck won't even look at Clifton. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulders hunched, still reeking of piss and fear.

The contrast between brother and sister couldn't be starker. While Lacey tenderly supports their failing father, Freddy can't even acknowledge Clifton's presence.

I grab Freddy by his collar, wrinkling my nose at the stench of piss. "Move," I growl, shoving him toward the door. His feet stumble over themselves as he hurries to comply.

Outside, Lacey has already helped Clifton into the back seat of the SUV. The gentle way she guides his movements, ensuring his seatbelt is secure, makes my chest tighten. Even now, she shows such care for her family.

"Get in," I order Freddy, pointing to the seat beside me. "Front."

He hesitates, glancing at the back where Lacey sits with Clifton. "But—"

"Your father needs someone familiar next to him right now." My fingers dig into his shoulder. "But I don't want your piss-soaked pants anywhere near him. Understand?"

Freddy nods frantically and scrambles into the passenger seat. I slide behind the wheel, checking the rearview mirror to see Lacey speaking softly to Clifton, who stares out the window with vacant eyes.

I'm start the engine and that's when the crack of gunfire splits the air. The window behind the passenger window explodes inward, right where Lacey's head had been moments before.

16

LACEY

THE GUNSHOT IMPACTS the window beside me with a deafening crack. My heart lurches into my throat as glass spiders but doesn't break.

Yet.

"Get down!" Vadim roars, jamming the accelerator. The SUV surges forward with a violent lurch that throws me into my seat.

Another shot rings out behind us, the back window buckles. I react on instinct, grabbing Dad and pulling him down with me. The leather seats creak as we huddle together on the floorboard.

"Laura!" Dad cries out in confusion, his voice trembling. "Laura, where are you?"

My chest constricts at hearing Mom's name. Hot tears spill down my cheeks as I hold him tighter, trying to protect him from the chaos erupting around us. "It's okay, Dad. I'm here. I've got you," I choke out, but he keeps calling for her.

"Laura! Laura!" His desperate pleas pierce straight through my heart. Even now, years after her death, he still reaches for her first in moments of fear. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling utterly helpless as tears stream down my face.

The SUV swerves hard, tires squealing. Through my blurred vision, I see Vadim's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as he weaves through traffic. Freddy whimpers from the front seat, and for once I don't blame him—I'm terrified too.

But it's Dad's continued calls for Mom that break me completely. Each desperate "Laura!" rips open old wounds, reminding me of everything we've lost. I press my face against his shoulder, my tears soaking into his shirt as I try to comfort him the only way I can—by holding him close while our world explodes into chaos once again.

The car lurches onto the highway entrance ramp, tires screeching as Vadim takes the turn at breakneck speed. My heart pounds against my ribs as I scan the road behind us, but no more shots follow. The immediate danger seems to have passed, at least for now.

"You can sit up now, Dad," I whisper, helping him back onto the seat. His hand finds mine and grips it with surprising strength. The familiar warmth of his palm against mine provides a small measure of comfort amid the chaos.

"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy FUCK!" Freddy's voice rises hysterically from the front seat. "They're trying to fucking kill us!"

"Shut up and keep watch," Vadim snaps, his eyes never leaving the road as he weaves between cars at terrifying speeds. "Tell me if you see any vehicles following us."

I turn to Dad, hoping to see some spark of recognition in his eyes. For just a moment, I think I catch a glimpse of awareness, like he might say my name. My breath catches in my throat as I wait.

But his lower lip just trembles, and his gaze remains distant and confused as he stares through me. I know that look—he's searching for Mom again, trying to find Laura the way he always does when he's scared or upset.

The familiar ache blooms in my chest and all I can do is squeeze his hand gently.

The highway stretches ahead of us, other cars becoming blurs as Vadim pushes the SUV faster. Despite the lingering fear coursing through my veins, I focus on Dad's hand in mine, on being the anchor he needs.

THE FAMILIAR GATES of Pankration rise before us as we pull up to the entrance. My nerves are still jangled from the shooting, but at least we made it. Dad's hand remains firmly clasped in mine, anchoring me to the present despite my racing thoughts.

As we enter the grand foyer, I spot Megan immediately. She springs up from where she's sitting with Demyon, her face lighting up at the sight of us. Before I can even say hello, she wraps both Dad and me in a tight embrace.

"Oh my God, are you okay? When Demyon told me that you guys went to get Dad, I thought—" She pulls back, checking us over with worried eyes.

"We're fine," I assure her, though my voice shakes slightly. "They took a couple of shots at us, but the windows were bulletproof."

That's when Freddy stumbles in behind us, and Megan's whole demeanor changes. She stiffens, her warm expression turning to ice as she stares at him.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she demands, stepping protectively closer to Dad.

Freddy's lip curls. "Could ask you the same thing."

But whatever bravado he's trying to project dies instantly when Demyon rises to stand behind Megan, his massive frame casting a shadow over Freddy. I watch him shrink back, his confidence evaporating as Demyon glares at him with a murderous glint in his eye, as if waiting for Freddy to give him an excuse.

"I-I mean..." Freddy stammers, backing away until he hits the wall. "Never mind."

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Dad's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel him trembling slightly. Whether from fear or confusion, I'm not sure. Probably both.

Vadim steps into the foyer, and his commanding presence immediately fills the space.

"Lenka," he calls out. She appears almost instantly. "Please show Mr. Huang and his son to their rooms."

As Lenka approaches, Megan squeezes my hand. "I'll go with Dad," she says softly. "Help him get settled. I'm sure the three of you have a lot to talk about."

I watch as she follows them up the grand staircase, my heart aching at how lost Dad looks. Demyon's gaze lingers on Megan's retreating form before he turns back to us, his expression serious.

"What's going on?" he asks, directing the question at Vadim. "You just told me to bring the sister here, nothing else."

Vadim's jaw tightens. "Sayanaa sent us a letter this morning." His hand finds the small of my back, protective and steady. "She knows about the pregnancy."

My hand instinctively moves to my still-flat belly. The memory of that bullet in the envelope, and the way the glass next to my head spidered from another bullet's impact makes me shudder.

"She made it clear that she intends to target our child." Vadim's voice hardens.

I do love the challenge of hitting a small target.

"Which means she's been watching Pankration," I add, my voice barely above a whisper. "She must have seen Dr. Chen's visit. And if she's been watching, she's seen Megan coming and going. It was only a matter of time before she found Dad and Freddy too."

Demyon's expression darkens as understanding dawns. "So bringing them here is the only way to keep them safe."

"Yes," Vadim confirms. "And after our car got shot up, it's clear that Sayanaa, Kirsan, and Olga are already moving against us."

I hug Vadim's arm and lean into him, drawing strength from his presence while trying to push away the terror of what could have happened if those windows hadn't been bulletproof.

Of what still might happen if we're not careful enough.

Demyon's jaw clenches as he processes everything. "I'll get the men together, make sure we're fully staffed." He glances between Vadim and me. "And I'll see if any of them might've been tempted to switch sides. We can't be too careful. Not now."

"Good," Vadim says. "Check the newer recruits first."

As Demyon strides away, Vadim turns to me. His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me tight against his chest. The familiar scent of his cologne mingles with the scent of adrenaline lingering on his skin, and I breathe it in deeply, letting it ground me.

"Are you alright, zvyozdochka?" His voice rumbles through his chest against my cheek.

I press closer, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. "I think so," I whisper honestly. The events of the day crash over me—the letter, the bullet, the shooting, Dad calling for Mom...

My body starts trembling. "She was aiming right at my head, Vadim. If those windows hadn't been bulletproof..."

His arms tighten around me protectively. One hand slides up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "Don't think about the what-ifs. The important thing is that you're safe. You and our baby."

I nod against his chest, but my hands are still shaking. "Dad kept calling for Mom. He was so scared, and all he wanted was her, and I couldn't..." My voice breaks.

"It's okay. You're okay," he soothes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "You did everything you could. You protected him. That's what matters."

His steady heartbeat under my ear helps calm my racing pulse. I focus on matching my breathing to his, letting his strength flow into me through our embrace.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks again, and this time his hand drifts down to rest protectively over my stomach.

"I'm alright now," I whisper, looking up into his storm-gray eyes. "Really."

His mouth claims mine with fierce intensity, and I melt into the kiss. There's a desperate edge to the way his lips move against mine, how his fingers dig into my hips and pull me closer. I recognize this need—it's the same raw hunger that consumed us after my kidnapping.

The primal urge to feel alive, to prove we survived.

My hands slide up his chest to grip his shoulders as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. The familiar taste of him mixed with lingering adrenaline makes my head spin. His heart pounds against my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

We got lucky today. So incredibly lucky. If Vadim hadn't insisted on the bulletproof windows... if Sayanaa's aim had been slightly different... if we'd been in any other vehicle...

A soft clearing of throat breaks through our desperate embrace. We spring apart, and I spot Lenka standing there with an apologetic but knowing look.

"Both Mr. Huang and his son have been settled in their rooms," Lenka says, her expression carefully neutral. "Megan is with your father now."

"Thank you, Lenka." I take a steadying breath. "Which room did you put Freddy in?"

"The east wing, second floor." She replies.

I nod, grateful for her thoughtfulness. "I need to go talk to him."

Vadim's hand tightens on my waist. "Not alone."

"I'll be fine." I turn to face him, placing my palm against his chest. "He may be an asshole, but he's still my brother. And after what happened in the car..." I trail off, remembering Freddy's terrified screams. "He needs to understand what's really going on."

"Zvyozdochka..." His jaw clenches. "He tried to hit you earlier—"

"You'll be able to hear me scream if he tries anything," I say, attempting to lighten the mood. "The acoustics in this place are incredible."

He doesn't smile. If anything, his expression darkens further.

"I'm kidding," I say softly, rising on my tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "I'll be alright. Promise."

His thumb traces my cheekbone, storm-gray eyes searching mine. Finally, he sighs. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming to check on you."

"Fifteen," I counter, earning the ghost of a smile.

"Twelve," he compromises, kissing me one more time before releasing me.

I squeeze his hand, then turn toward the east wing. As I climb the stairs, I can feel his gaze following me, protective and intense. Part of me wants to turn back, to let him handle this conversation with Freddy. But this is something I need to do myself.

I KNOCK on Freddy's door, waiting for a response. When none comes, I push it open and freeze at the familiar sight—Freddy with his hands in the dresser drawers, rifling through them like he's done countless times at Dad's house.

"Really? This is the first thing you do?" I shake my head in disgust. "Look for something to steal?"

He whirls around, eyes narrowing. "What do you care? Your husband probably wouldn't even notice anything missing." He gestures at the opulent room. "Speaking of which, where'd you get Mom's necklace back from? Did he buy it for you?"

"I'm not doing this with you," I say firmly. "You're here as a guest under Vadim's protection. But that protection can be taken away if you don't behave."

Freddy barks out a harsh laugh. "Protection? Is that what you think this is?" He stalks toward me, jabbing a finger in my direction. "You stupid little girl. Do you have any idea who these Russians really are?"

"How do you know they're Russian?"

"Oh, this is rich." He sneers, spreading his arms wide. "Your criminal husband hasn't told you everything, has he? Makes sense. The bratva probably don't share secrets with their whores."

I ignore Freddy's attempt to hurt me with his words, but the way he spits them out cuts at me hard.

After all these years, I should be immune to them.

But he always has a way to make them hurt.

"I'm trying to protect you," I say instead.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. "Protect me? If you really think that's what this is, you're dumber than you look."

His gaze fixes on Mom’s necklace. "Take that off."

"No."

"That necklace belonged to my Mom," he snarls, stepping closer. "It doesn't belong on a worthless orphan pretending to be her daughter."

Something inside me snaps. All the years of his cruelty, of making me feel like I don't belong, of stealing from our father—it all comes pouring out.

"How dare you?" I advance on him, and for the first time, I see him take a step back. "You want to talk about belonging? Where were you when Dad needed his medication? When he needed clean clothes? When he needed someone to make sure he ate?" My voice rises with each question. "I was there. Every single day. While you were gambling away everything the two of them worked so hard to build for our family."

My hands are shaking but I don't care. "You want to know why I have this necklace? Because my husband actually cared enough to track it down after you pawned it. The same necklace that Mom wanted to pass down to her daughters. The same Mom who made sure I knew I belonged, even when you tried your hardest to convince me I didn't."

"You have no right to talk about belonging when you've done nothing but steal from this family," I continue, advancing on Freddy as he retreats. "Where's Dad's watch? His cufflinks? The silver tea set that's been in the family for generations? Did you pawn those too, or are they sitting in some loan shark's office as collateral?"

My voice rises with each step. "And you know what the worst part is? You didn't even have the decency to admit it. You just let Dad think he was losing his mind when things kept disappearing. Do you have any idea what that did to him? To watch him doubt himself, wondering if the dementia was getting worse?"

Freddy's back hits the wall, but I'm not done. The words pour out of me like a bursting dam.

"You're pathetic. You stand there and judge me, call me names, try to make me feel like I don't belong. But what have you done to earn your place? What gives you the right to—"

I stop mid-sentence when I notice Freddy's eyes aren't on me anymore. They're fixed on something behind me, and his face has gone pale. The sneer on his face is gone, and in its place is naked fear.

I turn around to see Vadim leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that dangerous half-smile playing on his lips. His eyes are fixed on Freddy with predatory intensity.

"Well?" I ask, drawing strength from Vadim's presence. "What else don't I know, Freddy? Since you seem to know so much about the bratva."

Freddy's mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"What's wrong?" I ask. "You were so eager to put me in my place about what I am just a minute ago." I take a deliberate step back toward Vadim. "What was the phrase you used? The bratva's whore?"

The words hang in the air like smoke. Behind me, I hear Vadim's sharp intake of breath, and the room suddenly grows cold.

Freddy's face has gone from red to ghostly white.

"I-I didn't mean..." Freddy stammers, pressing himself flat against the wall as if he could somehow pass through it.

Vadim moves past me.

"What did you call my wife?" His voice is deceptively soft, almost gentle.

But I can hear the murder in his tone.

Freddy's throat bobs as he swallows hard. His eyes dart between Vadim and me, desperately begging me to call Vadim off.

"I... I didn't..." Freddy's voice cracks.

Vadim takes another step closer. "I asked you a question." His hand comes up to straighten his cuff, the motion deliberate and threatening. "And I expect an answer."

The casual way Vadim adjusts his sleeve makes my skin prickle. I've seen him do this before—this careful, measured preparation that precedes violence.

A whimper escapes Freddy's throat. The sound is pathetic, nothing like the cruel, mocking tone he used with me just moments ago. His legs give out and he slides down the wall, landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor as Vadim looms over him.

I place my hand on his arm. He turns to me, and steps back when I give my head a small shake.

"Consider this your final warning," Vadim looks back at Freddy and he takes a step back with me.

In that moment, I can see the monster that lives beneath my husband's carefully controlled exterior—the one that makes others tremble but sets my heart racing in excitement.

The one that makes me grateful he's on my side.

Because he's not just any monster.

He's my monster.

17

VADIM

LACEY CLOSES the door behind us as soon as we're alone.

Before I can even voice my frustration about Freddy, she launches herself into my arms. Her lips crash against mine with a desperation that matches the protective fury still coursing through my veins.

"That bastard had no right to speak to you like that," I growl against her mouth. My hands grip her hips possessively, drawing her closer. The heat of her body against mine only intensifies my need to shield her from every threat.

"I know," she whispers, nipping at my lower lip. "But watching you defend me like that..." Her breath hitches as my fingers dig into her flesh. "God, Vadim..."

I press her against the wall, one hand sliding up to cradle her head while the other remains firm on her hip. The way she melts into my touch sets my blood on fire. Every soft gasp, every trembling sigh fuels both my desire and my fierce need to keep her safe.

"No one disrespects my wife," I tell her between heated kisses. "No one threatens what's mine." My hand drifts to her still-flat belly, protective instinct surging. "And no one calls you a whore except me."

She arches into my touch, her fingers tangling in my hair.

"Yes," she breathes. "Make me your whore. Treat me like your whore."

The raw need in her voice breaks something loose inside me. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her toward our bed. My protective rage transforms into something else—a primal urge to claim and possess her.

I strip away Lacey's clothes slowly, savoring each inch of skin revealed. She writhes beneath my touch, her breath coming in short gasps that tell me exactly how much she wants this. How much she wants me.

The changes in her body entrance me.

Her breasts are fuller, more sensitive when I brush my fingers across them. That legendary pregnancy glow isn't just a myth—her skin seems to radiate with an inner light that makes her even more beautiful. Even her hair seems different, catching the light like spun gold as it fans across the pillow.

"You're glowing, zvyozdochka," I murmur against her neck. My hands roam her body, mapping every subtle change. Her skin is impossibly soft under my palms.

She arches into my touch with a breathy moan that sets my blood on fire. "Vadim..."

I capture her mouth in a deep kiss, drinking in the sweetness of her response. My hand traces the curve of her hip, and slides up to cup her breast. She gasps into my mouth when I brush my thumb across her nipple.

The knowledge that she carries my child makes every touch feel more significant, more profound. My hand drifts to her belly, still flat but holding such precious cargo. She covers my hand with hers, our fingers intertwining over where our baby grows.

I break the kiss to look into her eyes, seeing my own wonder reflected there. "My beautiful wife," I whisper, before claiming her mouth again. "Perfect in every way."

"I don't want to be perfect right now." Lacey's voice trembles with need. "I want you to treat me like your filthy whore."

Her words ignite something primal inside me. I grip her thighs harder, leaving marks that will remind her who she belongs to. My mouth blazes a trail of heated kisses up her inner thigh, savoring the way she quivers under my touch.

"Are you going to beg like a good little whore?" I growl against her soft flesh.

She writhes beneath me as I knead the tender flesh of her thighs, her hips rising to seek more contact. The scent of her arousal makes my mouth water. I trail my tongue dangerously close to where she wants me most, but not quite there.

"Yes," she whimpers, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Please."

I look up at her from between her legs, drinking in the sight of her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, amber-flecked eyes dark with desire. Her chest heaves with each panting breath, and it fills me with savage satisfaction.

"Please what?" I demand, my breath hot against her most sensitive flesh.

Her grip tightens in my hair. "Please... use me like the good little whore that I am."

The raw need in her voice makes my cock throb painfully. I press open-mouthed kisses along her inner thigh, alternating between gentle caresses and sharp nips that make her gasp. Each sound she makes drives me wild with desire.

"My beautiful whore," I murmur against her skin. "All mine to use however I please."

"Please," Lacey begs, her voice thick with need. "I need your cock, Vadim."

My blood surges at her words, at the raw desperation in her voice. I stand up slowly, deliberately, letting her anticipate what's coming next.

"Turn around," I command. "Lie down and open that pretty mouth for me."

She obeys instantly, and tilts her head back over the edge of the bed. Her eyes lock onto mine as her lips part in invitation. The sight of her like this—submissive, eager, completely mine—makes my cock throb with need.

I grip myself, positioning at her lips. In one smooth motion, I push into the wet heat of her mouth. She moans around me, the vibrations sending pleasure coursing through my body. Her hands reach up to grip my thighs, pulling me deeper.

"Good girl," I growl, threading my fingers through her hair.

The eager way she sucks me makes my control slip. I tighten my grip in her hair, guiding her rhythm. "Such a good little whore for me. Touch yourself while you take my cock."

Her moan vibrates around me as her hand slips between her thighs. The wet sounds of her fingers moving against her pussy mix obscenely with the sounds of her mouth on my cock. My blood burns hotter at the knowledge that pleasuring me arouses her this much.

"That's it," I growl. "Show me how desperate you are."

Her fingers move faster, her whimpers growing more urgent around me. I watch her other hand grip the sheets, her knuckles white with tension. Every thrust into her mouth draws a muffled moan from her throat.

"My dirty little cocksucker," I praise, and her enthusiasm redoubles. The wet, filthy sounds of her pleasuring herself while taking me deeper make my cock throb. "You love this, don't you? You love touching yourself while I fuck your mouth?"

She answers with a desperate moan, her hips bucking against her own fingers as she works herself closer to the edge. The sight of her like this—so wanton, so eager to please—threatens to unravel my control completely.

Unable to resist any longer, I bend over and sweep her hands away from her dripping pussy. Gripping her thighs, I lift her hips up to my mouth in one fluid motion, maintaining my angle so she can keep sucking me.

Her scent hits me first—citrus, lavender, and a musk that's uniquely her. My mouth waters as I feast on her, my tongue delving deep to taste every inch. The way she writhes and moans around my cock tells me exactly how much she loves this. Her thighs tremble in my grip as I alternate between teasing her clit and fucking her with my tongue.

Each moan, each desperate whimper sends vibrations through my cock that make my blood burn hotter. I grip her thighs harder, spreading her wider so I can devour her more thoroughly. The taste of her arousal on my tongue drives me wild with need.

"Mmm," she moans around my length, the sound muffled but unmistakably pleased. Her hips buck against my mouth, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything I'm giving her.

Her mouth works me faster, hungrier, matching the intensity of my own attentions to her sex. We feed off each other's pleasure in an endless loop of mounting desire.

Her delicate fingers join her mouth, one hand wrapping around my base while the other gently massages my balls.

Each stroke is perfectly timed with the bobbing of her head, creating a rhythm that threatens to shatter my control.

Suddenly her body tenses. She spits out my cock with a gasp, her head thrashing from side to side as her orgasm tears through her.

"Vadim! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Vadim!" Her thighs clamp around my head as she comes, but I don't let up. I keep my mouth locked on her pussy, my tongue working her through every wave of pleasure.

Her cries echo off the walls as she writhes in my arms, her hands now gripping the sheets instead of my cock. The taste of her arousal floods my mouth as she comes. I growl with satisfaction against her sensitive flesh and continue feasting on her, drinking in every drop of her pleasure while she shudders and moans.

I lay Lacey back on the bed, and take in the sight of her. Her lips are swollen and red, saliva and precum glistening and ruining her makeup. Her golden hair is wild, tangled, and matted.

The flush of arousal spreads from her cheeks down her neck to her heaving breasts. Her nipples harden into tight peaks. Her fingers dive between her legs, rubbing them to tease out tiny little moans from the back of her throat.

"You look like a real whore now," I growl, running my thumb across her lower lip.

Her eyes flutter open, and she parts those perfect lips, tongue darting out to trace them.

"What are you going to do next?" Her voice is hoarse from taking me deep in her throat.

I climb on the bed, grip her thighs, and spread them wide to expose her glistening pussy.

"What do you think, zvyozdochka? I'm going to fuck you like a whore."

18

LACEY

VADIM ENTERS me in one smooth thrust, and I gasp as my body trembles at the exquisite fullness. His thick length stretches me deliciously as he buries himself to the hilt.

I clench around him instinctively, drawing a groan from his throat.

"Is this how you're supposed to fuck whores?" I whisper, my hands fisting in the sheets. "All slow and soft and gentle?"

He starts with slow, deliberate strokes that make every nerve ending sing. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through me. I push back against him, wanting more, needing more.

"Harder," I beg. "Make me feel it."

His hands grip my hips tighter as he picks up the pace. The sound of skin against skin fills the room along with our mingled breaths and moans.

"Like this?" he growls, snapping his hips sharply.

"Yes!" I cry out. "Just like that. Don't stop."

My entire body rocks with the force of his thrusts now. I can feel him so deep inside me, hitting that perfect spot over and over. The pleasure builds higher and higher with each stroke.

"More," I plead. "Please, Vadim. Fuck me like a whore!"

He obliges, driving into me with renewed vigor. One hand slides up my back to tangle in my hair, using the grip to arch me how he wants me. The new angle has me seeing stars.

"Such a good girl," he praises. "And an even better whore."

His words send another rush of heat through me. I push back to meet each thrust, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more of him.

I pull Vadim down to me, desperate to taste him as he pounds into me. Our kiss is all teeth and tongue, messy and primal. His cock fills me completely with each powerful thrust, and I match his intensity, rolling my hips to meet him.

"Yes," I gasp against his mouth. "Just like that."

He kisses down my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as his pace becomes almost punishing. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, using the leverage to drive him deeper. The new angle has me crying out with each thrust.

My nails rake down his back as pleasure builds inside me. His muscles flex beneath my fingers, sweat making his skin slick. The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with our arousal fills my senses.

"Harder," I demand, biting his lower lip. "Make me feel you."

He obliges, his powerful body moving against mine with an intensity that steals my breath. I feel owned, claimed, marked as his in the most primal way. Our bodies move together in perfect sync, finding a desperate rhythm.

His forehead presses against mine as we move, our breaths mingling. Those storm-gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my core clench around him. I can't look away, don't want to look away.

"I want to ride you," I whisper against his lips, loving how his eyes darken at my words.

He pulls out slowly, making me whimper at the sudden emptiness. With predatory grace, he lies back on the bed, his cock standing proudly against his taut stomach. The sight of him like this—all hard muscle and heated skin—makes my mouth water.

I climb on top of him, straddling his hips. His hands immediately find my thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. The possessive touch sends shivers up my spine.

"Show me how a whore rides her pakhan," he commands, voice thickening with desire.

The thick head of his cock presses against my entrance. His fingers dig into my flesh as I slowly sink down, taking him inch by delicious inch until he's fully sheathed inside me again.

My hands brace against his chest for balance, feeling his heart thundering beneath my palms and through his cock. His muscles flex under my touch as I start to move, rolling my hips in the way I know drives him wild.

"Zvyozdochka," he groans, the pet name falling from his lips like a prayer.

I lean down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss as I ride him, setting a steady rhythm that has us both panting. His hands roam my body—squeezing my breasts, trailing down my sides, gripping my hips to guide my movements.

I quicken my pace, feeling him throb inside me with each roll of my hips. The physical sensations are familiar—the stretch of him filling me completely, the way his fingers dig into my flesh, the sound of our bodies meeting. But where there was pain and desperation on the stairs, now there is only pleasure and desire.

My hands trail over his chest as I ride him, memorizing every hard plane of muscle. His eyes lock onto mine, dark with want but soft with something deeper. There's no anger there now, no self-loathing or guilt.

Just pure need and... love.

"You feel so good inside me," I whisper, clenching around him deliberately.

His groan of pleasure sends wet heat pooling low in my belly.

This is nothing like that desperate coupling on the stairs where I tried to punish myself through him. Now each thrust, each touch, each kiss is an affirmation.

We both want this—want each other. The realization makes me bold, makes me sink into him to take him deeper.

His hands slide up my sides to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my sensitive nipples. The touch sends sparks of pleasure through me, making me moan his name. Where once I screamed in pain and rage, now I cry out in ecstasy.

"That's it, zvyozdochka," he growls, voice thick with desire. "Show me how much you want this."

I lean down to capture his mouth in a passionate kiss, rolling my hips faster. His tongue tangles with mine as we move together, finding a perfect rhythm. This isn't about punishment or pain anymore. This is about pleasure, about connection, about two people choosing each other.

I trail kisses down Vadim's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat and the musk that's purely him. My teeth graze his pulse point before I bite down playfully, loving how his breath catches.

"Oh you filthy whore," he growls, his fingers digging into my hips.

"Your filthy whore," I whisper against his skin, rolling my hips faster. "And you love it."

His cock seems to swell bigger and harder as I ride him harder. The sound of skin against skin mingles with our heavy breaths.

"Is this what you wanted?" I taunt, clenching around him deliberately. "Your wife riding you like a cheap whore?"

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest under my palms. His hands slide up to grip my waist, guiding my movements as I bounce on his cock.

I bite his neck again in response, harder this time, and feel him throb inside me. My hips move faster, taking him deeper with each thrust. The familiar tension builds low in my belly as pleasure courses through me.

"You think you're the one in control right now, my pakhan?" I breathe against his ear, loving how his fingers tighten on my flesh.

"Aren't I?" Vadim asks.

I grab his wrists and pin them against the headboard above his head, using my body weight as leverage. The new angle drives him even deeper inside me, making us both gasp.

"No," I purr, rolling my hips in slow, torturous circles. "You're not."

His cock throbs inside me as I start riding him harder and faster. The headboard creaks with each thrust as I hold his hands firmly in place.

"Who's in control now?" I taunt, clenching around him deliberately.

"You are," he groans.

The familiar tension builds low in my belly as I bounce on his cock. My skin and cunt tingles with pleasure as I take him deeper and deeper. His gray eyes burn into mine, dark with desire.

"Louder." I increase my pace, chasing my release.

I move faster, setting a merciless pace and loving how he fills me completely. His muscles strain under my grip but he doesn't try to break free.

"You are!" he rasps.

"Louder!"

A groan tears from his throat as I clench around him again. My thighs burn from the exertion but I don't slow down. I can feel my orgasm building each time I sink down and bury him to the hilt, each time I feel the perfect slide of his thick length inside me.

"YOU ARE!" He bellows.

"Good boy," I whisper, loving how his cock twitches inside me at the praise.

The familiar tension coils tighter in my core as I ride him with reckless abandon. My breath comes in short gasps, my entire body trembling with need. His eyes lock onto mine, storm-gray darkening to nearly black with desire.

The pressure builds higher and higher with each thrust until finally—finally—I shatter. The orgasm rips through me with an intensity that steals my breath. My body convulses around his thick length as waves of pleasure crash over me again and again.

I cry out his name as I come, my fingers tightening around his.

I collapse onto Vadim's chest, my body still trembling from my intense orgasm. His cock pulses inside me as aftershocks ripple through my core. My fingers release their grip on his wrists, and I trail my hands down his arms, feeling the hard muscles flexing beneath my touch.

His chest heaves against mine, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together as we both try to catch our breath. I can feel his heart thundering beneath my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

I turn my head to press my lips against his ear, still moving my hips in slow, lazy circles around his thick length.

"I'm not done with you yet," Vadim growls, his cock still hard inside me.

His hands immediately find my hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks, but I don't care. I want his marks on me, want this physical reminder of how completely I own him in this moment, just as he owns me.

"No?" I taunt, deliberately clenching around him. "What are you going to do about it?"

His hands grip my hips tighter as he starts moving me above him, setting a punishing pace that has me gasping. Each thrust hits deeper than before, making my oversensitive body tremble.

"Is this what you wanted?" he demands, his voice rough with desire. "To be fucked like the bratva's whore?"

"Yes," I moan, letting him take control of our rhythm.

His cock fills me completely with each powerful thrust, the new angle making me see stars. I yelp with every thrust, still sensitive from my earlier orgasm. My body stirs with renewed pleasure as he pushes me towards another one.

"Take it," he commands. "Take all of it."

I feel him throb inside me, his movements becoming more erratic. His fingers dig into my flesh as he drives up into me one final time.

"Lacey," he groans, and then I feel him coming apart as his release floods me and pushes me over the edge again.

I clench around him as my second orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave of pleasure making my body shake. I feel him pulsing inside me, sending thick ropes surging within me as we come together.

"Vadim!" I cry out, my nails digging into his chest. My inner walls ripple around his length, milking every last drop from him.

Stars explode behind my eyes as the sensations overwhelm me.

Our bodies move together through the aftershocks, his cock still twitching inside me as my muscles flutter around him. His chest heaves against mine, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together as we both try to catch our breath.

My heart pounds against my ribs, matching the thundering rhythm I feel beneath my palm on his chest. I collapse into him again, completely spent, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath mine.

His arms wrap around me, holding me close as we both come down from our shared high.

19

VADIM

I HOLD LACEY CLOSE, our sweat-slicked bodies tangled together as our breathing slows. Her head rests against my chest, right over my thundering heart. The way she took control, pinned my hands above my head—it awakens something primal in me.

Not the darkness I feared would consume me, but something different. Something better.

"That was incredible," I whisper into her hair, breathing in her familiar scent of citrus and lavender. "I love when you take control like that."

She shifts to look up at me, those amber-flecked eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. "I know you'd never truly hurt me, Vadim." Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my chest. "Even when I begged you to on the stairs that day."

The memory of her pleading with me to hurt her, to punish her, flashes through my mind. But this time, it doesn't fill me with the same self-loathing. She sees the change in my expression and presses a gentle kiss to my jaw.

"You held back then because you care too much," she continues. "Just like you held back tonight until I gave you permission. That's what makes you."

For the first time, I start to believe her words. Maybe she's right—maybe I'm not destined to become the monster that haunts my nightmares. Her complete trust in me, even after everything we've been through, begins to wash away decades of doubt.

I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead.

"My little star," I murmur. "Zvyozdochka."

She snuggles into my embrace with a contented sigh, and I feel another piece of the wall between us crumble away.

I stroke Lacey's hair as her breathing steadies against my chest. The peace of the moment shatters when she props herself up on an elbow, concern clouding those amber-flecked eyes.

"Something's still bothering me," she says. "How did Freddy know you were Russian? What gave it away?"

My jaw tightens. But there's no point in keeping the truth from her. "Because his debts are owed to Kirsan's casinos."

"What?" She sits up fully now, pulling the sheet around her. "Kirsan owns casinos here?"

"Several. All illegal operations running out of basements and warehouses." I trace my finger along her spine, trying to soothe her rising tension. "Freddy's in deep—half a million dollars. That's why he's been stealing from your father."

"And pawning Mom's jewelry," she whispers, her hand going to Mom’s necklace.

"The collectors who visit him work for Kirsan. That's why he recognized what I am the moment he saw me." My lip curls in disgust. "He must've assumed I was there to collect from him, instead of keeping you safe."

Lacey's shoulders slump. "No wonder he pissed himself when you confronted him."

I run my fingers along Lacey's spine as she processes what I've told her about Freddy's gambling debts. Her amber-flecked eyes search mine with that mix of concern and fierce protectiveness I've come to cherish.

"Will you still protect him?" she asks softly. "Even after everything he's done?"

I cup her face in my hands, marveling at how she can still care about someone who's caused her so much pain.

"If that's what you want, zvyozdochka. He doesn't deserve your kindness, but I will offer it if you insist. That's what makes you special." I kiss her gently. "You keep fighting for people even when they don't deserve it."

"He's still family," she whispers, though I detect the hurt in her voice.

"That's exactly what I mean." I press a kiss to her forehead. "Most people would have written him off long ago. But you? You see the good in everyone. Even in monsters like me."

She starts to protest but I silence her with a gentle finger to her lips.

"It's what I love about you. Your ability to forgive, to keep believing in people—it's rare. Precious." My thumb traces her lower lip. "Though I still want to break his fingers every time he speaks to you that way."

A small smile tugs at her mouth. "Just his fingers?"

"Well, maybe his jaw too." I return her smile, but grow serious again. "As long as you want him protected, I'll make sure he stays safe. But only because it matters to you."

She nestles back against my chest with a contented sigh. "Thank you."

I press my hand against Lacey's still-flat belly, marveling at the miracle growing inside. My child. Our child. The thought fills me with equal parts wonder and terror.

"What are you thinking about?" Lacey asks, covering my hand with hers.

"How different our child's life will be from mine." I kiss her shoulder. "They'll know love from the start. They'll have two parents who want them."

Lacey's fingers intertwine with mine. "And a whole household that'll spoil them rotten. Can you imagine Lenka with a baby?"

The image makes me smile. "She'll probably teach them Russian before English."

"I hope they have your eyes," Lacey says softly. "Those storm-gray eyes that see right through me."

"And your smile. That smile that lights up entire rooms." I nuzzle her neck. "Your kindness too."

Lacey shifts to face me, her expression growing thoughtful. "Having Dad and Freddy here... it's making me think about what family really means. How it's not just blood." She touches my chest, right over my heart. "It's about choice too. The people we choose to love, to protect."

"Like how you chose to be with a monster like me?"

"Stop that," she scolds gently. "You're not a monster. You're going to be an amazing father."

The certainty in her voice makes my throat tight. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I see how you are with the people you care about. How protective you are." Her hand returns to her belly. “Our child is going to be loved, Vadim. They'll never doubt it for a second."

Looking at Lacey in my arms, her amber-flecked eyes half-closed in contentment, I feel my heart start to race. The words I've been holding back surge forward, impossible to contain any longer.

"I love you."

The silence that follows feels eternal. My chest tightens as I wait for her response, terrified that I've said too much too soon. After everything we've been through—the forced marriage, Paris, Irina's death, her kidnapping—maybe she's not ready to hear those words.

But then she shifts in my arms, tilting her face up to mine. Those beautiful eyes search my face, and I see tears gathering in them.

"I love you too," she whispers.

The relief that floods through me is staggering. I pull her closer, burying my face in her citrus-and-lavender scented hair, letting the warmth of her words wash over me. For the first time in my life, I feel truly whole.

She loves me. Not the pakhan, or the man who can give her everything money can buy. Just me. The broken son of a monster who's spent his whole life trying to prove he's different from his father.

And somehow, impossibly, she sees past all of that to love the man beneath.

Slowly, I hook my finger under her chin, and tilt it up until her lips meet mine in a kiss.

It's unlike any kiss we've shared before. Gone is the desperate hunger that usually consumes us, replaced by something gentler, sweeter. Her lips are soft against mine, moving with unhurried tenderness that makes my heart ache.

The constant weight I've carried—of Pyotr's legacy, of proving myself different from him, of protecting everyone I care about—seems to float away. In this moment, nothing exists beyond Lacey's warmth pressed against me.

"Zvyozdochka," I whisper against her mouth. She smiles into our kiss, and I feel that smile down to my soul.

I've spent so long believing I don't deserve love, convincing myself that monsters like me aren't meant for happiness. But here, with Lacey in my arms, her heart beating in time with mine, I finally understand what it means to be truly happy.

The outside world—Kirsan, Sayanaa, the threats we face—feels distant and unreal. All that matters is this moment, this woman, this love we've found despite everything that should have kept us apart.

I trace my thumb along her cheek, memorizing the feeling of her skin against mine. The way she leans into my touch, so trusting, so open.

It fills me with a warmth I never knew I could feel.

20

LACEY

5 WEEKS LATER

MY HEART IS RACING as we wait for Dr. Chen. Vadim's hand squeezes mine reassuringly. Despite all the chaos of the past few weeks, this moment feels surreal.

Today, we're about to see our baby for the first time.

"Nervous?" Vadim asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.

"A little." I smooth my hand over my still-flat belly. "It's strange—everything feels so normal right now. Almost like we're just any other couple waiting for their first ultrasound."

He chuckles. "We are far from normal, zvyozdochka."

"I know. But with Megan's interviews hitting harder and harder, and Sayanaa going quiet..." I trail off, not wanting to jinx anything.

"The war isn't over yet," Vadim reminds me gently. "But we're winning. That's why we're being careful, having Dr. Chen come here instead of risking you leaving Pankration."

I nod, thinking about how much has changed. The final designs for Svoboda's new collection are complete—a tribute to Irina's vision mixed with my own style but named after her. Megan's latest exposé about the trafficking victims had over a million views within hours.

We're making real progress.

A knock at the door makes me jump. Dr. Chen enters with her ultrasound machine. As she sets up the equipment, I grip Vadim's hand more tightly. Despite everything we've faced, this feels like the most momentous thing yet.

"Are we ready today?" Dr. Chen asks, squeezing the cold gel onto my stomach.

I look up at Vadim and see my own mix of excitement reflected in his eyes. "Ready," I whisper, though my racing heart suggests otherwise.

Dr. Chen's hands tremble slightly as she arranges the ultrasound equipment.

"Mr. Stravinsky, would you mind stepping out for a moment while I prepare your wife?"

My heart skips at being called Mrs. Stravinsky. Even after everything, it still feels new.

Vadim kisses my forehead. "Of course, doctor. I'll be right outside, zvyozdochka."

As the door closes behind him, something nags at me. Dr. Chen has never asked Vadim to leave before. And she's usually so confident and steady with her movements. Today her hands keep shaking as she adjusts dials and settings.

"Is everything alright?" I ask.

"Yes, yes. Just need to..." She trails off, fumbling with the ultrasound wand. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple despite the cool air in the room.

"Dr. Chen?"

She won't meet my eyes. Her usual warm bedside manner is replaced by darting glances at the door. The way she keeps wringing her hands reminds me of someone else who was terrified.

Taliya.

In Megan's interview.

My stomach churns, and not from morning sickness. Dr. Chen has always been so composed during our previous visits. The way she's acting now...something isn't right.

"Just a few more adjustments," she mutters, but she hasn't actually done anything with the equipment for the past minute.

Dr. Chen's face crumples and tears start streaming down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stravinsky. I'm so, so sorry."

"What's wrong?" My heart pounds as I try to sit up on the exam table. "Dr. Chen, you're scaring me."

"I don't want to do this." Her words come out in a choked whisper. "But I have no choice—"

Before I can process what's happening, she lunges forward with something glinting in her hand.

A scalpel.

Aimed straight at my belly.

Pure instinct takes over. I grab her hands, but the blade slices deep into my palm. Hot pain lances through my hand as blood wells up, making my grip slippery. But I don't let go.

"Please," she sobs, trying to wrench free. "I have to—"

"VADIM!" I scream, using every ounce of strength to keep the scalpel from plunging into my stomach. Blood drips down my arm as Dr. Chen and I grapple. The cut burns, but all I can think about is protecting our baby. "VADIM!"

My arms shake with the effort of holding her back. Dr. Chen may be smaller than me, but desperation gives her strength. The scalpel inches closer to my belly despite my blood-slicked grip.

"I'm sorry," she keeps crying. “Please forgive me.”

The door crashes open as Vadim bursts in, and rips Dr. Chen away from me with such force that I hear something crack.

My hands are slick with blood, throbbing in time with my racing heartbeat. But I barely register the pain as my trembling fingers fly to my stomach.

Thank god!

The blade didn't reach my belly. Our baby is safe.

Dr. Chen crumples to the floor, sobbing hysterically. "I didn't want to—they made me do it! Please, I had no choice!"

Vadim towers over her, his face twisted in cold fury. "Who made you?" His voice carries the deadly edge I've only heard a few times before.

"They took her." Dr. Chen's words dissolve into broken wails. "They took my daughter last week. My Bianca..."

The raw anguish in her voice strikes something deep inside me. Despite my bleeding hands, despite what she just tried to do, I find myself stumbling forward to grab Vadim's arm before he can move closer to her.

"Who?" My voice shakes as I pull him back. "Dr. Chen, who took Bianca?"

Dr. Chen's body shakes with each sob as she tells us what happened. "I was working late at the clinic. When I got home..." Her voice breaks. "There were men everywhere. They had guns pointed at my husband, at Bianca..."

My heart twists painfully despite the throbbing in my hand. I've seen that same desperate terror before.

"And there was a single woman among them." Dr. Chen's words come faster now, tumbling over each other. "She kept stroking Bianca's hair, telling me what pretty eyes she has."

Dr. Chen's fingers claw at her own arms, leaving angry red marks. "She told me what I had to do…” Fresh tears stream down her face. "A child for a child, she said.”

Vadim's entire body has gone rigid beside me. I know that coiled tension—he's fighting the urge to unleash violence. But Dr. Chen is just another victim here.

"What did this woman look like?" I ask softly, though I have a suspicion who it might be. There are only two people in this world cruel enough to force a mother to choose like this.

"Tall, maybe in her early fifties..." Dr. Chen's voice trembles. "Like a statue come to life. Her hair was dark with streaks of silver." She wrings her hands. "But her eyes... they were so cold. It was like looking into two pieces of ice."

My blood runs cold.

"And rings." Dr. Chen stammers. "She wore rings on every finger." Dr. Chen's voice breaks. "I saw them when she grabbed Bianca's chin to make her look up."

Vadim's hand tightens around mine. I know he's reached the same conclusion.

"She kept calling my daughter little dove," Dr. Chen adds. "While she told me what I had to do. I didn't want to. I told her I didn't want to. But she left me no choice."

Dr. Chen shakes her head. "She knew everything about us—Bianca's school schedule, my husband's work route, even which nights I volunteer at the free clinic." Her voice drops to a horrified whisper. "She said they'd been watching us for weeks, waiting for the right moment."

My stomach churns as the full scope of Olga's vileness hits me.

She didn't just target Dr. Chen randomly. She deliberately chose someone we trusted, someone with access to me. She turned a healer into a weapon by exploiting the one thing more precious than a doctor's oath:

A mother's love for her child.

I exchange a look with Vadim, seeing the same determination in his eyes that I feel.

We can't let another child suffer.

"Dr. Chen," I say softly, kneeling beside her despite the burning pain in my hands. "Vadim can help get Bianca back."

She looks up, tears still streaming down her face. "How? The police can't help. She told me that she'd kill her if I went to them."

"My husband has helped others in your position before. He knows how these monsters operate. Trust me."

"Really?" Dr. Chen's voice cracks with desperate hope. Her eyes dart between us. "You can really help get my baby back?"

"Yes," I tell her firmly. "We can."

Her gaze falls to my bleeding hands and fresh tears well up. "Oh god, what have I done? Let me patch those up for you." She starts to rise but hesitates, clearly unsure if she should come near me again.

I instinctively pull back at the thought of letting her touch me after what just happened. But when I glance at Vadim, he gives me a reassuring nod. He'll be right here watching.

And Dr. Chen is still the same person who's cared for me and our baby these past weeks.

"Okay," I whisper, holding out my trembling hands.

Dr. Chen's hands tremble as she wraps gauze around my palm. The sharp sting of antiseptic makes me wince, but I focus on staying still while she works.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers again, taping the bandage in place. "I didn't mean to. The cut isn't too deep. There shouldn't be permanent damage."

Vadim paces behind her, his footsteps measured and deliberate. "Olga is playing a different game here." His voice carries a dangerous edge. "She wouldn't expect you to succeed in killing our baby."

"No," I say slowly as I think. "If anything, she'd expect you to kill Dr. Chen in retaliation." My stomach churns at how casually we're discussing murder, but I push through. "That would give her exactly what she wants—another corpse to pin on you."

Vadim's eyes meet mine, sharp with understanding. "Unless there's a third option we hadn't considered."

I watch Dr. Chen's fingers fumbling with the medical tape. "Like what if, against all odds, Dr. Chen succeeded and managed to escape?"

"Did she give you any instructions?" Vadim asks Dr. Chen. "A way to contact her if you completed your task?"

Dr. Chen nods, finishing the bandage on my other hand. "She said..." Her voice catches. "If I succeeded, I'm supposed to go to the docks tonight at 10PM."

Vadim checks his watch, his jaw tightening. "Eight hours."

My heart skips as I realize we're on borrowed time.

"Dr. Chen," he says, kneeling beside Dr. Chen. "If we're going to save Bianca, you need to trust us completely. Can you do that?"

Dr. Chen nods frantically, her fingers twisting in her lap. "Anything. I'll do anything."

"Good." Vadim's voice is solemn. "You'll go to the docks at the appointed time, but you need to be mentally prepared for the fact that Olga may have already gone back on her word."

"No." A thought strikes me as my bandaged hands throb. "Olga isn't working alone anymore, remember? She's with Kirsan and Sayanaa." My stomach churns. "And Sayanaa likes to play with her food."

Vadim nods. "Which means Bianca might actually be there, but only so they can force Dr. Chen to watch while they—"

"No!" Dr. Chen's scream cuts through the air. She scrambles backward until she hits the wall, shaking her head violently. "No, no, no! You can't let them hurt my baby. You promised! Please!"

Her hysteria reminds me of how I felt watching Irina die in Paris. That same helpless horror of knowing someone you care about is in danger and being powerless to stop it.

"They won't," I say firmly, though my voice shakes. "We won't let them hurt Bianca."

"I can have sharpshooters in place by nightfall," Vadim says. "Demyon will stay here with enough men to ensure Pankration remains secure in case this is Sayanaa's attempt to draw us out."

My fingers brush against the bandages on my palm. "We need to make this look convincing. Dr. Chen needs to appear like someone who just fought their way out of Pankration after..." I swallow hard. "After completing her task."

"Yes." Vadim nods. "That's something I didn't consider."

"I can help with that," I offer, looking at Dr. Chen's tear-stained face. "Make-up, torn clothes, the works. If Olga's watching, she needs to believe you barely escaped with your life."

Dr. Chen nods, then hesitates. "One more thing." Her voice trembles but carries a mother's fierce determination. "You need to call her. This Olga woman. You need to threaten to kill her."

Vadim's eyebrow raises slightly. "Why?"

"She sent me here to kill your unborn child. You need to show her the rage of a parent who just lost the most important thing in the world."

Dr. Chen's hands clench into fists.

"Because that's exactly what I would do to her if I find out that she hurt my Bianca."

21

VADIM

NIGHT

DR. CHEN'S silver Lexus approaches through the grainy drone feed on my tablet. The rain patters against the warehouse roof where I've positioned my best marksmen. Three to my left, four to my right, all with clear sightlines to the meeting point.

"Vadim Petrovich, in position," Yegor's voice crackles through my earpiece.

"Acknowledged," I zoom out from the camera views as Dr. Chen's car rolls to a stop and she steps out.

Lacey did a flawless job on the makeup. The painted bruises and cuts really do make it look like Dr. Chen fought her way out after completing her grim task.

The car stops exactly where instructed. Through the drone feed, I watch Dr. Chen step out, her movements appropriately shaky and terrified.

That part's not fakable.

The drone operator adjusts the angle, giving me a wider view of the docks. Empty shipping containers create a maze of steel corridors, perfect for an ambush.

My jaw clenches as I remember calling Olga, and the way she laughed when she heard me.

"Now you understand, bastard," she had said. "Now you know how it feels to have something precious taken from you."

I force myself back to the present moment and the drone feed showing Dr. Chen's trembling figure. The rain intensifies, obscuring the drone feed for a moment.

A few minutes later, a black Lincoln Town Car glides into view, its headlights cutting through the mist.

"Eyes on," I murmur into my comm.

Through my rifle scope, I watch Olga emerge first, her silver-streaked hair unmistakable even in this light. A teenage girl follows. Three men in dark suits flank them, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

Even from this distance, I can see Dr. Chen body language shift as she recognizes her daughter.

"Gotovi?" Ready?

My men respond with clicks through their comms

"Execute," I order, centering my crosshairs on the guard nearest to Olga.

I squeeze the trigger. The first guard's head snaps back in a spray of red. Before his body hits the ground, my men open fire. The second guard reaches for his weapon but falls with a shot through the throat.

The third barely manages to draw his piece before a bullet finds his heart.

Through my scope, I see Olga's eyes widen in terror. She bolts for the Town Car with surprising speed. The driver guns it before she's fully inside, tires squealing on wet pavement.

More shots ring out, but they do nothing to slow the car.

"Get to Dr. Chen and her daughter," I bark, already running for my waiting vehicle. "Keep them safe."

I slam the car—an inconspicuous Toyota—into drive as my drone operator's calm voice crackles through: "Vehicle westbound on Spokane, Vadim Petrovich."

The engine roars as I accelerate after them. Rain hammers against the windshield. The Town Car's taillights flash red in the distance as they turn onto the main road.

"They're taking the bridge into West Seattle," the drone operator updates.

I floor it, but the gap between us keeps growing. I grip the wheel tighter, wishing that I was in my Ferrari as I watch those red taillights grow smaller and smaller through the curtain of rain.

"Crash the fucking drone!" I snarl into my comm. "Into their windshield. Now!"

The little DJI Mavic overhead speeds up in front of the Town Car, and suddenly dive down like a missile. Brake lights flare as the drone bounces off the windshield.

The car swerves violently, scraping against the Jersey barrier. Then the front crumples just enough.

The entire car flips.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Metal screams against concrete, sparks flying in the rain like a shower of angry stars, before the wreck finally skids to a stop on its side with a sickening crunch of twisted steel and shattered glass.

I pull up next to it, and step, my shoes splashing in puddles as I walk toward the wreckage. The driver is still alive, moaning and trying to crawl through his shattered window.

I put two rounds in his head without breaking stride and wrench open Olga's door. She hangs suspended by her seatbelt, blood streaming from a gash in her forehead and lips. Her eyes flutter open and lock onto mine.

"Hello bastard," she whispers, her voice wet with blood.

I level my gun at her face. My finger tightens on the trigger.

"For a moment, I really thought Dr. Chen succeeded," Olga groans. "I dared to believe your little whore's belly was really split open, and your spawn dead inside."

My finger tightens on the trigger. Rain soaks my hair, but it does nothing to soothe the fury burning behind my eyes.

"Did it feel good?" I keep my voice steady despite the rage coursing through me. "Forcing a mother to kill someone else's child?"

Olga doesn't answer. Instead, her bloody lips curl into a smile. "Are you going to kill me, bastard?"

"I very much want to.” My finger remains steady on the trigger as rain soaks my brow. "For everything you've done."

"Then what's stopping you?"

"Because you saved my mother." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Even if she was just another piece on your board."

Olga's laugh turns into a wet cough. "Is that what you think, bastard? That I saved her to spite Pyotr?" She shakes her head, wincing at the movement. "No. The truth was, I pitied her. There are nights when I can still hear her screams in that awful room when he forced all of us to watch."

My grip tightens on the gun. "Don't pretend—"

"You want to know why I really hate you?"

Her eyes bore into mine with sudden intensity.

"Because you have a soft heart. Just like my Slava. Neither of you inherited that monster's soul." She continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "But Slava suffered, and you lived in his place."

The rain feels colder suddenly.

"All these years." Tears streams from her eyes, mixing with the blood from her forehead "I kept asking myself: just what did I do to deserve this punishment? Why couldn't I protect my own son from him?"

My finger trembles on the trigger as Olga's words sink in. Despite everything she's done, I understand why she did it.

"If you're going to do it, do it now." Olga's voice cuts through the pounding rain.

"Not until you tell me where Kirsan and Sayanaa are."

She closes her eyes, a bitter smile twisting her bloodied lips. "Still fighting that useless crusade. We both know I won't make it out of this car tonight. I have nothing left to lose, and no reason to commit yet another betrayal."

Rain streams down my face as I wait.

"Then again, if you go looking for a fight." She opens her eyes, meeting mine. "And die while you're at it, then maybe it'll all be worth it in the end."

The rain comes down fast and hard.

"Los Angeles," she whispers.

"Thank you." The gun shakes in my hand. "Polina Vladimirovna sends her regards."

She turns her cheek away from me, presenting the side of her head. She's ready. "Make it quick, Vadim Petrovich. Don't make me hurt like he did."

I squeeze the trigger.

The sound echoes across the empty bridge, swallowed by the drumming rain.

Her body slumps in the twisted wreck, and her blood mixes with rainwater. Ribbons of red twist away under the rumbling night sky. For a moment, I stand there, letting the rain wash over me.

The gun slides back into my shoulder holster, still warm. Water streams off my coat as I slip behind the wheel.

The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as I navigate through the empty streets toward Pankration. My hands grip the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles show white, but I barely notice. All I can think about is Olga's final words about my brother, and the weight of thirty-four years of misplaced vengeance.

I drive in silence, leaving the wreckage of Olga's car behind me in the rain pondering what she just said.

My earpiece crackles. "Vadim Petrovich. Dr. Chen wants to talk to you."

I tap my earpiece. "Where?"

"Kelly's Diner off Aurora."

Rain pelts against my windshield as I turn the car around. Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the nearly empty parking lot. Through the diner's windows, I spot Dr. Chen and Bianca huddled in a corner booth, steaming mugs in front of them.

My boots squeak against the linoleum as I approach. Dr. Chen's eyes are red-rimmed, her hand clasped tightly around her daughter's. Bianca looks... hollow. The kind of emptiness I've seen too many times in other victims' eyes.

"Mr. Stravinsky." Dr. Chen's voice cracks. "I... thank you. For my daughter."

I slide into the booth across from them. "You understand they'll come looking for you both."

She nods, pulling Bianca closer. "I know. But where can we go?"

"Pankration has room," I say carefully, watching Bianca's reaction. "It's secure. Safe."

'I can't." Dr. Chen stiffens. "Not after what I almost..."

"Mom, please," Bianca speaks for the first time, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to go back home."

Dr. Chen's face crumples as she looks at her daughter. I recognize that expression—the helpless anguish of a parent unable to protect her child from monsters.

"You'll both be protected there," I tell them quietly. "And I'm sure my wife will appreciate the company."

ALMOST AN HOUR LATER, I step into Pankration, my clothes still damp from the rain.

Lacey rushes towards me, her face tight with worry. "Zvyozdochka," I breathe as she crashes into my arms. Her familiar citrus and lavender scent fills my nose, grounding me after everything that just happened.

"How did it go?" She pulls back, searching my face. "Did you find—"

I step aside, revealing Dr. Chen and Bianca hovering uncertainly in the doorway. Relief floods Lacey's features as she hurries to greet them both.

"Thank God you're both safe." She wraps them in a gentle hug before turning back. "Lenka!"

Our housekeeper appears almost instantly, as if she'd been waiting nearby. Lacey gestures to our new guests. "Could you help them get settled?"

"Of course." Lenka's weathered features soften as she takes in Bianca's haunted expression. She guides mother and daughter deeper into the mansion with practiced efficiency.

Once they're gone, Lacey turns back to me. Her amber-flecked eyes narrow as she studies my face. "What else happened? There's something you're not telling me."

I draw her close again, needing to feel her warmth. "Olga's dead," I say quietly against her hair. "I killed her."

I brace myself for the horror and revulsion I expect to see in Lacey's eyes. Instead, she cups my face between her palms, her gaze steady and sure.

"You did what you had to do," she says softly. "Olga made her choice when she sided with Sayanaa and Kirsan."

"But she saved my mother," I whisper, the weight of what I've done settling heavy in my chest.

"Yes, she did." Lacey's thumb strokes my cheek. "And it's alright that you feel conflicted about this. It shows you're nothing like what she claimed you were."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. "She told me why she hated me so much. Said I had a soft heart like Slava, and that she hated knowing Slava suffered while I lived."

"Then she should have protected you both instead of letting her bitterness poison everything." Lacey's voice carries a fierce certainty that makes my breath catch. "She saved your mother, yes, but she could not bring herself to love you when you needed it the most. And then she tried to force another mother to kill our child. She was given chances, and turned them away at every turn."

"You're starting to sound like a real pakhan's wife," I tell her, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

Lacey's fingers trace along my jaw as she holds my gaze. "That's because I married a real pakhan. Not some heartless monster who thinks having a conscience means weakness." Her touch sends warmth through my rain-chilled skin. "I married a man capable of love. Someone who understands the weight of what it means to take a life."

Before I can respond, she presses a finger to my lips. "Listen," she whispers.

I do as she asks, and for a moment, I hear nothing but the familiar sounds of Pankration at night—the hum of the security systems, the distant footsteps of my men on patrol. Then it reaches my ears: laughter. Female laughter, drifting down from upstairs where Dr. Chen and Bianca must be settling in.

My breath catches. In all my years here, since that first night when Pyotr brought me to Pankration at age six, I've never heard such a sound within these walls. Women's screams, yes. Sobs, definitely.

But never this—this simple, pure sound of joy.

"Do you hear that?" Lacey's voice is soft but firm. "That's your proof right there. You're nothing like Pyotr. These walls that once held so much pain are now protecting people. Sheltering them." Her hands frame my face. "That's what makes you different."

22

LACEY

"LOS ANGELES IS GOOD NEWS," Megan insists, pacing with that familiar energetic bounce in her step in Vadim's office. "Kirsan's running scared. Why else would he abandon Seattle?"

Demyon shakes his head, arms crossed. "Los Angeles isn't an escape route. It's an expansion. The cartels there control everything from drugs to weapons. Human trafficking would be just another revenue stream for them."

"Exactly my point!" Megan whirls to face him. "Kirsan would have to share profits, negotiate territory. He's independent now, why would he willingly give that up unless we're forcing his hand?"

"Because the market is ten times bigger," Demyon counters. "Even a smaller piece of that pie would be worth more than what he has here."

Despite everything that's happened, seeing them bicker like this brings a small smile to my face. Both of them have a point, but there's something that I feel that neither of them is ready to see.

As I think, their voices fade into background noise.

Then, something clicks, and I sit up straighter, drawing Vadim's attention.

"The two of you are forgetting something about Los Angeles," I say, my heart starting to race.

"Which is?" Megan asks.

"Los Angeles Fashion Week," I say, watching their faces. "It happens twice a year—spring and fall. And it's not just about the runway shows. The parties, photoshoots, talent scouts looking for fresh faces. We're talking about thousands of people at a minimum."

My stomach turns as I think about all those hopeful young models. Girls like Taliya, dreaming of bright lights and glamour.

"Lacey's right," Vadim says, his voice tight with tension. "It's the perfect hunting ground. Models from all over the world converge there. Both the ones working with agencies, and the ones without any representation or anyone looking out for them."

"And the cartels have established infrastructure for pretty much everything," Demyon adds, nodding slowly. "Storage, routes, corrupt officials..."

"Which means Kirsan isn't running away," I continue, my hand unconsciously moving to my belly. "He's scaling up. He's taking it to the next level. Instead of trafficking a few dozen women at a time through fashion houses here in Seattle, he'll have access to hundreds of potential victims. All in one place, all desperate for their big break."

Megan's earlier excitement fades as she processes this. "So we're not winning."

"No," Vadim confirms. "But now we know where to hit him next."

The weight of what we're up against settles over the room. I think about Irina, about Dr. Chen and Bianca, about all the women we've saved and all the ones we still need to save. My hand finds Vadim's under the desk and squeezes.

"But how is Kirsan able to expand so quickly?" Megan asks, her reporter instincts kicking in. "Even with cartel connections, building up an operation like that takes time."

The answer hits me like a punch to the gut. My hands start trembling as I remember a lecture from my brief time in fashion school.

"No publicity is bad publicity," I whisper, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

"What?" Megan leans forward.

"Any attention, even negative attention, can be turned into profit." My voice grows stronger as the horrible realization crystallizes. "The exposés we've been running? You remember the comments under the videos."

Megan's face pales when she realizes what I'm talking about. "Oh god."

"People asking about prices, and how to buy," I continue. "Some even defending Kirsan, saying the girls knew what they were getting into. He's not running from the publicity—he's using it. Every time we shine a light on his operation, he gains more potential customers."

"Fuck," Demyon mutters.

"The more we expose him, the more his... his market grows." The words make me sick. "He's taking our attempts to stop him and turning them into free advertising."

Vadim's hand tightens around mine under the desk. "The bastard's been three steps ahead this whole time."

"We can't stop," Megan says, her voice trembling with emotion. "These women need someone to speak for them. To tell their stories. If we stop now, it's like saying their pain doesn't matter."

"I agree." I lean forward, wincing at the slight nausea that accompanies the movement. "But we need to change our approach. These exposés aren't having the effect we hoped for."

"What do you mean?" Megan asks.

"Think about it. The kind of people willing to buy another human being—they're not going to be moved by stories of suffering. Horror and revulsion clearly aren't what's stopping them."

Vadim's thumb traces circles on my palm under the desk. "Then we make them afraid. Start showing them what happens to the buyers when we find them. Once word gets out that purchasing gets you killed, the market dries up."

At Vadim's words about killing buyers, all I can think about is Nathan and how easily he'd hidden his true nature behind his mask.

How many meetings and client dinners had Nathan attended while plotting to sell me? The memory of finding him with Caroline feels almost quaint now compared to knowing what he'd really planned for me.

"It's not that simple," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "There are too many people enabling this. Nathan for example. He wasn't a buyer. He moved money, set up shell companies, and helped make everything look legitimate on paper." My hand tightens around Vadim's. "How many others like him are out there? Accountants, lawyers, business owners all helping to keep this running? We need legitimacy in how we move against all of this."

"The police can't be trusted to investigate them." Vadim's eyes darken with understanding. "Too many of them are already on someone's payroll. I should know. I pay some of them myself."

"You're right," I reply. "But we still need law enforcement involved somehow. The public needs to see justice being served through proper channels."

"Why?" Demyon challenges. "The bratva way is cleaner. No paperwork, no trials, just—" He makes a throat-cutting gesture.

"Because then it becomes just another gang war," I explain. "The public won't care who wins or loses as long as it doesn't affect them. But if we can show this being dismantled through legitimate means..."

"Why not just use the cops already on the bratva's payroll?" Megan interrupts, that familiar spark in her eyes when she's onto something. "They could be the public face of the operation."

Demyon barks out a laugh. "The whole point of paying corrupt cops, zaychik, is knowing that they're dishonest."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Megan challenges, leaning forward.

"Start having them do legitimate police work." Demyon shakes loose a blond curl of hair from his brow. "And they might get ideas about finding a different patron. How do you think we got them on our payroll in the first place?"

"Maybe they just need the right motivation." Megan's eyes gleam.

"And just what do you have to offer them?"

Megan opens her mouth, and a blush creeps up her cheeks.

Demyon's grin widens.

"That's it," I whisper, drawing everyone's attention. "We don't need them to be honest. We just need them to be ours."

We don't need honest cops. We need corrupt ones who are corrupted in the right direction.

"Kirsan's operations here." The words tumble out of me in a rush as the plan takes shape. "The casinos, clubs, brothels, whatever. They all need police for protection, even if it's just looking the other way, to function. So there are plenty of dirty cops on his payroll making sure everything runs smoothly."

"Of course," Vadim says. "But we already know this."

I lean forward, excited now. "Yes, but there must be honest cops too. Good ones who see what's happening but can't do anything about it because they're surrounded by corruption." My hand finds the necklace at my throat and I twist it absently. "What if we force them to reveal who they're working for?"

"And how exactly would we do that?" Demyon asks.

"The same way Kirsan keeps them in line—blackmail. But instead of using it to keep them quiet, we use it to make them talk. Direct that information to the honest cops who actually want to make a difference."

Vadim's expression darkens. "Zvyozdochka, that's incredibly dangerous. If it backfires, we could end up with the entire police force turning against us."

"Better us than letting them continue enabling Kirsan," I argue. "At least we'd know where everyone stands."

"And just where do you expect to find these paragons of virtue in the police force?" Demyon asks, skepticism heavy in his voice. "In my experience, a cop is either corrupt or waiting for the right price to become corrupt."

I think about Captain Rutledge's determined expression when he questioned me, how certain he'd been that there was more to Nathan's death than what appeared on the surface. But above all else, I remember him narrowing his eyes at me when I said the word bratva, and how his demeanor shifted—as if he had a personal grudge against them all.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I know of one."

"Who?" Vadim asks.

"Captain Rutledge," I say.

Demyon bursts out laughing. "That self-righteous boy scout would throw us all in prison without a second thought."

"Which is why he's exactly who we need." I lean forward, feeling the excitement of a plan coming together. "He's incorruptible. A man like him probably lies awake at night thinking about all his fellow officers taking bribes from people like us."

"And that helps us how?" Demyon's skepticism is clear in his voice.

"Because he hates it." I shrug. "Every time he sees another officer look the other way, every time evidence mysteriously disappears from lockup, every time charges get dropped against someone they all know is guilty—it eats at him."

"Lacey..." Megan's voice holds a note of warning. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

I can see the concern in her eyes. She knows me well enough to recognize when I'm about to suggest something dangerous. The tension in the room ratchets up as everyone waits for my answer. I take a deep breath, gathering my courage.

"We need someone Rutledge will listen to," I say. "Someone who he already wants to investigate."

Vadim's eyes darken as he realizes what I'm suggesting. "Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere near Rutledge again."

"He already suspects I know more than I'm saying," I press, leaning forward. "If I go to him now, claiming I want to make a deal..."

"Out of the question." Vadim's voice carries that edge of command that usually brooks no argument. "You're carrying my child. I won't risk either of you."

"I'm the only one who can talk to him,” I insist. "Rutledge will at least be interested in listening." I reach for Vadim's hand. "And if I turn him onto the trail of corrupt cops, they'll panic. They'll start covering their tracks, destroying evidence..."

"Making mistakes," Vadim finishes, his expression thoughtful despite his obvious reluctance.

"Exactly. And if that all happens while you apply pressure to just a few of the ones on Kirsan's payroll..."

"The rest will start looking for new protection," Demyon interjects, nodding slowly. "Smart."

"But finding which cops are exclusively Kirsan's will be nearly impossible," Vadim argues. "Most take money from multiple sources."

A bitter smile crosses my face. "We already have someone who can help us identify them."

"Who?"

"Freddy." I squeeze Vadim's hand. "Like you said, his gambling debts are owed to Kirsan's casinos. And sooner or later, he has to pay them back. He can go to the casino and see which cops are there as well."

"That's a workable plan, but how will this help us with Los Angeles?" Vadim asks.

"Once we expose enough corrupt cops," I say, lips working as fast as my brain can think of the words. "And tie them to Kirsan's human trafficking, then Captain Rutledge can become the face of justice to dismantle the network in Seattle for good. You can supply the information from the bible we took, and then Megan can launch the biggest possible expose about the entire fashion industry that's complicit right as L.A. Fashion Week gets going. People won't be talking about the latest style anymore, but about the rot that takes place underneath. And that's when we go to L.A. to rescue as many people as we can, and take down Kirsan once and for all."

Vadim's expression shifts from concern to something else entirely as he processes my plan. His eyes gleam with a mix of pride and admiration that makes my heart skip.

"Zvyozdochka," he breathes, shaking his head slowly. "You've thought this through from every angle, haven't you?"

"I learned from the best." My lips curl into a smile. “But I have to admit, some of this comes from watching too many crime shows with Megan."

"It's incredibly risky."

"Riskier than faking a wedding to steal a bible from a cathedral in Paris?" I counter, arching an eyebrow at him.

A low chuckle escapes him. "Point taken."

My hand drifts unconsciously to my belly. "I want our child born into a world where Kirsan can't hurt anyone else. Where no more girls like Taliya have their lives destroyed by monsters exploiting their dreams."

Just then, the shrill ring of Megan's phone cuts through our planning session. She answers, and her face drains of color as the person on the other end starts talking immediately.

"What?" Megan's voice shakes. "Was anyone—" She falls silent, listening. "I understand. Yes. No, I... I get it."

My stomach drops at her expression.

Something is wrong.

Demyon reaches for her. "What is it?"

"The Seattle Voice..." Megan's words come out barely above a whisper. "Someone burned it down. The whole place is gone. My boss said the exposés I've been writing made us a target. And he just fired me."

23

VADIM

THE COLOR DRAINS from Megan's face as she puts her phone down. My mind races through the implications. This isn't a coincidence. Kirsan is moving to silence any opposition before we can expose more of his operation.

"He's tying up loose ends," I say. "Before they become liabilities."

"The bastard's getting desperate," Demyon adds, his hand unconsciously moving closer to Megan.

"Do you still have access to the Seattle Voice's social media accounts?" I ask Megan.

She nods, pulling out her phone. "Yeah, they haven't locked me out yet."

"Good. Start redirecting all their followers to follow Svoboda." I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "It's time we show the world what we really do."

"You want to go public?" Lacey asks, her hand finding mine under the table.

"We have to. Kirsan thinks he can silence us by taking away our platform?" I squeeze her hand. "Let him try. We'll give these stories an even bigger stage."

"I'll keep Megan safe," Demyon says before I can give the order. There's something in his voice that makes me look at him sharply.

The way he's positioned himself between Megan and the door, the slight tension in his shoulders—he's more invested in her safety than he's letting on.

I nod, and then say to Lacey. "We'll need to talk to your brother."

I ACCOMPANY Lacey to Freddy's room, my hand resting protectively on her lower back. Even through her clothes, I can feel the slight warmth radiating from her body. The sensation grounds me, keeps me from doing what I want to do to this pathetic excuse of a man who dares call himself her brother.

Lacey knocks on the door. No answer. She tries the handle and finds it unlocked.

Inside, Freddy jumps back from the dresser drawer he was rifling through. My jaw clenches at the sight. Some things never change.

"I-I wasn't..." Freddy stammers, pressing himself against the wall. "I swear I wasn't looking for anything to steal."

"Today is your lucky day, Freddy," I say. The fear in his eyes intensifies. Good. "You get to clear your debt with Kirsan."

His eyes narrow with suspicion, darting between me and Lacey. "What's the catch?"

"The catch," Lacey explains, her voice carrying an authority I've never heard before. "Is that you need to identify any police officer there who is either working security or gambling."

"Are you insane?" Freddy's voice cracks.

"No, I'm giving you a chance to do the right thing for once." Lacey's eyes flash with determination. "To actually help instead of just taking."

Freddy throws his hands up. "With what money? In case you haven't noticed, I'm broke. That's kind of the whole fucking problem!"

"Wait here." Lacey touches my arm briefly before walking out, leaving me alone with her brother.

I wait until Lacey's footsteps fade before turning to Freddy. "She didn't have to bring you here. Could've left you for Kirsan's collectors." My voice drops lower. "Would've been easier."

Freddy's shoulders slump.

"No matter how poorly you treated her, she still cares about you." The words taste bitter in my mouth. "You've never been the brother she needed. Never been the son your father deserved."

"You don't think I know that?"

Freddy's admission catches me off guard. He runs a trembling hand through his hair before he continues.

"You want to know something else? I'm glad she found you."

I arch an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"She's...different now. Stronger." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Finally stopped letting people walk all over her. Even if I was one of those people for most of her life."

His words stir something dangerous inside me. "If you felt this way about her, why treat her like garbage her entire life?"

The question hangs heavy in the air between us. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for his answer.

Freddy's eyes take on a distant look. "I still remember the day Mom brought Lacey home. This tiny little thing with golden hair and big brown eyes, clutching Mom's hand like it was her lifeline." His voice grows soft. "I was so excited to have not one but two little sisters to protect."

My hands clench at my sides. "What changed?"

"At first, nothing. But then..." He swallows hard. "Mom and Dad started putting all this pressure on me. 'You're the son, Freddy. The family name rests on your shoulders, Freddy. You need to take care of everyone, Freddy.' Meanwhile, Lacey..."

He shakes his head, bitterness seeping into his voice.

"They doted on her. Let her have all these dreams that I never got to have. Let her believe that she can do whatever she wanted. She was allowed to fail. But me? I had to get a real job. Had to think about the family. Had to make them proud, no matter how hard it got."

"So you took it out on her."

"I did." His shoulders slump. "Watching them encourage her while I was crushed under expectations. It wore me down. Made me resent her." He lets out a hollow laugh. "And when Mom got sick, Lacey's the one who stepped up. Dropped everything to help. While I..."

He trails off, unable to finish. I don't need him to. His gambling debts tell that story clearly enough.

"Hated the sister you once wanted to protect," I say.

Not excusing him, just stating fact.

"Yeah." He nods.

"It still doesn't make it right," I say, watching him carefully. "Stealing from your own family."

"You think I wanted to?" Freddy's voice sharpens. "When Mom got diagnosed, the bills started piling up. I worked three fucking jobs to help pay for her treatment when insurance denied every fucking claim." He stands a little straighter now, and the same fire I've seen in Megan and Lacey now burns in his eyes. "I thought if I could just win enough money, then things could get better. And at first, I fucking did."

I know this story. I've heard it all before. Every descent into gambling addiction always starts with good intentions. With a glimmer of hope.

From desperation.

"But then you started losing."

"Yeah." He shakes his head and laughs bitterly. "Lost fucking everything and then some. And I had to sit there with Mom night after night, holding her hand while she told me about all the things Lacey and Megan were doing, about how she didn't want them to worry." He sighs. "And it just ate me up inside."

He slams his fist against the wall.

"I thought if I could just win one more fucking time, I could be the son she needed. That I wasn't this worthless failure. Do you have any idea what that's fucking like?"

"I know exactly what that feels like," I say quietly.

Freddy's bitter laugh cuts through the air. "Yeah? You expect me to believe that you know what it's like to feel useless? Worthless?"

I say nothing, letting the silence stretch between us.

"Look at this place." Freddy gestures at our surroundings. "Look at what you've built. You're a fucking king."

Still, I remain quiet. I don't correct him that I had no hand in building this place. That I've spent my entire life trying to prove to my own mother that I was something more than the monster who made me.

"You have everything," he says, his voice growing hoarse. "Power. Money. Respect. Hell, you even got both my sisters to actually care about you. And now you're standing here telling me you know what it's like to feel worthless?"

He runs his hands down his face, sighing.

"You know what the worst part is? Mom never stopped believing in me, even when everyone else did. She'd just look at me with those eyes full of hope and say 'I know you'll figure it out, Freddy. You always have.'"

His voice cracks on the last words. "But I never did, did I? I just kept failing her. Over and over and over. And then she died, and I still owed so much money."

He lets out a hollow laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"You know what I did after I pawned Mom's necklace? I tried to drink myself to death." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "But I couldn't even do that. I kept thinking that if I did, then I'd see her again, you know? And that she'd be fucking heartbroken."

I watch him crumble and blink back his tears. I no longer see the man who tormented Lacey but a broken soul crushed under the weight of his own failures and guilt.

For a moment, I'm reminded of myself—of all those nights I spent staring at my reflection, wondering if Polina would ever look at me without seeing Pyotr's shadow.

But above all else, I'm reminded that it took Lacey to help her finally see that I am different.

Before I can respond, I hear footsteps approaching. Lacey appears in the doorway, holding something that catches the light—the ostentatious necklace I bought her at the jeweler's.

The one with the massive center diamond.

"This will more than cover your debt to Kirsan," Lacey says, her voice steady.

Freddy's eyes widen at the sight of the necklace. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he calculates its worth.

"And what happens when they ask how I got my hands on something like that?" The edge he usually uses towards Lacey returns.

"You tell them exactly what they expect to hear," I say, the plan forming in my mind. "That your soft-hearted sister brought you to Pankration, and you stole it from her."

Freddy's head snaps toward me. "You want me to lie? To them?"

"They'll believe you," I continue. "It's not the first time you stole from family to pay your debts. But something like this? They'll probably have those cops follow you, and that's when we'll ambush them."

"Vadim." Lacey's hand finds my arm. "That's too dangerous."

"I'll do it." Freddy says.

Lacey looks at him with surprise in her eyes. I do the same and see something unexpected there.

Determination?

"I know I've been shit to everyone." He looks at Lacey. "Especially you. I wasn't the brother you deserved. Or the son Mom and Dad hoped I'd be."

Lacey's grip tightens on my arm. I can feel her trembling slightly.

"I see what's going on here," Freddy says. "Those stories on the Seattle Voice? The ones about the trafficked women?" He gestures vaguely. "That big blond asshole following Megan around like some lovesick puppy? The four of you locked up in that office for hours? I'm not an idiot."

"This thing you want me to do. It's connected to all that trafficking stuff, isn't it?" Freddy asks.

"It is," I confirm, watching him carefully.

He straightens up, and for the first time since I've known him, I see a flash of the man his parents must have hoped he'd become. "Then I'll do it."

"Freddy, I—" Lacey opens her mouth to speak, but Freddy cuts her off.

"I just got finished telling your husband about Mom and Dad. How they always wanted me to do something they could be proud of." His eyes shine with unshed tears. "This is it, right? This is my chance to do exactly that."

I watch the siblings carefully, seeing decades of hurt and resentment starting to crack.

"I wasn't the son I was supposed to be when Mom was alive, and when Dad could still speak to me. But if I can help stop these bastards from hurting more people..." Freddy's voice cracks. "Then it'll be worth it. And if something happens to me?" He lets out a shaky breath. "At least when I see Mom again, I can tell her that I did something good."

"Freddy..." Lacey's voice trembles. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yeah, sis. I am."

The word hangs in the air between them. Sis.

Lacey moves first, wrapping her arms around him. For a moment, Freddy stands frozen, as if he's forgotten how to receive affection. Then slowly, his arms come up to return her embrace.

I watch them hold each other, seeing the last walls between them finally crumble.

Whatever happens next, this moment feels like a different victory—not one against Kirsan, but one against something so much more.

24

LACEY

THE NEXT MORNING

I WRAP my arms around Freddy, pulling him into a tight hug. "Stay safe," I whisper. "Okay?"

His body stiffens for a moment before relaxing. It reminds me of all the times I tried to hug him when we were younger, how he'd always pull away with a sneer. But now, his arms slowly come around to return the embrace.

"I will," he says gruffly. "In and out."

My throat tightens as memories of Irina flood back—how quickly things went wrong in Paris, how her blood stained my wedding dress. I can't lose anyone else to this war with Kirsan. Not when Freddy and I have finally found some measure of peace between us.

Before either of us can say more, footsteps echo across the marble floor. I turn to see Aleksey striding toward us, briefcase in hand.

"Vadim Petrovich," he greets with a slight bow of his head before turning to me with that practiced lawyer's smile. "Mrs. Stravinsky, are you ready to proceed with our half of this dog and pony show?"

I straighten my shoulders and give Freddy's arm one final squeeze. "Yes," I say firmly. "I'm ready."

MY HEART POUNDS against my ribs as I walk with Aleksey into Captain Rutledge's office. The familiar sight of his weathered desk brings back memories of my first visit here.

But this time, I'm not here as a suspect.

This time, I'm ready to tell him the truth.

"Thank you for coming back, Ms. McKinney," Rutledge says, settling into his chair. His razor-sharp eyes study me with the same intensity as before. "I appreciate your willingness to share your side of things."

His face hardens.

"However, I am disappointed to see you're still using Mr. Sterling-Wright's services."

Aleksey lets out a smooth chuckle.

"Oh come on, Elwood, your personal feelings about me aren't relevant here." Aleksey's voice carries that practiced blend of amusement and warning. "What's relevant is that my client has information about Nathan Walker's death that she'd like to share. So can we cool it with the personal attacks?"

Rutledge's jaw clenches. I can see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes—the same eyes that give my ring a passing glance—before he reaches for a notepad, his movements deliberately slow.

"Very well," he says finally. "Tell me what you know about Nathan Walker's death."

I take a deep breath, borrowing strength from the familiar weight of the necklace against my chest. “Nathan was involved with a man named Kirsan Kuular," I say, my voice even. "He helped facilitate a human trafficking network that spans multiple continents."

Rutledge leans forward, his expression hardening. "That's quite an accusation. Do you have any proof to back this up?"

"Actually," Aleksey speaks up from beside me, reaching for his briefcase, "we do."

My stomach churns as he takes out Vadim's list—the same one that started all of this when I accidentally took his suit jacket from Mrs. Klossner's. The paper looks so innocent, but I know the horror it describes.

Aleksey slides it across the table to Rutledge.

I watch as Aleksey leans forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. "Tell me, Elwood, are you on social media these days? TikTok? Twitter?"

Rutledge's weathered face creases with mild annoyance. "No, I'm not."

"Then you might have missed the viral shit storm that's been brewing for the past five weeks." Aleksey's finger taps the list meaningfully. "Women from all over have been coming forward, sharing their stories of abuse and exploitation at the hands of traffickers operating in the fashion industry."

"I'm aware of the Seattle Voice's coverage," Rutledge says, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Then you'll understand what that is.” Aleksey points to the list. "These aren't just SKUs, Captain. Each one represents a human being put up for sale. And these boutique fashion brands? Fronts for trafficking operations."

My stomach churns as I watch Rutledge examine the list more closely. The memory of Taliya's bruised face from Megan's interview flashes through my mind, and I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep my hands from shaking.

"And how exactly is this connected to Nathan Walker?" Rutledge asks, looking up from the list.

"I heard Nathan mention Chrysalis Designs several times before he died. He was working on finalizing some deal with them." The memory of finding him with Caroline flashes through my mind, how that betrayal led me to discover something far darker. "He seemed excited about it, said it would be his biggest commission yet. I'm sure Caroline would be able to verify that if you were to ask her."

"We have good reason to believe that Mr. Walker got careless with his bookkeeping," Aleksey cuts in smoothly, "The kind of carelessness that someone like Kirsan Kuular doesn't forgive."

I lean forward, seizing the moment. "You said it yourself when I was last here—Nathan's death had all the hallmarks of Russian mafia involvement." My voice stays steady even as my stomach churns at the memory of those clinical details. "The way his body was processed, the removal of identifying features..."

Rutledge's weathered face remains impassive as he studies us both. "That's all true," he says slowly, setting down his pen. "But..."

His razor-sharp eyes narrow, and I can see the doubt creeping in.

Rutledge's eyes drop to my hands, still wrapped in bandage, but his gaze is reserved for my finger.

"That ring wasn't there five weeks ago when you first came to see me." He points. "And I still haven't forgotten that you gave me a very unconvincing reason for how you knew the word 'bratva' before Mr. Sterling-Wright whisked you away."

I force myself to hold his stare.

"And if what you're saying about the fashion industry is true," he continues. “It seems awfully convenient that you're coming to me now with evidence that only Svoboda seems to have, when they're one of the biggest players in fashion."

"Elwood," Aleksey says. “Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you accusing Svoboda of involvement in human trafficking?"

"Yes, Mr. Sterling-Wright, that's exactly what I'm suggesting." Rutledge's weathered face hardens as he turns to face Aleksey. "A company that size, with that much international presence? They'd have to be blind not to see what's happening in their own industry."

"That's a very serious allegation, Captain." Aleksey's practiced smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I feel compelled to remind you that slander is a very real criminal charge."

"So is human trafficking." Rutledge's voice carries the weight of steel. "And unlike slander, that comes with mandatory minimum sentences."

My fingers ball into a fist as I watch them face off. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

I take a deep breath, my heart racing. There's no point in hiding anymore. Not when we're trying to get Rutledge on our side.

"You're right about Svoboda being aware," I say, cutting through Aleksey's attempts to intervene. "But not in the way you think. Svoboda is the only organization actively fighting against the trafficking."

"Now wait a—" Aleksey starts, but I hold up my hand.

"No, he needs to know." I lean forward as Rutledge picks up his pen again. "Svoboda uses its position as a luxury brand to infiltrate fashion shows where these operations take place. Half of our resources go into maintaining that cover, while the other half goes to extracting victims and getting them to safety."

Rutledge's pen scratches across his notepad. "Go on."

"Vadim Stravinsky has dedicated half his life to dismantling these networks. He's saved thousands of women."

"And the ring?" Rutledge's sharp eyes fix on my left hand. "Care to explain that, Ms. McKinney?"

"Vadim needed access to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Paris," I explain, remembering the weight of the wedding dress, the bible hidden in its folds. "Kirsan keeps his records in a bible there—all the transactions and all the buyers. Vadim needed someone to pose as his wife in order to steal the bible. He chose me. He married me."

"Married?" Rutledge asks, his pen pausing mid-stroke. "Why you specifically?"

"Because I accidentally took his dry cleaning with this list in it," I explain, gesturing to the paper on Rutledge's desk. "When we met again at the Vorobyov memorial retrospective, he approached me about it."

"The Vorobyov memorial retrospective?" Rutledge's pen pauses.

"Yes. I was working there as catering staff. You can verify that with my former employer." My fingers brush against Mom’s necklace again, drawing comfort from its familiar weight. "That's where Vadim first explained what the list meant."

Rutledge makes another note before looking up at me. "And this operation in Paris. Were you successful?"

"We were." I swallow hard, memories of Irina's blood flashing through my mind. "But Kirsan has already shifted his focus to Los Angeles. He's planning to use L.A. Fashion Week as cover for expanding his operation."

"Ms. McKinney," Rutledge sets down his pen with a sigh. "Or rather, Mrs. Stravinsky. You understand that the Seattle Police Department has no jurisdiction in Los Angeles."

"I know that Seattle police can't operate in Los Angeles," I say, fingers tracing the edge of Mom's necklace. "But what we need isn't jurisdiction there, we need you to deal with the corrupt cops enabling Kirsan's operations here in Seattle."

Rutledge's sharp eyes narrow. "You're suggesting there are officers on his payroll?"

"I know there are." My voice stays steady despite my racing heart. "Something this big can't operate without protection from corrupt police. You know this."

"I do." Rutledge's face hardens. "And as much as I want to put away every one of those corrupt bastards giving all of us a bad name, I fail to see a connection between what you're asking us to do and what Svoboda is already doing."

"Because shining a light on the problem isn't enough anymore." The words come out quickly as I lean forward. "These exposés, these interviews. They're just making the buyers more eager. What we need is to show that the law will respond."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "No matter how many people we save, vigilante justice will never bring people the same assurance as actual law enforcement. That's why I'm coming to you now."

Rutledge studies me for a long moment, his pen tapping against his notepad. "You're asking me to trust that Svoboda's intentions are pure."

"I'm asking you to trust that we're on the same team," I correct him. "That we want justice for these women. That we want an end to trafficking, not just here in Seattle, but elsewhere as well."

Rutledge leans back, lips drawn in a taut line as he considers everything I've told him.

"Your claim sounds plausible," he says finally. "The connections, the timeline, even Mr. Walker's involvement. But I can't launch an internal investigation based on speculation alone, least of all speculation for someone who is still technically a person of interest in an active murder case."

"What kind of proof would you need?"

"Names. Dates. Specific instances of corruption." He taps his pen against the notepad. "Something concrete that shows which officers are on Kirsan's payroll and exactly what they're doing for him."

"And if we could get you that information?" I lean forward, heart racing. "What then?"

"If you could provide evidence..." His emphasis on 'if' betrays his skepticism. "Then I could justify opening an internal investigation."

"I can get you what you need," I say firmly, feeling Aleksey shift beside me uncomfortably. "I promise."

"And just how do you intend to get me this information?" Rutledge asks, his sharp eyes boring into mine.

"Through Svoboda," I say, keeping my voice steady. "We have resources and connections that can help identify the exact officers who are working with Kirsan."

Rutledge frowns. "Svoboda seems remarkably capable for a luxury fashion brand."

"Everything we do is in pursuit of justice," I tell him. "For the women who've been trafficked—"

"You've already said it once," Rutledge says slowly, "You don't have to repeat yourself." He pauses, and I feel myself starting to relax until he continues: "However, given everything you've told me about Svoboda today, I have every reason to believe it's much more than just a fashion brand."

Before Aleksey can start to protest, Rutledge raises his hand to demand silence.

"Let me be perfectly clear, Mrs. Stravinsky," Rutledge's voice carries the weight of steel. "Whatever partnership we make today between the Seattle Police Department and Svoboda will be one of convenience. If my investigation turns up even a hint of criminal activity or wrongdoing by Svoboda, its owner, or any of its employees, I won't hesitate to bring down the full force of the law on all of you." His razor-sharp eyes fix on mine. "Do you understand me? Mrs. Stravinsky?"

I hold Rutledge's steely gaze, letting his warning sink in.

He's an unbending servant of justice sits, I realize. One who won't hesitate to turn on us if that's what the law requires.

No matter how much good Vadim does, no matter how many women he saves, he'll always be operating in shadows that Rutledge would never accept.

The blood on Vadim's hands may be justified. But to Rutledge, it's still blood that needs to be answered for.

I consider the delicate balance we're trying to strike. Getting the police involved is like dancing with a cobra—one wrong move and he'll strike.

But we need him.

We need his unwavering moral compass to help expose the corruption enabling Kirsan's operations, and bring the full attention of the world upon L.A. for what we're about to do next.

For that reason, this alliance of convenience will have to do.

Like my own marriage to Vadim, sometimes the most unexpected partnerships can yield the results we need.

But I can't shake the feeling that we're playing with fire. The same righteous fury that makes Rutledge perfect for rooting out corrupt cops could just as easily turn against us.

Against Vadim.

Against everything we've built together.

"Well?"

"Yes, Captain Rutledge," I reply. "I understand you perfectly."

25

VADIM

NIGHT

I WATCH as Freddy walks into the warehouse casino, trying to ignore my instinctive disgust for the man. Our conversation yesterday revealed depths I hadn't expected.

It doesn't excuse his treatment of Lacey, but it makes him more... human.

"Anything?" I ask into my earpiece.

"Usual crowd," Freddy mutters, his voice coming in and out as he fumbles his AirPod. "Some of these serving girls look no older than sixteen."

"Focus," I remind him sharply, though I make a mental note about the underage servers. "We need to identify anyone who acts like police. That's the priority right now."

"Any tips on that?"

"Just anyone who looks like they haven't a worry in the world in a place like this," I tell him. "Should stick out like a sore thumb."

I look down the street and one of my boeviki gives me a nod. They're in position at every exit, ready to go in and do violence to save Freddy if needed. Normally, I don't work with someone I despise to protect someone I love.

But after seeing Lacey make peace with Freddy, I owe it to her that he comes home.

"Wait," Freddy whispers. "By the high stakes tables. Guy in the blue jacket keeps flashing smiles at everyone, like he doesn't have a care in the world."

"Baggy shirt?" I ask.

That's usually the sign of someone who keeps a concealed weapon on them.

"Oh yeah, big time."

"That's a likely candidate," I tell Freddy. "Go exchange that necklace and see if you can sit down next to him."

"Got it," Freddy responds quietly.

I hear Freddy's footsteps approaching what must be the cashier's window. Then comes the jingle of diamonds on chain as he takes out the massive necklace.

"Where'd you get this, Huang?" the cashier asks, voice thin and reedy through my earpiece.

"My sister," Freddy says, following our script perfectly. "That soft-hearted idiot brought me to stay with her husband. Figured I might as well get something out of it to cover what I owe."

Even though what he says is a lie, I can't help feel my blood starting to boil at the way he refers to Lacey as a soft-hearted idiot.

The silence that follows stretches so long I start to think we miscalculated. My hand tightens on my gun, ready to signal my men to move in.

"Well," the cashier finally speaks, "this more than covers your debts. Here's an extra hundred grand. Good luck."

I allow myself a small smile. Kirsan's people are taking the bait. Good. That's step one.

Suddenly, I hear someone calling out towards Freddy. Then, the distinct sound of bodies moving in closer.

"Where do you think you're going, Freddy?" a gruff voice demands.

"Officer Mackland!" Freddy's voice rises an octave. "Just settling up some debts..."

Perfect.

My smile widens. The pieces are falling into place.

"Get out of there," I order into my earpiece. "Make up any excuse."

"I really should get going," Freddy stammers. "I got dinner plans and—"

"Those plans can wait," Mackland's voice growls through the connection. The menace in his tone makes my jaw clench. "Do you really think we'd just let you walk out of here with a hundred grand in your pocket?"

"No, really, I need to—”

"I said. Sit. Down." Mackland's voice drops lower. "Or do we need to do this the hard way?"

Freddy's breathing gets faster, more panicked. "Please, I just want to—”

The sound of a scuffle comes through—flesh hitting flesh, a grunt of pain that must be Freddy. My hand tightens on my gun.

And then, a new voice comes on. One that sends ice flooding my veins.

"Privyet, Vadyusha."

Sayanaa.

A sickening crunch follows, then static. The connection dies.

"Move in, now!" I bark into my radio, already running toward the entrance. "Secure Freddy. Grab both Mackland and that crazy bitch."

My men emerge from the shadows, weapons drawn. As much as I despise Freddy, I won't let him die.

Not when his death will now break Lacey's heart.

I burst through the door, gun raised, heart thundering. The scene hits me like a punch to the gut—Freddy on his knees, face bloodied, with a shotgun pressed to the back of his head.

But no sign of Sayanaa anywhere.

My finger squeezes the trigger the instant I spot the man holding the gun. The shot rings out in perfect synchronization with his own.

Freddy crumples forward as my bullet tears through the man's arm.

"Open fire!" I roar as guards come pouring from the corners, guns blazing.

But I'm already moving, focused solely on the bastard I just shot. He's trying to scramble away, clutching his bleeding arm.

I tackle him hard, slamming him into the grimy floor.

"Mackland?" I snarl.

"What's it to you, wise guy?"

Good enough.

Gunfire erupts around us. My men continue exchanging fire with the other casino guards. The air fills with the smell of gunpowder and the sound of screams. But something pulls my attention away from Mackland's pained face.

Movement.

I look over at Freddy's prone form. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. There's a horrific gash along the side of his head where the shotgun blast grazed him, but he's alive.

Relief floods through me, not for Freddy's sake, but for Lacey's.

The thought of Lacey steels my resolve. I turn back to Mackland, who's trying to reach for a backup piece with his good arm. I slam his wrist into the floor before his fingers can close around the grip.

"Don't even think about it. You're coming with me."

Around me, the sound of gunfire starts to die down as my men gain control of the casino floor. The remaining guards drop their weapons, knowing they're outmatched.

"Clear!" Mikhail calls from the back room.

"Clear here too," Anton echoes from the stairs.

I haul Mackland up by his collar, ignoring his pained grunt. "Bind him," I order two of my men. They quickly zip-tie his hands behind his back and march him outside.

My phone buzzes. A text from the second team: "We got her."

Good. Sayanaa's capture means we can finally end this.

I look down at Freddy's crumpled form, watching the blood seep from the gash along his temple. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths.

I quickly unknot my silk tie. The fabric is too fine for this kind of work, but it's better than nothing. I wrap it around his head, trying to stem the bleeding while avoiding the torn flesh where the buckshot grazed him.

"Mikhail! Anton!" I call out. "Help me get him to the car."

The two boeviki rush over immediately. Together, we lift Freddy as carefully as possible, as a pained groan tumbles from his lips. His skin has gone pale and clammy under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Outside, the night air hangs heavy around us. I watch as two of my other men roughly shove Mackland into the back of a black SUV. The corrupt cop struggles against his restraints, but stops when one of my men presses a gun to his ribs.

"Easy," I tell Mikhail and Anton as we maneuver Freddy into the backseat of my car. "Watch his head."

We lay him across the leather seats as gently as possible. His blood keeps coming. I don't care about the car.

"Drive," I bark at the driver as I slide in next to Freddy. The engine roars to life.

"I got you, Freddy," I say, and his eyes twitch. "I got you, Freddy! Stay with me!"

Freddy takes a raspy breath. It's coming out shallower than before. Panic seizes around my throat.

I grab my phone and dial Demyon. He picks up on the first ring.

"Get Dr. Volkov over to Pankration," I snap without preamble. "Head wound, potentially critical. As fast as you can."

"On it," Demyon replies and hangs up.

Freddy's breathing grows shallower. I press my fingers to his neck—his pulse is weak but present.

"FREDDY! STAY WITH ME!"

I BURST through Pankration's doors, Mikhail and Anton carrying Freddy between them. The tie around his head is soaked through with blood.

"This way!" Demyon waves us towards the sitting room. "Dr. Volkov's still twenty minutes out."

Lacey and Megan rush forward, faces going pale at the sight of their brother. Dr. Chen steps forth immediately, medical instincts taking over.

"Put him on the table," she commands. "I can stabilize him until the surgeon arrives."

My men lay Freddy down carefully. Dr. Chen immediately starts examining the wound, calling out orders for supplies. Her daughter Bianca runs to fetch them.

"What happened?" Lacey's voice trembles as she watches, her fingers tugging at the necklace around her throat.

"Sayanaa was there," I tell her, watching Dr. Chen work. "She must have anticipated that we'd try something like this. She had Mackland waiting with a shotgun."

"Sayanaa?" Lacey's grip tightens. Something dangerous flashes in her eyes. "Where is she?"

"We have her in custody. She's being brought to—”

"Take me to her." Lacey's voice carries an edge I've never heard before. "Now!"

"Zvyozdochka—"

"Don't 'zvyozdochka' me, Vadim. That psychotic bitch just tried to kill my brother. Take. Me. To. Her."

I look into my wife's eyes and see a fury that matches my own. She's not asking as my wife or as the mother of my child.

She's demanding this as a pakhan's wife.

"Alright," I nod. "Follow me."

I guide Lacey down the narrow stone steps into Pankration's dungeons. The only light comes from old incandescent lights casting long shadows on the walls.

This place holds memories I'd rather forget—screams and pleas from Pyotr's victims that still echo in my nightmares.

Lacey's feet glide over the stone, each step measured with barely-restrained fury. Her shoulders are rigid and her jaw clenched tight. But it's her eyes that concern me.

There is no warmth to those amber-flecked eyes.

Only infinite anger and hate.

I've never seen this side of her before. The gentle woman who tends to her father has been replaced by someone harder, someone carved from ice and steel.

Someone like me.

We reach the heavy steel door at the bottom. I pause, my hand on the handle. "Are you sure about this?"

"Open it." Her voice could freeze hell itself.

Inside, Sayanaa sits bound to a chair bolted to the floor, her wrists and ankles secured with thick zip ties. Despite her position, her lips curve into that familiar twisted smile when she sees us.

"Well, if it isn't the happy couple," she purrs, her eyes glittering with malice. "Come to check on your new toy, Vadyusha? Or did the little thief want to thank me personally for giving her brother such a lovely parting gift?"

"You evil bitch." Lacey steps forward.

Sayanaa laughs as Lacey approaches, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Didn't I tell you that last time we saw each other, little thief? I told you that we're going to have so much fun together."

The crack of Lacey's hand against Sayanaa's face echoes through the dungeon. The diamond on the ring catches her cheek, leaving a deep gash that immediately starts bleeding.

Dark droplets splatter onto the concrete floor.

Sayanaa slowly turns her head back, tongue darting out to taste the blood at the corner of her mouth. There's surprise in her eyes, but not fear.

Never fear.

"Did that make you feel better, little thief?" She grins, blood staining her teeth. "Your need to protect everyone around you... that's your greatest weakness. It's so predictable."

"Shut up!" Lacey's hand whips out again, snapping Sayanaa's head to the side. More blood joins the spatter on the floor.

But Sayanaa just laughs, the sound wet and gurgling. "Dr. Chen was such an easy mark to follow. But I never would have figured it all out if you hadn't brought your dear sister from that safehouse in Monroe straight to Pankration."

My blood runs cold as Sayanaa's grin widens.

"A few trips to city hall, some adoption records, and suddenly I finally learned the full story of you, Lacey McKinney. The unwanted baby, given up by her birth parents, taken in by the Huangs out of pity, but never accepted as one of them."

The crack of another slap rings through the dungeon. Sayanaa's head snaps back, but her laughter only grows louder, more unhinged.

"Is that all you've got, little thief?" Blood and spittle spray from her lips. "Come on, show me what you really want to do."

"Don't you want to hurt me? Don't you want me to suffer?" Sayanaa's voice drips with mock sympathy. "Don't you want me to pay the price for what I did to Irina?"

Lacey's whole body trembles. I step forward but Sayanaa continues.

"Did you know?" She clicks her tongue. "I was the one who gave Olga Romanovna the idea to have that doctor cut out the whelp in your belly. I wanted to kill that doctor's brat to strengthen her resolve. But she refused me that option. And where is Olga Romanovna now? Dead! Just like your mother!"

Lacey spins away from Sayanaa, and shrugs off my hand in one quick motion.

Before I can stop her, she reaches inside my jacket, pulls out my gun, the metal gleaming dully in the dim light, and presses it against Sayanaa's forehead.

"Don't you dare talk about my Mom."

A savage smile plays across Sayanaa's blood-stained lips. "Do it, little thief. Pull the trigger. Show me that you're worthy of being a pakhan's wife."

Lacey's hand trembles, the gun wavering against Sayanaa's forehead. My heart pounds as I watch the scene unfold. I know exactly what Sayanaa is doing—she wants to break Lacey by forcing her to become a killer.

To taint the pure heart that drew me to her in the first place.

Tears stream down Lacey's cheeks, dropping to join the blood spatters on the concrete floor. The gun keeps shaking. Her finger rests on the trigger but won't squeeze.

"Look at you," Sayanaa sneers. "You can't even do this one simple thing. You're so weak. A real pakhan's wife wouldn't hesitate."

Lacey's shoulders shake with silent sobs.

"You don't belong in this world," Sayanaa continues, her voice dripping with contempt. "You can't even kill to protect your own family. Not Irina. Not your brother. Not your baby. Not your dead mother's honor."

More tears fall as Lacey's grip tightens on the gun. I can see the war raging behind her eyes—the desperate need to prove herself against the fundamental goodness of her soul. If she pulls that trigger, something precious will die along with Sayanaa. Something that can never be recovered.

"Poor little orphan," Sayanaa taunts. "Always trying to find somewhere to belong. But you never will. You're too weak. Too soft."

I reach out and gently wrap my fingers around Lacey's trembling hand. "Zvyozdochka. This isn't who you are."

"Aw, how sweet, little thief," Sayanaa mocks.

I ignore her. "Lacey. Look at me."

Slowly, those amber-flecked eyes meet mine. Tears streak down her cheeks, but beneath them burns a fury I recognize all too well.

"From the moment I met you at Mrs. Klossner's," I tell her softly, "I saw how fiercely you protect those you love. You stood up to me—a complete stranger—to defend her business. You dropped out of school to care for your mother. You gave Freddy one chance after another despite everything he's done to your family."

"But there's a difference between defending and destroying," I continue, keeping my voice gentle. "Once you pull that trigger, there's no coming back. That first kill... it changes you forever. Haunts you. Lives in your nightmares. Becomes a part of who you are. It'll break you in ways you can't ever imagine. If you pull that trigger, then the Lacey I fell in love with will die too."

"Fuck you, Vadyusha," Sayanaa sneers. "How many people have you killed?"

I keep my focus only on Lacey. "You don't have to become like me. Like her. Like any of us. You don't have to prove to anyone else that you're a pakhan's wife, because the only person who needs to accept you in that position is me."

Softly, Lacey sniffles.

I wrap my fingers around hers, and feel how cold they've gone. "And I have."

Sayanaa's lips curve into a triumphant smile as she watches Lacey's shoulders slump. Her eyes gleam with savage victory, blood still dripping from the gash on her cheek.

"You're not the monster who is willing to kill." I whisper as I take the gun from Lacey's grip and press the barrel against Sayanaa's temple. "I am."

The smug satisfaction drains from her face, and her eyes widen with genuine fear for the first time since I've known her.

"Vadyusha, wait—" She starts stammering. "Please, I—"

"Zvyozdochka," I say softly, not taking my eyes off Sayanaa. "Walk away from this."

Lacey gives a small nod. Her footsteps echo on the stone as she climbs the stairs. Each step feels like an eternity until finally, the heavy door closes behind her with a dull thud.

"Please," Sayanaa begs, her voice rising to a desperate pitch. "Please don't do this! Please! I was wrong! I admit it! I shouldn't have done these things! But I did them because I love you! Because I wanted to show you that I was the perfect woman for you! I love you, Vadyusha! I—"

I pull the trigger.

The gunshot echoes through the dungeon. A fine red mist sprays across the concrete floor.

And Sayanaa's body slumps forward in the chair.

26

LACEY

MEGAN AND DAD are waiting outside the makeshift operating room Dr. Chen set up. My hands are still trembling from what happened downstairs. The metallic weight of Vadim's gun lingers in my grip even though I'm no longer holding it.

Dad reaches for my bandaged hand as I sit beside him. His familiar warmth steadies me somewhat, though he hasn't spoken a word since we brought him to Pankration. I squeeze back, grateful that despite his condition, he can still sense when his daughters need comfort.

"Any news?" Megan asks, her voice tight with worry.

I shake my head, unable to form words yet. The weight of the gun is in my head again, and so is the image of Sayanaa's taunting smile.

"Lacey? What's wrong?" Megan's hand finds my other one. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I..." My voice cracks. "I almost did something terrible, Meg. Something I could never take back."

The tears I've been holding back finally spill over. "I wanted to kill her. I wanted to make her pay for everything she's done to us. To Irina. To Freddy. I had Vadim's gun in my hand and I..."

A sob escapes me. "I couldn't do it. But God help me, I wanted to."

Dad's grip tightens on my hand. Though he doesn't speak, his thumb strokes my knuckles in that same soothing pattern he used when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.

"Oh, Lacey." Megan pulls me into a hug. "That doesn't make you terrible. It makes you human."

"I'm scared, Meg," I whisper against her shoulder. "Scared of what this life is turning me into."

"The fact that you're this torn up about it proves you're still you," Megan whispers, pulling back to look me in the eyes. "The old Lacey who'd cry over a wounded bird, and who stayed up all night with Mom during her chemo treatments. She's still in there. This life didn't erase that."

My hands ball into fists. "But I wanted to hurt someone, Meg. I wanted to make Sayanaa suffer."

"But you didn't." Megan's voice is firm. "That's what matters. And you know why? Because Vadim was there to stop you. To protect you from crossing that line."

A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks as I remember the way he'd gently lowered my trembling hand, the understanding in his storm-gray eyes.

"He knew exactly what killing someone would do to you," Megan continues. "That's love, Lacey. Real love means stopping the person you care about from making terrible mistakes, even when they think they want to make them."

"But what if—" I start, but Megan cuts me off.

"No more what-ifs. You can't torture yourself about things that didn't happen. The only thing that matters is what you actually did. And what you did was choose to walk away. Yes, you came close to that line, but you never crossed it."

With a choked sob, I collapse into her arms, letting out all the fear and rage and guilt I've been holding inside. Megan holds me tight as I cry, one hand stroking my hair the way Mom used to when I was little.

Dad's hand finds mine again, and I grip it like an anchor as the storm of emotion washes through me. My sister's right.

I'm still me.

Changed, maybe, but not broken. Not lost.

THE DOOR OPENS and Vadim walks in, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. My heart leaps into my throat as I search his expression for any hint of news.

"He'll make it," Vadim says softly. "The surgeon says Freddy got lucky. He'll need time to recover, but he should pull through."

Relief floods through me, making my knees weak. After everything that's happened, it finally seems like there's a glimmer of good news.

I notice Dad studying Vadim intently, concern creasing his features. It strikes me that in all the chaos, I haven't properly introduced them yet.

"Dad," I say, taking Vadim's hand and drawing him closer. "This is Vadim. My husband."

Dad's eyes widen slightly at the word 'husband.' He looks between us, and for a moment I see a flash of clarity in his gaze that I haven't witnessed in months.

"Mr. Huang," Vadim says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. He extends his hand to my father. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

To my surprise, Dad reaches out and grasps Vadim's hand firmly. His lips move, trying to form words, and though no sound comes out, I can feel what he's trying to say.

Take care of her.

Dad holds onto Vadim's hand a moment longer, his clouded eyes never once looking away. Then, he releases his grip and settles back in his chair, the moment of lucidity passing like a summer breeze.

I lean into Vadim's side, drawing strength from his solid presence. For all the darkness swirling around us, this moment feels like a small pocket of peace.

My stomach lets out a loud growl, breaking the tender moment between us.

"When's the last time you've eaten, zvyozdochka?" Vadim's hand finds the small of my back, concern etching his features.

"I... I'm not sure."

"Let me get you something," he says, already moving toward the door. The protective instinct in his voice makes my heart flutter.

"Go with him," Megan says, giving me a knowing look. "I can tell you both have things to talk about." She glances meaningfully at my belly. "Besides, you're eating for two now. Can't have my future niece or nephew going hungry."

She turns to Dad, her voice brightening. "Did you hear that, Dad? You're going to be a grandfather soon!"

Dad's eyes light up at the word 'grandfather,' and he turns towards me as a ghost of a smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.

"Come on," Vadim says softly, extending his hand to me. "Let me take care of you both."

I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. The warmth of his palm against mine helps chase away the lingering chill from the dungeon below.

VADIM MOVES WITH PRACTICED EFFICIENCY, gathering ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. My stomach growls again as I watch him pull out eggs, butter, heavy cream, and fresh pasta.

"You cook?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

"Lenka taught me," he says, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Said if I was going to run away from my tutors, I might as well learn something useful while hiding in her kitchen."

The image of a young Vadim sneaking away to this very kitchen makes my heart ache with unexpected tenderness. Now he works the same counters with confident movements, whisking the eggs with pecorino cheese while bringing a pot of water to boil.

"Carbonara," he explains, catching my questioning look. "Quick, filling, and exactly what you need right now."

My throat tightens as I watch him dice guanciale, the sharp knife moving in precise strokes. After everything that happened tonight, here he is, making sure I'm fed.

Taking care of me in this simple, profound way.

The kitchen fills with the rich smell of rendering pork. Vadim adds the fresh pasta to the boiling water, his movements precise and focused. There's something incredibly intimate about watching him cook for me, more intimate almost than when we make love.

Right now, he's not the ruthless pakhan who kept me from putting blood on my own hands. He's just my husband, making sure his pregnant wife doesn't go hungry.

He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up from the pan, those storm-gray eyes meeting mine. "What is it, zvyozdochka?"

"Thank you," I whisper, meaning so much more than just the meal. “Thank you for stopping me. Thank you for protecting me from myself. Thank you for loving me enough to keep me from becoming something I'm not."

Vadim's eyes soften at my whispered thanks. He sets down his wooden spoon and crosses to me in two long strides.

"Zvyozdochka," he murmurs, cupping my face in his hands. "Everything I do, I do because you're my wife. My duty is to protect you, my job is to care for you, and my life is to love you until my final breath."

His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You changed everything for me. How could I not do the same for you? Both of you?"

One hand drifts down to rest protectively over my belly, and my heart flutters.

He returns to finishing our dinner, folding the pasta into the sauce with practiced movements. The rich aroma of cheese and pork makes my mouth water. When he plates the carbonara, the portions are generous to account for my increased appetite lately.

Vadim sets the steaming bowls down, then circles around to join me.

Vadim twirls the pasta around his fork and lifts it to my lips. The first bite of carbonara melts on my tongue—creamy, rich, and perfectly seasoned. Another tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it.

"Good?" he asks softly.

I can only nod, suddenly overwhelmed by how famished I am. My shoulders sag as weeks of tension finally start to uncoil. I hadn't realized just how tightly wound I'd been until this moment, sitting here in this warm kitchen while my husband feeds me pasta he made with his own hands.

"When did you last eat, zvyozdochka?" He brushes away my tear with his thumb.

"I... I can't remember," I admit, my voice cracking. The events of the day crashes over me at once. My hands start trembling again.

"Here." Vadim gathers more pasta onto the fork. "Let me take care of you."

I part my lips for another bite, savoring the perfect balance of salt and richness. My body seems to wake up all at once, reminding me just how long I've gone without proper food. The baby must be hungry too.

Vadim continues feeding me small, careful bites. Each one helps ground me back in my body, away from the dark thoughts swirling in my head. Away from the weight of the gun in my hand and Sayanaa's taunting smile.

"I've got you," he murmurs, wiping a spot of sauce from the corner of my mouth. "Both of you."

His words unlock something in my chest. The tension drains from my muscles as I lean into his touch, finally letting myself be cared for.

"That was delicious," I tell him, licking the last traces of sauce from my lips.

"When this is all over, I'll cook for you every day for the rest of our lives," Vadim promises, his storm-gray eyes tender as he watches me. "Both of you."

"What else do you know how to cook?"

"Borscht, of course." The smile lights up his face. "And beef stroganoff the way Lenka taught me. Chicken Kiev. Pelmeni from scratch..." He trails off, looking almost bashful. "I make a decent blini too."

"Blini?" I lean forward, intrigued.

"Thin pancakes," he explains. "Perfect with caviar, or just honey and sour cream for breakfast."

The image forms in my mind unbidden—Vadim in our kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning, making breakfast while I sip tea, our child coloring at the table. Such an ordinary, domestic scene.

It's an image that's almost impossible to have in this place, but one that I can't help but crave.

"I'd like that," I whisper, daring to imagine that future. One where we can just be—not a pakhan and his wife, not two people caught in a war against evil, but just... us.

A family.

Vadim's fingers find mine across the table, and I let myself sink into the warmth of his touch. For this moment, I choose to forget about what lurks beyond these walls. About Kirsan and his empire of suffering. About the threats still hanging over our heads.

Right now, in this kitchen that smells of garlic and cheese and love, I let myself simply be a woman in love with her husband. A mother-to-be dreaming of Sunday breakfasts and bedtime stories.

I squeeze his hand, memorizing the feel of his big palm against mine. This is what we're fighting for, I realize. Not just to end Kirsan's evil, but for the chance at these ordinary moments. These simple acts of love.

I lean forward and press my lips to his, soft and gentle. His mouth moves against mine with infinite tenderness. As the kiss deepens, I feel the last remnants of tension melt from my shoulders.

His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek with such care it makes my heart ache. I part my lips, inviting him deeper, and he accepts with a low sound that vibrates through my chest.

The horrors of the dungeon feel distant now, having been chased away by the warmth of his touch. Here in his arms, I can forget that I was a woman who almost crossed an unthinkable line. Here, I can just focus on being his wife, the mother of his child, and being loved completely.

My fingers trace the strong line of his jaw as our tongues meet. He tastes like the carbonara we just shared, like home and safety and everything I've wanted in him.

A deep peace settles over me, as natural as breathing. Whatever darkness lurks beyond these walls can't touch me here.

As long as I have him—my protector, my lover, my anchor—I know I'll be okay.

27

VADIM

DR. CHEN GREETS us with that same warm smile she had when we first met her, but I keep my eyes focused on her hands as she sets up the ultrasound. One look at Lacey's bandaged hands and my jaw clenches reflexively.

I came so close to losing both her and our child.

"I want to apologize again," Dr. Chen says, her voice soft and sincere. "What I almost did..." She trails off, unable to finish.

"You were protecting your daughter," Lacey responds. "I understand."

Dr. Chen's eyes well with tears. "A doctor should do no harm." She takes a deep breath before continuing. "How are your hands feeling, Lacey?"

"Better." Lacey flexes her fingers carefully. "The cuts weren't deep."

I help Lacey onto the examination table, keeping my body between her and Dr. Chen even though I know the threat has passed. Old habits. When Dr. Chen reaches for the gel, I watch her movements carefully.

"It will be a little cold," Dr. Chen warns before lifting Lacey's shirt. My wife's fingers find mine and squeeze. Despite everything that's happened, I can feel her excitement thrumming through her grip.

"Are you ready to see your baby?" Dr. Chen asks us both, her familiar warmth returning fully now. The way she says it—your baby—makes something tighten in my chest.

Lacey nods, and I find myself nodding too, throat suddenly too tight for words.

The screen remains dark and blurry as Dr. Chen moves the wand across Lacey's belly. My heart pounds against my ribs, anticipation building with each passing second. Lacey's fingers tighten around mine.

"Just give me a moment to find the right angle," Dr. Chen murmurs, focused intently on her task.

Then suddenly, the grainy image shifts and we see it.

The tiny form appears on screen, no bigger than a lime, but unmistakably human.

Our baby.

Lacey lets out a soft gasp beside me, and I feel the breath leave my body all at once.

"There's your little one," Dr. Chen says softly. "Eleven weeks along now."

I stare transfixed at the screen, at the clear outline of a head, the curve of a spine, tiny arms and legs. My throat tightens as I watch our child move slightly, shifting position. A life we created together, growing safe inside my zvyozdochka.

"Vadim," Lacey whispers, her voice wavering with emotion. "Look at those tiny hands."

I can barely speak, overwhelmed by the sight before me. This is real. This is happening. I'm going to be a father.

Dr. Chen adjusts the wand slightly, giving us an even clearer view. "Would you like to hear the heartbeat?"

"Yes," we both say in unison.

Dr. Chen adjusts something on the machine, and suddenly the room fills with a rapid swooshing sound. My breath catches in my throat at the strong, steady rhythm—thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Our baby's heartbeat.

Lacey's fingers tighten around mine, and I squeeze back instinctively. The sound fills every corner of the room, drowning out everything else. It's fast, so much faster than I expected, but Dr. Chen assures us it's perfectly normal.

"One hundred and fifty beats per minute," she says. "Strong and healthy."

I can't take my eyes off the screen, watching that tiny form move while its heart beats strong and clear. My vision blurs, and I don't realize what's going on until Lacey reaches up with her free hand to wipe at the corner of my eyes.

"You're crying," she whispers, her own eyes glistening.

I try to speak but can't find my voice. All I can focus on is that incredible sound—our child's heartbeat echoing through the room. Proof of life. Proof that despite everything—despite Sayanaa's threats, despite Dr. Chen's forced betrayal, despite all the darkness surrounding us—this precious new life continues to grow.

Lacey's hand leaves my face to rest over her belly, just below where Dr. Chen holds the wand. Her other hand remains firmly clasped in mine as we listen together to that miraculous sound.

"Starting this week, the morning sickness should start easing," Dr. Chen explains. "But you'll need to keep up with prenatal vitamins and folic acid supplements. I'll write you a new prescription."

Lacey nods, and I make mental notes of everything. No alcohol, limited caffeine. Regular light exercise but nothing too strenuous. Plenty of rest.

"Your appetite will increase," Dr. Chen continues. "Make sure to eat regular, balanced meals. Lots of protein, fresh fruits and vegetables." She pauses. "And please, try to avoid any more incidents that might put stress on your body. I know the two of you have a lot on your mind even without the baby. But it never hurts to remind you both."

I feel Lacey tense slightly beside me. Dr. Chen quickly moves on.

"The next few weeks are crucial for development. The baby's organs are forming, bones starting to harden." She hands Lacey some tissues to clean off the ultrasound gel. "Do you have any questions?"

We both shake our heads, still processing everything we've just seen and heard.

"I'll leave you two alone for a moment," Dr. Chen says softly. She closes her notebook and heads for the door. "Take all the time you need."

The door clicks shut behind her. I turn to Lacey, who's still staring at the now-dark ultrasound screen, her hand resting protectively over her belly.

"Zvyozdochka," I whisper, pulling her close. "We're going to be parents."

She lets out a shaky breath against my chest. "Parents," she echoes, and I hear the wonder in her voice that matches exactly what I'm feeling.

I help Lacey down from the examination table, steadying her when she sways slightly. My hand lingers protectively over her belly, still amazed at the life growing within.

"We should prepare a nursery," I tell her softly. "A proper room for our child."

Her eyes light up at the suggestion. "Our child," she echoes, testing the words. "Where would you put it?"

"I have an idea." I take her hand, leading her through Pankration's winding corridors. The morning sun streams through tall windows, casting long shadows across marble floors that have seen too much darkness.

We pass several closed doors before reaching the southern wing. Here, sunlight floods the hallway through floor-to-ceiling windows. I push open a set of double doors, revealing a spacious room bathed in natural light.

"This one gets sun all day," I explain, watching Lacey's expression as she takes in the space. "The windows face south, and there's more than enough room to fit everything a baby needs."

Lacey walks to the center of the room, turning slowly. Dust motes dance in the golden beams around her. Her hand rests unconsciously on her belly as she moves to the windows, looking out over the grounds below.

"It's perfect," she breathes. "The light is beautiful in here."

I join her at the windows, wrapping my arms around her from behind. "We can paint it any color you want. Add a crib, changing table, rocking chair..."

"A rocking chair by this window would be nice," she says, leaning back against my chest. "For late night feedings."

I press a kiss to her temple, imagining her here with our child. The thought of new life filling these halls, of a baby's laughter echoing where there was once only pain, makes my heart swell.

"We could put a bookshelf here," Lacey says, gesturing to one wall. "Fill it with children's stories."

I nod, already picturing shelves lined with colorful spines. "And a soft rug for playing."

"Maybe some stuffed animals?" Her eyes sparkle with excitement. "Oh, and we'll need curtains. Something light and airy."

"Speaking of things we need," I say, pulling her closer. "We haven't discussed the most important piece yet."

She turns in my arms. "What's that?"

"A crib." I run my fingers through her hair, considering. "I want to build it myself."

"You know how to build furniture?"

"I can learn." The idea has been forming in my mind since we first discovered the pregnancy. "I want to create something with these hands for once, instead of just destroying."

Lacey catches my hand and brings it to rest on her belly. "But you already have created something." Her eyes meet mine, full of love and understanding. "Right here."

The simple gesture steals my breath. She's right—we've already created the most precious thing of all. I spread my fingers wider across her stomach, imagining our child growing beneath my palm.

I capture Lacey's lips in a gentle kiss, still overwhelmed by the enormity of what we've just seen. The warmth of her body against mine, knowing our child grows within her, stirs something primal inside me. My hand drifts lower, caressing the gentle curve of her hip.

She responds eagerly, pressing closer as her fingers trail down my chest. The soft sigh that escapes her lips sends heat coursing through my veins. Her hand finds me through my pants, and I can't help the groan that escapes me.

"Should we be doing this here?" I murmur against her lips, even as my body responds to her touch. The sunlit nursery seems too pure for what I want to do to her right now.

"Why? Are you embarrassed?" she teases, nipping at my lower lip. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks up at me. "Daddy?"

The word sends a jolt of electricity through my body. My cock hardens instantly at the implications, at the way she says it—half innocent, and half wicked temptress. My hand on her hip tightens possessively.

I guide Lacey backward until she's pressed against the wall beside the windows, sunlight streaming across her face. My hand traces the curve of her hip as I look down at her with hungry eyes.

"Say it again," I growl softly.

Her lips curve into a teasing smile. "Don't you want to properly christen our baby's room?" she purrs. "Daddy?"

My hand slides lower, finding the inviting warmth between her thighs through her clothes. She gasps, head falling back against the wall as I stroke her.

"You're playing a dangerous game, zvyozdochka," I warn, though I can't resist pressing closer, trapping her between my body and the wall.

"I think we both know that I like these games," she whispers, her breath hitching as my fingers continue their exploration.

When my finger enters her, she lets out a soft gasp that goes straight to my cock. Her eyes flutter closed, head falling back against the wall as I explore her warmth.

"More," she pleads softly. "Please, Daddy."

That word again. It awakens something primal in me, this mixture of pure and profane. Only my Lacey can do this—be both the innocent mother of my child and the temptress who knows exactly how to ignite my darkest desires.

"Look at me," I command gently. When her eyes meet mine, I see that perfect duality reflected there.

Trust and mischief, submission and power.

She knows exactly what she does to me.

My finger curls inside her and she whimpers, her hands clutching at my shoulders. Here in this sunlit room, she offers herself to me completely. No walls, no pretense. Just Lacey, my wife, my love, baring not just her body but her soul.

"Is this what you want?" I ask, adding a second finger. Her breath hitches beautifully.

"Yes," she moans. "God, yes."

I've killed men with these hands. Ended lives, destroyed futures. But with Lacey, they bring only pleasure. She sees past the monster to the man beneath—the man I never thought I could be until she came into my life.

Her hips rock against my hand as soft pants escape her parted lips. My beautiful wife, carrying our child, trusting me completely with her pleasure. The sunlight catches in her hair like a halo, even as she begs me for more in that deliciously wicked voice.

No one else has ever reached this deeply into my soul. No one else has ever made me feel both powerful and powerless at once. Only her.

I capture her mouth again in a deep kiss, swallowing her moans as my fingers continue their rhythmic motion. Her body trembles against mine, her hands clutching desperately at my shoulders.

Her breath comes in short pants when my fingers find the spot that makes her gasp. My palm presses against her pulsing clit. Her muscles tighten around my fingers.

"Vadim…" Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt as I kiss her deeply again, drinking in her desperate sounds.

Then, she finally shatters. My hand holds her steady as she rides out the waves of pleasure.

When she finally stills, I withdraw my hand and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes flutter open, dark with desire despite her recent release.

"My turn, Daddy," she purrs, reaching for my belt, as she lowers herself to her knees.

28

LACEY

HE WATCHES with darkened eyes as I sink to my knees between his legs. My fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper. His cock springs free, already hard and straining for attention.

I lean forward and press a soft kiss to his tip, savoring the way his thighs tense under my hands. Slowly, I take him into my mouth, letting my tongue swirl around his sensitive head. A low groan escapes him as his fingers tangle in my hair.

"Zvyozdochka.” His breath catches on a moan as I take him deeper.

I hollow my cheeks and start to bob my head, encouraged by the way his grip tightens in my hair. His taste fills my mouth—masculine and familiar. I hum in satisfaction, knowing the vibrations will drive him wild.

His hips buck slightly before he catches himself. Always so controlled, even now. I pull back to look up at him through my lashes, my hand still stroking his length.

"Don't hold back," I tell him before taking him deep again.

My hands slide up his thighs as I continue working him with my mouth. His muscles are taut under my touch, trembling with the effort of maintaining control. I want to break that control, to make him come undone completely.

I let one hand drift higher, cupping and massaging his balls while the other wraps around his base, working in tandem with my mouth. His grip tightens in my hair, sending sparks of pleasure down my spine.

"Fuck," he groans.

I feel powerful like this, on my knees but completely in control. My hands squeeze and stroke as I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, letting my tongue trace the sensitive underside of his shaft. His cock pulses against my tongue, and I can tell he's fighting not to thrust.

"Zvyozdochka," he warns, voice rough with need. The way he says it makes heat pool between my legs.

I quicken my pace, losing myself in the act. His taste fills my mouth, masculine and intoxicating. Each throb of his cock against my tongue makes me moan with need. My mind grows hazy with desire as I work him faster, deeper.

My head spins with arousal. The ache between my thighs intensifies but I ignore it, focused only on making him lose control. His fingers tighten in my hair, sending sparks of pleasure down my spine.

I'm drunk on his taste, his scent, the way he fills my mouth so perfectly. My movements grow more frantic as I chase his pleasure, wanting—no, needing—to taste his release. My hands never stop moving, squeezing and stroking in time with my mouth.

I release him with a wet pop, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. His cock twitches before me, glistening with my saliva. My core throbs with need as I gaze up at him through heavy lids.

"Do you want to fuck my mouth, Daddy?" I whisper, my voice husky with desire.

His eyes darken at my words, pupils blown wide with lust. A shudder runs through his powerful frame.

"Yes," he growls, fingers tightening in my hair.

"Then do it," I breathe, opening my mouth in invitation. "Use me."

He doesn't hesitate. His grip tightens as he guides himself past my lips. I relax my throat as he starts to thrust, letting him control the pace. Each stroke sends sparks of arousal through me.

The sounds of his pleasure fill the room. I grip his thighs for balance as he moves, relishing how the muscles flex under my fingers.

His control is slipping. I can feel it in the way his thrusts grow more erratic, in the increasing tension of his body. Pride surges through me, knowing I'm why he's losing all restraint.

His hand slides to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair as he takes control of the rhythm. A moan escapes me at the possessive gesture. I surrender completely, letting him guide my movements as he sees fit.

My body burns with need. I can't resist slipping my hand between my thighs, finding myself embarrassingly wet. My fingers circle my clit as he continues using my mouth, sending jolts of pleasure through me.

The dual sensations overwhelm me—his cock filling my mouth while my fingers work my aching core. My eyes squeeze shut as waves of pleasure build. Each thrust pushes me closer to that toe-curling edge.

I'm helpless to stop the desperate sounds escaping my throat as I chase my release. His grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to open my throat.

That tiny small spark of pain is what finally sends me over.

My eyes roll back as ecstasy crashes through me. I come hard around my fingers, my moan muffled by his cock. The pleasure is so intense my vision goes spotty at the edges.

His control finally snaps. With a primal roar, Vadim empties himself into my eager mouth. I moan around him, swallowing each pulse greedily. My hands grip his thighs as I push forward until my nose presses against his taut stomach, feeling him throb against my tongue as he continues to fill my throat.

Tears of exertion stream down my cheeks but I don't pull back His fingers stay tangled in my hair, holding me in place as his hips buck slightly with each wave of his release.

When the pulses finally slow, I ease back but keep him in my mouth. My tongue swirls around his sensitive head, savoring his taste as I clean him thoroughly with gentle strokes. His thighs tremble under my hands, and I hear his breath catch at the continued stimulation.

"Such an insatiable cumslut I've married," Vadim growls, his voice rough and possessive. "Not willing to waste even a single drop."

Heat blooms across my skin at his words. My core throbs with renewed need. I keep my eyes locked on his as I take him back into my mouth, determined to make him hard again.

Insatiable? I'll show him insatiable.

His breath hitches as my tongue starts to trace circles around his sensitive head.

"Oh fuck," he groans. "Zvyozdochka..."

Pride surges through me at the way his composure crumbles. This man, this dangerous, powerful pakhan who strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies is completely at my mercy. His thighs tremble under my hands as I feel him growing harder in my mouth again.

The sounds escaping him grow louder, more desperate. Each moan sends fresh waves of arousal through me.

His head tilts back, throat exposed to moan loudly as his whole body trembles under my relentless attention. His fingers tighten almost painfully in my hair as I continue my merciless assault with lips and tongue.

"Look at me," I command, pulling away. My throat sore from use and voice firm with authority.

His eyes snap to mine, dark with need. The way he obeys so quickly sends a thrill through me.

My hand wraps around his cock, still slick with my saliva, and I start stroking him at a punishing pace.

The wet sounds of my hand working his length fill the room, punctuated by his desperate groans. Power courses through me at having this dangerous man completely at my mercy.

"Who owns this cock?" I ask again, my voice commanding as my fist tightens around his length. "Say it louder."

"You do, zvyozdochka" he groans, head tilting back. "Always you. Only you."

"And what does that make you?" I demand, slowing my strokes to a torturous pace.

His breath catches. "Yours."

Pride surges through me at having this dangerous man completely at my mercy.

I lean forward, letting my breath ghost over his balls, heavy and hard as they fill with cum while my hand continues its steady rhythm.

His only response is a desperate groan as I dip my head lower, letting my tongue trace delicate patterns around his smooth balls while my hand maintains its relentless pace.

I trace my tongue over the delicate skin, savoring how full and heavy they feel against my lips and tongue. His arousal coats my fingers and runs down my hand as I continue stroking, each glide smooth and effortless.

He's making it clear: I'm in control now.

The thought makes me moan around him. I switch my attention to his other side, giving it the same thorough treatment while my hand never stops pumping his cock.

I take one firm orb into my mouth, rolling it gently with my tongue while my hand maintains its steady rhythm. His fingers tighten but he doesn't try to direct my movements anymore.

"Zvyozdochka.” His voice lengthens into a long-sustained moan as I suck.

His hips buck slightly but he continues to hold himself in check, even as I strip every last bit of control from him.

My fingers squeeze gently around the thick shaft as I continue lavishing attention on his balls with my tongue. The taste of his skin, the weight of him in my mouth, the way his powerful body trembles under my touch—it's intoxicating.

This man who commands an empire is letting me reduce him to desperate sounds and trembling muscles.

I gaze up at him, satisfaction coursing through me at the way he trembles even though I'm the one on my knees. His chest heaves with ragged breaths as he watches me with dark, desperate eyes.

"Please," he groans, the word catching in his throat. "Zvyozdochka, please..."

I release him with a final stroke, savoring the way his cock twitches at the loss of contact.

"Lie down," I command, my voice firm with authority.

He doesn't hesitate as he obeys, stretching out on the floor before me. His muscles ripple with the movement, and I drink in the sight of him.

I rise to my feet and slowly move to straddle him. His hands reach for my hips but I catch his wrists, pinning them above his head.

"Did I say you could touch?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

He shakes his head, pupils blown wide with need. I continue my slow journey up his body, watching his expression grow more desperate as I pass over his straining cock without lowering myself onto it.

I don't stop until I'm hovering over his face, thighs bracketing his head, and knowing full well what my scent and proximity are doing to him. His breath comes in hot pants against my sensitive flesh as he gazes up at me with pure hunger.

"What do you need?" I frame his face between my fingers. "Tell me."

"You," he breathes. "Please, zvyozdochka. Please don't keep me waiting."

"Good boy," I praise, heart blooming. "And what do good boys get?"

A shudder runs through his powerful body at my words. His eyes are almost black with desire as they lock onto mine. But he doesn't answer.

He's waiting for me.

"They get to taste my dripping wet cunt."

I adjust my position above Vadim's eager mouth, savoring the way his hot breath fans against my sensitive flesh. His hands grip my thighs, pulling me closer as I arch my back to give him better access.

My body trembles as his tongue finds its mark. The vibrations from his muffled groans send jolts of pleasure through me. I lean back, bracing one hand on his chest while the other wraps around his straining length.

"Oh fuck," I breathe, starting to stroke him in time with the movements of his tongue.

His response is immediate. A deep hum of pleasure that buzzes against my most sensitive spot. My thighs tighten around his head as waves of sensation wash over me.

I look down at Vadim while maintaining my grip, and keep my voice low and intimate.

"Do you know what I'm going to do?"

I wrap both hands around his throbbing cock behind my back, working him with firm, steady strokes as I rock against his mouth without breaking eye contact. His muscles flex under my touch as he strains upward, seeking more contact.

"I'm going to keep stroking you like this," I breathe, feeling him pulse beneath my touch. I tighten my grip slightly. "Until you cum all over my fingers and this beautiful ring you gave me."

He responds by pushing his tongue flat against my wet folds, and hardening it enough to push his way inside. His powerful hands pull me closer as if he's starving for my taste. Every stroke of his skilled mouth sends sparks of pleasure racing up my spine. The scratch of his stubble against my sensitive skin adds another delicious layer of sensation.

"Your cock feels so good in my hand." My hands quicken their pace behind me, and his muffled groan reverberates between my legs. "So hard. So big."

He's throbbing against my palm, and his mouth works desperately. The two of us are in a race, and neither of us knows just who is going to finish first.

The velvet hardness pulses against my palm with each stroke while his tongue's relentless attention sends fiery waves spearing through my core.

I tighten my grip, determined to maintain control even as my thighs start to tremble. His groan vibrates against my sensitive clit.

I reach further back with one hand, and take hold of his massive balls between trembling fingers. "These must be aching for release."

Sweat rolls down the side of my body, pools between my legs, and beads on his forehead, evidence of our mutual effort.

"Do you love how wet my cunt is for you right now?"

He nods between my legs as his tongue starts to fuck me in earnest. His head bobs forward, pushing deeper between my slick walls.

I can feel him throbbing harder in my grip, a sure sign he's getting close. His mouth grows more insistent, and my head is dizzy with mounting pleasure.

The hot breath from his nose tickles the tuft of hair between my legs. My hips start rolling on his face, moving as if filled with a determination of their own.

His tongue moves faster as I speed up my hands, hearing the wet obscene sounds echoing in the air while the scent of cum and arousal fills my nose until they're so embedded in my lungs that I don't think I'll ever be able to get them out.

"Are you thinking about how it good it would feel to bury this big thick cock deep inside me?"

His breath grows more ragged beneath me, his groans are vibrating through my core. His hands on my thighs dig into my flesh, pulling me down harder against his mouth as his hips start to buck up into my grip.

I feel his muscles tensing, coiling like a spring about to release. Pride surges through me, knowing I'm about to make this powerful man come undone. My own pleasure builds higher as his tongue works faster, more desperately against me.

A deep groan rumbles from his chest, and I can feel him starting to pulse in my hands. I tighten my grip, determined to push him over first.

Then it happens.

For a split second, his whole body goes rigid beneath me.

And then he cums. Hot ropey spurts stream through his twitching cock, splashing my back, my ass, and my hand. Each pulse thunders against my palm. His hips buck wildly as I continue stroking him through it.

Each down stroke sends another delicious spurt into the air, and each upstroke catches more of his warm sticky seed on my fingers.

"Look at me when I come for you.” I command, and Vadim obeys.

His dark gaze locks with mine, showing me a mix of defiance and submission that makes my heart race faster. The intensity in his eyes and the raw need there completely shatters my control.

The orgasm hits me like a sledgehammer. My body arches as waves of ecstasy crash through me. A scream tears from my throat, echoing off the walls as my thighs clamp around his head. My vision blurs at the edges. Pleasure courses through my body in delicious lapping waves.

His tongue never stops moving and he drink in my release as if he's dying of thirst. Each swirl and each circle traces my cunt as if he's memorizing it. Fresh tremors race up my spine. My hands grip his slippery cock, holding onto him for dear life as I ride out the intense sensations.

The world narrows down to just his mouth on me, the thick pulsing cock between my hands, the endless waves of pleasure, and the smell of his seed running down my body and my fingers. I can feel him moaning against my sensitive flesh, and the vibrations extend my own release.

My body jerks with tiny bursts of aftershocks as he licks me through the final tremors.

Finally, I release my grip on Vadim and slide back onto his heaving chest. My thighs still tremble from the intensity of my release. His gray eyes lock onto mine, dark and hungry as I bring my fingers—glistening with Vadim’s cum—to my mouth.

Thick rivulets slide down over the engagement ring he gave me, marking me as his forever. The pink diamond continues to sparkle despite the its new pearly coating.

I bring my fingers to my lips, letting my tongue dart out to taste him—salty and masculine. The metal band feels warm against my tongue. His eyes darken as he watches me.

I clean each finger thoroughly, making sure he sees every swipe of my tongue. His hands flex against my thighs but he doesn't try to move them as he watches me, entranced.

The ring catches the light again as I twist my hand. It's like seeing it anew.

I continue to clean the ring with careful, deliberate swipes of my tongue, twisting and turning to make sure I don't miss a single drop.

My tongue flicks against the diamond's facets, lapping each surface with deliberate care as I savor the taste of his cum.

Just like that day, heat pools low in my belly at how filthy this act should feel. But there's something intoxicating about debasing something so pure and expensive while Vadim watches with such raw hunger and adoration.

"Whose insatiable cumslut am I?" I ask softly as my tongue tucks the final drop of his cum behind my lips.

"Mine, zvyozdochka," he whispers, his eyes never leaving me as he presses one gentle kiss after another between my thighs.

29

LACEY

THREE DAYS LATER

I STEP BACK from the mannequin, examining the drape of the silk dress. Irina's final design sketches spread across my desk capture the essence of what she wanted—elegance with an edge of defiance. The prototype needs something though. Maybe if I adjust the neckline...

A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.

"Come in," I call out, still focused on the way the fabric catches the light.

"Someone is here to see you," Lenka announces.

"Send them in please," I say, reaching to adjust a pin at the shoulder seam.

Footsteps enter behind me. When I turn around, my hands freeze mid-motion.

A young girl stands in my doorway, her long black hair tinged with hints of red falling past her shoulders. Her round face holds sharp cheekbones that remind me painfully of Irina. But it's her rich brown eyes that strike me—they hold a quiet strength I recognize from the video interview.

"Taliya?" I breathe.

She nods shyly, her gaze drawn to the dress on the mannequin. Her fingers twist together nervously as she takes in the flowing silk.

Her hand rises, and then pulls back as if she's afraid to touch it. Her eyes stay fixed on the garment as she speaks in halting English.

"I... I still want to be model," she whispers.

My throat tightens at Taliya's words. After everything she's been through, she still holds onto her dream. The same dream I once had before life took me down a different path.

"You're very brave," I tell her softly, watching as her fingers hover near the silk without quite touching it. There's a hunger in her eyes that I recognize.

It's not for the beauty of fashion, but for what it represents.

Freedom. Expression. Power.

"No brave," she says, shaking her head. "Just... want to show others. Be more than before."

My hand instinctively goes to my belly, thinking of the life growing inside me. I want to build a world where no young woman has to face what Taliya did. Where dreams aren't stolen by monsters wearing expensive suits.

"That's exactly what makes you brave," I say. "You went through hell, but instead of letting it break you, you want to help others."

"We'll figure something out," I tell her gently. "Something safe. Something real."

Her eyes light up slightly at my words. She takes a small step closer to the dress, studying the intricate beadwork along the neckline.

Then she speaks in her native Tuvan—soft musical words that I don't understand. But I recognize the reverence in her tone, the way her fingers hover just shy of touching the fabric. It's the same way I used to look at designer dresses in magazines, imagining myself wearing them one day.

I take in Taliya's longing gaze at the dress. "Would you like to try it on?"

When she doesn't respond, I carefully lift the garment from the mannequin, mindful of the delicate beadwork. I hold it up against her slender frame. The silk would fall perfectly on her.

Her eyes widen and light up at my gesture. A small, hesitant nod.

"Come," I say, gesturing to the adjoining fitting room. "You can change in here."

I wait outside, my mind drifting to Irina. She would have loved seeing her final design worn by someone who understands both beauty and pain. Someone who refuses to let darkness win.

The door creaks open.

Taliya emerges, and my breath catches. The dress transforms her—the flowing silk emphasizing her natural grace, the beading catching light with each movement. But it's more than just the dress. There's a spark of joy in her eyes that wasn't there before.

"You look beautiful," I tell her softly.

Her cheeks flush and she smiles again.

"Come with me. Let's go talk with Vadim about having you work for Svoboda," I say, choosing my words carefully so she can understand. "As a real model. Safe."

Though she may not grasp every word, her radiant smile tells me she understands what matters: that she has a chance to reclaim her dream.

This time on her own terms.

I ACCOMPANY Taliya into Vadim's office, watching her delicate steps in Irina's dress. The silk flows around her like water in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.

Vadim looks up from his desk, his expression softening at the sight of us. To my surprise, he addresses Taliya directly in fluent Tuvan. Her entire demeanor transforms as they converse.

Her shoulders straighten, her gestures become animated, and a genuine smile lights up her face.

I can't understand their words, but their meaning is clear in Taliya's brightening eyes and Vadim's gentle responses. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of who she must have been before—a vivacious young girl full of dreams and determination. My heart aches knowing how close those dreams came to being destroyed forever.

Their conversation continues, punctuated by occasional laughter. Taliya's hands move expressively as she speaks, her previous shyness melting away. Finally, she bows deeply to Vadim and practically floats out of the office, still wearing Irina's dress.

"What did you two discuss?" I ask once she's gone.

"Her future," Vadim says, coming around his desk. "She'll be working as a model, though not for Svoboda."

I frown. "Not Svoboda? Where then?"

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "A new company. One that will be entirely yours to run."

My breath catches. "What?"

"I'm thinking of calling it Eleftheria," he says. "It's Greek. For freedom."

"Why create a brand-new company?" I ask, still trying to process what he's offering me.

Vadim's fingers drum thoughtfully on his desk. "I've been doing some thinking these past three days about how to move forward."

"And?"

"Rutledge," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "I don't entirely trust that he's on our side."

I nod, remembering my tense meeting with the police captain. "He made that pretty clear. Said he'd bring down the full force of law on Svoboda if there's even a hint of criminal involvement."

"Exactly," Vadim says. "Which is why, to continue protecting people, we need a fresh start. A company that’s completely separate from Svoboda."

But something in his tone tells me there's more to it. The way his brows knit together, and how his fingers haven't stopped their restless drumming against the desk. I've learned to read these subtle shifts in him.

"But that's not the whole reason, is it?"

Vadim's eyes meet mine and I see the tension in his jaw. "No, zvyozdochka, it's not."

He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out an envelope, sliding it across to me. The letterhead bears the distinctive logo of L.A. Fashion Week.

My fingers tremble slightly as I unfold the letter. The words blur together at first, but certain phrases jump out: "...regret to inform you..." and "...unable to accept Svoboda's application..."

"They've barred us completely?" I whisper.

"Every single one of our lines." Vadim's voice carries a dangerous edge. "No explanation given. Just a polite rejection."

My stomach churns as understanding hits. "This must be Kirsan's doing."

"It is." Vadim comes around the desk to stand beside me. "Which is why we need something new. Something he won't see coming."

"A company that has no ties to Svoboda or the Stravinsky name," I say slowly, pieces falling into place. "One that appears completely legitimate to outside scrutiny."

"Yes. And who better to run it than a talented designer who left the industry to care for her family?" His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Someone whose potential has been forced to be forgotten for so many years."

Vadim reaches across his desk and slides over a thick folder of documents. My fingers trace over the embossed letters on the cover: "Eleftheria—Articles of Incorporation."

"Go ahead," he says softly. "Take a look."

I flip open the folder, scanning through the legal text. Most of it is standard business terminology that makes my eyes glaze over until I reach the section listing company officers.

My heart stops.

There, printed in crisp black letters, is a name I'd been denied for so many years:

Founder and Chief Executive Officer: Lacey Huang.

Not McKinney. Huang.

My vision blurs as tears well up. I know logically this makes sense—using my adoptive family's name creates distance between me and Vadim, making it harder for anyone to connect Eleftheria back to the Stravinsky bratva. But the way my heart clenches tells me this means so much more.

I try to speak but can't find the words. All these years being told that I wasn't really a part of the family, of feeling like an outsider who didn't belong...

And with a single stroke of his pen, Vadim has helped me claim that identity more firmly than anyone else could ever deny me of it.

"You were always Lacey Huang," Vadim says, his fingers tracing over the documents. "The fierce protector of Megan and Freddy. The devoted daughter who dropped everything to care for Clifton and Laura. Lacey McKinney was a name forced upon you by parents who abandoned you. It was always a mask of who you really were underneath."

My throat tightens at his words. He sees me—truly sees me—in a way that no one else ever has. Even the parts of myself I tried to hide.

I whisper, touching the printed name on the incorporation papers. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this my entire life."

But something else stirs in my chest—a certainty I hadn't felt before. I take a deep breath.

"But it's not who I am anymore."

Concern flickers across Vadim's face. His brow furrows as he searches my expression, clearly unsure how to respond.

I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. The pink diamond on my ring catches the light.

"I'm Lacey Stravinsky now."

His eyes widen slightly, and I feel his fingers tighten around mine. The silence stretches between us, heavy with meaning.

Vadim's entire body seems to soften at my words. The tension drains from his shoulders, and that dangerous edge I'd grown familiar with melts away. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable—like the boy who once yearned for his mother's love.

"You want to take my name?" His voice carries a hint of wonder.

"I do." My hand takes his. "I've spent my whole life trying to figure out where I belong. But I know now—I belong with you. As your wife. As a Stravinsky."

He pulls me closer, pressing his forehead against mine. I feel the slight tremor in his hands as they cup my face. His breath catches slightly, and I realize he's fighting back tears.

His gray eyes lock with mine, full of an emotion that takes my breath away.

"I love you, zvyozdochka," he whispers. "Not because you're carrying my child. Not because you're my wife. But because you make me want to be better than who I am."

My chest tightens at his words. No rehearsed speech or calculated declaration—just raw honesty laid bare between us.

"I love you too," I tell him, my voice trembling slightly. "Not because you saved me or protected me. But because you gave me the strength to become who I was always meant to be."

His thumb traces along my cheekbone, catching a tear I didn't realize had fallen. The tenderness in his touch makes more tears spill over. I pick up the articles of incorporation bearing the name I've been dreaming of having for my entire life.

"This is very sweet of you," I whisper.

"But?" he asks, tension creeping back into his shoulders as if bracing for what might come next.

I smile and shake my head. "No but."

Rising up on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his in a gentle kiss. He responds immediately, pulling me closer as if he can't bear any distance between us. The kiss stays soft and tender—not driven by desperate need or burning desire, but by something deeper. Something real.

His lips taste of coffee and promises.

As we kiss, my mind drifts through everything that's led us here—from that first heated encounter at Mrs. Klossner's, to losing Irina in Paris, to that dark moment we've shared on the stairs of Pankration.

We've both lost so much.

The bruises may have faded, but the emotional scars will always remain.

Yet somehow through all that pain and darkness, we found each other. We've grown stronger together. He helped me reclaim my identity while I showed him he's nothing like the monster who sired him.

Where once there was fear between us, now there's only trust.

Where there was doubt, now there's certainty.

He pulls back slightly, that familiar knowing smile playing at his lips. "I can hear you thinking again, zvyozdochka."

"Can you blame me?" I trace my fingers along his jaw. "I'm just thinking how crazy it is that I found someone like you through the most insane circumstances. That somehow walking into that dry cleaner on what I thought was the worst day of my life led me to exactly where I was meant to be. Right here next to you."

His eyes soften at my words. I continue, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I can't wait to spend forever with you. To raise a family with you. We just need to get through what comes next."

"We will." He pulls me closer as his hand drifts to my belly, where the slightest hint of a bump is starting to form. "Together."

30

VADIM

THE AUTOMATIC DOORS slide open with a soft hiss as I enter the police station with Aleksey at my side. The familiar stench of bureaucracy hits my nose. A few officers look up from their desks, their hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons when they see me.

"This is a terrible idea, Vadim Petrovich," Aleksey mutters under his breath. "Rutledge would love nothing more than to slap cuffs on you the moment you walk in."

I keep my face neutral as we approach the front desk. "I'm well aware of the captain's feelings toward me."

"Then why are we here?" Aleksey adjusts his tie—a nervous tell I've noticed over the years.

"Because this is part of Lacey's plans," I reply quietly. "And it's a good plan. We need Rutledge, even if I don't like it."

"Your wife's influence is making you soft," Aleksey says with a slight edge to his voice. "The old Vadim would never walk willingly into a police station."

I turn to face him, letting just enough of the pakhan show in my eyes to make him take a small step back. "The old Vadim didn't have as much to protect."

The desk sergeant recognizes Aleksey and picks up his phone without prompting. Within moments, Rutledge emerges from his office, his weathered face hardening when he spots me.

"Mr. Stravinsky," he says, voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?"

I reach into my jacket, noting how every officer in view tenses, and pull out my phone. "I have some information about one of your officers that might interest you, Captain."

Rutledge's jaw tightens. "Information about one of my officers?"

I pull up the video on my phone and hit play. Mackland's bruised face fills the screen, blood trickling from his split lip. His eyes dart frantically back and forth like a cornered animal.

"Jesus Christ," Rutledge mutters, leaning in closer. "What the fuck did you do to him, Stravinsky?"

"Officer Mackland was... reluctant to accept my invitation for a polite conversation." I keep my voice steady, neutral. "Some persuasion was required."

"Persuasion?" Rutledge drums his fingers on his desk. "That looks like assault and kidnapping of a police officer to me."

"If I may, Captain." Aleksey interjects. "My client acted in self-defense when Officer Mackland drew his weapon—while off duty, mind you—during what was intended to be a peaceful discussion about certain irregularities at local establishments."

"Self-defense?" Rutledge scoffs. "You call this self-defense?"

"Would you like to see the rest of the video where he explains exactly how many bribes he's taken from Kirsan Kuular over the years?" I say quietly. "Or would you prefer that this piece of shit continue dishonoring the badge that you so proudly wear?"

Rutledge's face flushes red. "Show me."

I press play.

"State your name and rank," my voice commands from off-screen.

"Brian Mackland. Police Sergeant with the Seattle PD." His voice trembles.

Rutledge's hands curl into fists on his desk. I notice a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"How long have you worked for Kirsan Kuular?"

"Six years now, give and take." Mackland swallows hard. "Started small, just looking the other way. Then... more."

"What kind of work do you do for him?"

"Security. Mainly at his casino." Mackland's eyes dart around frantically. "Sometimes the clubs too."

Rutledge's face has gone from red to ashen. His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of his desk.

"Tell me about the clubs," my voice demands.

"I mean, what do you want to know?"

"Whatever comes to mind."

Mackland takes a deep breath, hesitating as he mulls over the words. "Usual shit. Legitimate clubs upstairs, but if you know somebody, you can go one floor below."

"What happens when you go below?"

"I mean shit," Mackland shakes his head, blinking fiercely. "I've only been down there a couple of times. But it's pretty much the same thing. Bottles and girls. You pay for a table, and girls will sit down with you, talk with you."

"Is that all that happens?"

"No," Mackland admits. "I mean, usually, yeah, that's all that happens. But if you're willing to shell out the big bucks. Well, then you can ask the girls to show you one floor deeper."

"What happens there?"

"Whatever the fuck you want, man. You fucking paid for them."

A sound escapes Rutledge's throat. His whole body is rigid with fury.

"Tell me about the girls."

"They're…" Mackland hesitates. "They got no names. You're not supposed to ask them about names. Hell, I don't think half of them even speak English. Real young too. I know for sure that a couple of them are sixteen. Some sick bastards specifically request the young ones."

I pause the video. "Would you like to see more, Captain? Or is this convincing enough for you?"

Rutledge holds up his hand, his voice hoarse. "Stop. That's... that's enough."

"Are you sure, Captain? Officer Mackland becomes quite detailed about his activities. And about his own kickbacks within the clubs as part of his performance bonus."

Silence falls between us, and Captain Rutledge ponders the gravity of what I just said.

"What do you want from me, Stravinsky?" His eyes bore into mine, decades of police work etched into the lines of his face.

"I believe my wife was very clear to you about what I wanted." I lean forward. "Your assistance in bringing a legitimate face forward to help take down a dangerous human trafficker. One that the police have not only overlooked, but many of you have actively aided over the years."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then in exactly twenty-four hours, this video will go live online. Once it's out there..." I spread my hands. "Well, then you'll be put before the court of public opinion."

Rutledge's face darkens as understanding dawns. "That's blackmail, Stravinsky."

"It's only blackmail if you have no choice." I check my watch. "And from how I see it, you very much still have a choice, Captain. You can either wait for this to explode in your face, or you can get ahead of it. Break the story yourself. That way, you'll maintain at least a little bit of control over the narrative."

His laugh is bitter. "You've got this all figured out, don't you?"

"My wife does." I stand, straightening my jacket. "Because despite everything that has happened, she still believes in you, Captain. I'd hate for her belief to be proven wrong in the worst possible way."

"It's not every day a bratva boss walks into my office so willingly," Rutledge says, leaning back in his chair. "Making demands. That's bold of you, Stravinsky."

"Whoa, whoa!" Aleksey starts. "Bratva boss! I'll have you know, Captain, that you are making a very serious accusation!"

"Save the act for a judge, counselor." Rutledge waves him off. "We both know what your client is."

I remain silent, studying the way Rutledge's fingers drum against his desk. His entire demeanor has shifted since watching the video.

"Let's speak frankly," Rutledge continues. "No more bullshit about legitimate businesses or plausible deniability." He gestures at my phone. "Or what we both recognize as very clear blackmail. Everything from this point on is off the record. I swear it."

"As you wish, Captain." I keep my voice neutral, though inside I feel a surge of satisfaction. The threat to his department's legitimacy has hit home harder than any concern about Kirsan's activities.

"I could arrest you right now." His eyes narrow. "This video is more than enough evidence."

"You could," I agree. "But you won't, will you?"

Rutledge's jaw tightens as he shakes his head. We both know the real threat isn't Kirsan's operation. It's the rot that's spread through the entirety of the police force.

The kind of corruption that makes good cops question every badge they see.

"How many others?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know." I meet his gaze steadily. "But I know it's a number that you're going to be dangerously uncomfortable with."

"And what about you?" Rutledge asks, his voice crunching like gravel. "How many officers are on your payroll?"

I lean back, letting the silence stretch between us. "That's not relevant to our discussion, Captain."

"The hell it isn't!" His fists slam against the desk. "If we're being frank here, then be frank. How many of my men work for you?"

"I can assure you of one thing," I say carefully. "None of them engage in the kind of activities you just witnessed in that video."

"That's not an answer, Stravinsky."

"It's not." I admit. "But it's the only one you're getting. What matters is that any officer who might hypothetically be on my payroll has never been asked to overlook or participate in human trafficking."

"Just other crimes," he spits.

"If you want to chase ghosts about theoretical corruption, be my guest." I gesture at my phone. "But right now, you have very real monsters on the force. The choice is yours. Waste time investigating me, or focus on the evidence I just handed you."

Rutledge's jaw works as he processes my words. I can see the battle playing out behind his eyes. His desire to nail me to the wall is warring with the reality of what Mackland's confession means.

"Let's cut the bullshit, Stravinsky." Rutledge's weathered face hardens. "This isn't about justice or cleaning up the force. You're just using me as a weapon in your own vendetta."

I let his accusation hang in the air, neither confirming nor denying it. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire.

"Tell me, Captain," I finally say, leaning forward. "When was the last time you looked at your badge and felt pride. Real pride?"

His eyes flick down to the shield on his desk. Something flickers across his face.

"Every morning, I see good officers walk through those doors," I continue. "Men and women who joined the force believing they could make a difference. And every day, they're forced to work alongside pieces of shit like Mackland."

"Don't pretend you care about my officers," he growls.

"I don't. I haven't believed in you people for decades." I meet his gaze steadily. "But like I said: my wife does. And she believes that there are still good cops who deserve to wear that badge with a shred of honor."

"What happens after?" Rutledge's eyes narrow. "After I clean house, what then? You just disappear into the shadows like none of this happened?"

I meet his gaze steadily. "You know better than that, Captain."

"Exactly my point." His fingers drum against the desk. "You're not going to just pack up your operations and leave Seattle."

"There will always be shadow businesses in the system." I keep my voice measured, controlled. "You know this as well as I do. If anything, the system often requires these shadow businesses to thrive. But there are certain baselines that everyone should adhere to." I pause. "Even those you consider criminals."

"And trafficking is where you draw the line?" His tone carries equal parts skepticism and curiosity.

"Children being sold like cattle?" My jaw tightens at the memory of what I've seen. "Young girls being used by monsters who claim to be family men? Yes, Captain. That's my line. It should be everyone's fucking line."

Rutledge studies me for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Finally, he nods slowly. "I can agree with that."

"I'm not naïve, Captain." I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say. "When this is over, you'll come after me. After Svoboda. After everything I've built."

A ghost of a smile plays across Rutledge's face. "You sound almost resigned to it."

"Only a fool wouldn't be." I shrug. "That's a game I'm very comfortable with playing. But right now, I need you to be something else. Something more important than just another cop trying to take down the bratvas."

"And what's that?"

"The face of justice." The words come out more resolute than I intend. "These traffickers, their buyers, and the enablers like Mackland. Every one of them needs to feel the squeeze from both sides. The law and the shadows."

"You want me to be the stick you beat them with?" His voice carries an edge.

"I want you to be exactly what that represents." I gesture to the badge on his chest. "A symbol that makes monsters think twice before buying a human being. Because right now? They don't fear the law. And why should they? So many of the people who profess to enforce it are too busy breaking it while they indulge in this monstrous trade."

Rutledge's eyes narrow as understanding dawns. "So what are we? Good cop bad cop?"

I shake my head, smiling, and tap my chest. "The devil they know."

I point at his badge. "And the law they thought they could ignore."

Silence fills Rutledge's office as he looks down and processes everything I've said. His fingers drum against his desk, faster and faster. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.

Finally, he looks up at me, determination etched into the lines of his face.

"I'll do it." He shakes his head and his face looks like he'd just been asked to drink piss. "Not because you asked. But because I can't sleep at night knowing the badge is being used by pieces of shit like Kirsan." His eyes narrow. "And you."

"That's all my wife wanted to hear." I keep my voice neutral, careful not to let my satisfaction show.

"Let me be clear about something else, Stravinsky." Rutledge leans forward, his voice hardening. "You're absolutely right about one thing. Once this is done? Once we've cleaned up this trafficking mess? I'm coming for you next. I will use every resource at my disposal to bring you and your organization down. And I won't stop until I cuff you myself."

"Of course, Captain" I stand and extend my hand towards him. "I expected nothing less from a true believer."

He follows me to his feet, and grips my hand firmly, calloused palm rough against mine.

As we shake, a hint of grudging respect crosses his face.

"Your wife is an extraordinary woman, Stravinsky," he says. "Hard to believe she'd marry a real piece of shit like you."

31

LACEY

5 WEEKS LATER

RAIN PATTERS against the nursery window in a soothing rhythm as I cradle my tea, lost in thought. My free hand drifts to my growing belly, still amazed at the changes happening within me.

The nursery has come together beautifully. The walls have been painted a soft cream, with delicate pink and gold accents. My rocking chair faces the window, letting me watch Seattle's endless rain that portends the start of autumn.

These past weeks have been a whirlwind. Captain Rutledge has been relentless in his mission to clean house alongside with Vadim's ruthless purge of Seattle's underworld. Corrupt cops are falling like dominoes, and right there with them are the trafficking establishments. Every day brings forth another report about women and girls being freed from slavery and suffering.

Megan's been thriving too. Her articles about Svoboda have gained national attention, and she's going to fly out to New York for a job interview in a few weeks.

Working with Taliya has been wonderful as well. Her enthusiasm for design is infectious, and watching her confidence grow makes my heart swell. She taught me to say "thank you" in Tuvan yesterday.

I probably butchered the pronunciation, but her delighted smile when I said it to her in the proper context was worth it.

Even Freddy and I have found our way into being real siblings. His recovery has been slow but steady. Sometimes when he's not in pain, he'll tell me stories about Mom that I've never heard before.

But right now, as I stare at the rain outside, all those things are pushed to the other corners of my mind.

I can think about is Dr. Chen's words from this morning.

"It's a girl."

A daughter. Our daughter. I touch my belly again, wondering if she can feel how much she's already loved.

I can't wait to tell Vadim when he gets home.

The door opens with a soft creak and Vadim steps in, still in his suit from the day's meetings. His eyes soften when he sees me. "I thought I'd find you here, zvyozdochka."

My heart skips at his presence. Even after all this time, just the sight of him still gets my heart racing.

He crosses the room, kneels beside my chair, and takes my hand in his. "How was your appointment with Dr. Chen this morning?"

I can't contain my smile any longer. "We're having a girl."

His breath catches. For a moment, he's completely still. Then his hand reaches out to touch my belly, reverent and gentle. "A girl," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "A daughter."

Warmth spreads through me at his touch, at the way his eyes shine with unshed tears. I cover his hand with mine. "She's going to have you wrapped around her little finger."

"Just like her mother." He presses a kiss to my belly before looking up at me. "I can already picture her wearing little dresses that you design."

The rain continues its gentle rhythm against the window as Vadim stays kneeling beside me, his hand warm against my belly. Our daughter.

The thought should fill me with joy.

But slowly, a tendril of terror snakes through me. Tears well up in my eyes, and I can't stop them from falling even if I want to. They're not tears of joy, but something darker. Something that burns hot and painful down my cheeks.

"Zvyozdochka?" Vadim's voice is gentle with concern. "What's wrong?"

"It's just... pregnancy hormones," I try to laugh it off, but my voice cracks.

His thumb brushes away a tear. "No, it's not. Tell me what's frightening you."

I bite my lip, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. But looking into his eyes, seeing nothing but love and concern, breaks down my walls.

"I'm scared," I whisper, the words coming out before I can stop them. "About everything."

Vadim shifts closer, his thumb still brushing away my tears. "Tell me."

"You took such a huge risk going to Rutledge. And it was because of me, because I suggested it." My hands clench in my lap. "But once Kirsan is gone, Rutledge won't stop. He'll come after you next. He said as much."

"Zvyozdochka."

"And L.A. Fashion Week..." My voice cracks. "We both know how dangerous that will be. What if something goes wrong? What if—"

I can't finish the thought. I can’t bear to speak into the possibility that I might lose Vadim. The possibility is too painful to voice.

He takes both my hands in his. "Look at me."

I do, through tear-blurred vision.

"I've spent my whole life fighting monsters," he says. "But I never had anything worth protecting before. Now I do. You. Our daughter. This family we're building."

"That's exactly what terrifies me," I admit. "That's what I'm afraid of losing this. Not when I finally know what it feels like to truly belong somewhere." My voice drops to barely a whisper. "To belong with someone."

The weight of everything crashes over me—the past weeks of watching Rutledge systematically dismantling corruption, knowing each victory brings us closer to the moment he'll turn his attention to Vadim. The looming danger of L.A. Fashion Week and our final confrontation with Kirsan. It all feels like a sword hanging over our heads, threatening this precious peace we've found.

"I just had this awful feeling," I confess, my hand drifting back to my belly. "Like everything we've built could be taken away in an instant."

Vadim's hands tighten on mine. "No one will take this from us, zvyozdochka. Not Kirsan. Not Rutledge. No one."

The fierce conviction in his voice makes my breath catch. His gray eyes hold mine, stormy with determination.

"But Rutledge said—"

"Let him say whatever he wants to say," Vadim says, his voice strong and unyielding. "He can investigate every piece of paper, follow every lead, but he will find nothing that he can use to separate us. Everything I've built, I've built carefully. Legally."

"And Kirsan?"

A dark smile plays across his lips. "Kirsan made a fatal mistake thinking he could hurt what's mine." His hand slides to my belly, protective and possessive. "I will end him in Los Angeles. And when I do, I'll spend the rest of my life pampering you."

The certainty in his voice soothes something raw inside me. This is the man who orchestrated an elaborate heist in Paris. Who's systematically dismantling a criminal empire piece by piece. Who looked at my broken necklace and tracked down every pawn shop in Seattle until he found it.

"You better, Vadim Stravinsky," I whisper, and I mean it. "Don't leave me alone in this world without you."

He rises from his knees and pulls me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady and strong under my ear. "You and our daughter are my everything now. My reason for fighting. My reason for living. Nothing in this world could make me give that up."

I feel the tension slowly seep from my shoulders as Vadim holds me, but I can't completely banish the fear gnawing at the edges of my mind. Needing a distraction, I look up at him. "Have you thought about names?"

His hand continues stroking my back. "A few. Nothing that feels right yet."

"Like what?"

"Natalia was my first thought." He shakes his head. "But it doesn't feel... special enough."

"What about Alexis?" I suggest, trying to match his more traditional choices.

"Too common." His lips quirk. "We could call her Sasha."

"Definitely not. " I wrinkle my nose. "It sounds way too similar to Sayanaa."

His hand stills on my back for a moment before a smile ghosts his face. "Fair point."

"Elena?" I offer.

"I knew an Elena once. She tried to poison me."

I pull back to stare at him. "You're joking."

"I wish I was."

"Victoria?" I offer.

"Too English."

"Katerina?"

"Too Ukrainian."

I can't help but laugh. "You're impossible."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'particular,'" he says, but there's a hint of playfulness returning to his voice. His hand drifts to my belly again. "We still have plenty of time to decide."

I cover his hand with mine. "She needs the perfect name."

"She'll have it," he promises. "When we know, we'll know."

My thoughts drift to another name, though I hesitate to say it out loud. Irina.

The weight of it sits heavy in my chest. Her sacrifice made this all possible—my freedom, my life with Vadim, this child growing inside me. But speaking her name still feels like touching a fresh wound.

Maybe it's too soon. Maybe it will always be too soon.

Besides, would naming our daughter after her honor Irina's memory, or would it be a constant reminder of the guilt we both carry?

"We should choose a name that has meaning for you too, zvyozdochka," Vadim says, breaking into my thoughts. "Not just Russian names."

I try to lighten the mood. "Well, we definitely can't name her Megan. She'd never let us hear the end of it."

But something shifts in Vadim's expression, his gray eyes turning serious. "I was thinking Lauren. To honor your Mom."

My breath catches. For a moment, I'm transported back to lazy Sunday afternoons in our kitchen, Mom humming "Moon River" as she taught me how to whisk eggs into chicken broth for the perfect egg drop soup. The way her eyes crinkled with smile as we tried my first attempt—with way too many handfuls of salt.

The suggestion brings tears to my eyes again, but these are different from before. These aren't tears of fear or uncertainty. They're tears of remembrance, of love, of the ache that never quite goes away when you lose someone who shaped your whole world.

"I'd prefer something meaningful to both of us," I whisper, watching his expression carefully. "A name that honors everything we've been through together."

Understanding breaks across Vadim's face like a sunrise. His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I know we're thinking the same thing. Together, we breathe out: "Irina."

The name hangs in the air between us, heavy with memory and meaning. I can still see her radiant smile, hear her infectious laugh. The way she believed in me, in us, in everything we could become.

But before the familiar weight of grief can settle over us, Vadim's eyes light up. "I have a better idea," he says, his voice soft but excited. "What if we combined both names? Lauren and Irina..."

Something clicks into place.

"Larina," I say.

My hand drifts to my belly, testing the name. "Larina," I whisper again, feeling how it fits in my mouth, how it carries the echoes of both women who shaped our lives so profoundly. Mom's warmth and strength, Irina's fierce spirit and determination.

Vadim's hand covers mine on my belly. "Larina Stravinsky."

"It's perfect," I whisper, my heart full. "Larina."

The name feels right on my tongue, carrying the weight of both love and loss, hope and memory.

Vadim's hand is warm against my belly, and I can't help but lean into his touch.

"Zvyozdochka," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Our little star is going to shine so bright."

"I can already picture her," I say, letting myself imagine our daughter. "With your eyes."

"And your smile," he adds softly. "Your kindness."

I cover his hand with mine, feeling the slight flutter of movement beneath. "She's going to be fierce and beautiful. Just like both of her namesakes."

"She'll be perfect," Vadim says, his voice thick with emotion. "Because she's ours."

The rain continues its gentle patter against the window, but in here, wrapped in Vadim's arms with his hand protectively spread across my belly, I feel nothing but warmth. Slowly, the fear begins to recede, replaced by anticipation.

"I can't wait to meet her," I whisper, picturing tiny fingers and toes, imagining the weight of her in my arms. "To see who she becomes."

"To watch her grow," Vadim agrees. His thumb traces gentle circles on my belly. "To protect her. To love her."

Suddenly, I gasp, my hand flying to my belly.

"Zvyozdochka? What's wrong?" Vadim's voice is tight with concern.

"I..." My voice trembles with wonder. "I just felt her kick. For the first time."

Taking his hand in mine, I guide it to the spot where I felt the flutter. "Wait," I whisper. "Just wait."

We hold our breath, his palm warm against my skin through the thin fabric of my dress. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of rain against the window and our quiet breathing.

Then—there it is again. That tiny flutter, like butterfly wings beneath my skin.

Vadim's breath catches. His eyes go wide, and I watch as a storm of emotions crosses his face. Wonder. Joy. Love. Fear. All of them tangled together in a way that makes my heart ache.

"Privyet, Larina," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Hello, dorogaya."

He bends down, and places a reverent kiss to my belly, right where we felt her move. His hand stays splayed protectively over the spot, as if trying to memorize the feeling of her first kicks.

I watch as Vadim continue whispering softly to my belly, his hand spread protectively over where we just felt Larina kick.

I watch in marvel at the way his eyes are filled with raw emotion.

This fearsome pakhan who commands an army of killers—who makes hardened criminals tremble in fear—completely undone by the tiniest flutter of movement from our daughter.

Another kick, and his breath catches. The sound draws tears to my eyes. In this moment, seeing him so vulnerable and full of wonder, I know with absolute certainty that I would burn the world down to protect what we have.

Yes, Kirsan is still out there. Yes, Rutledge made his intentions clear. The doubt and fear still gnaw at the edges of my mind. But with each reverent kiss Vadim presses to my belly, steel resolve builds within me.

Let them come.

Let them try to tear apart what we've built. They don't understand what they're up against.

Vadim looks up at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and I see the same fierce determination reflected there.

We created this precious life together.

And we'll protect her together.

32

VADIM

I WATCH Lacey make one final change to the runway schedule, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She's made herself at home in my office, papers scattered across my desk detailing everything from the L.A. Fashion Week events to our safehouses throughout the city.

"These twelve locations." I tap the map. "Will be converted to safe houses. Each can house up to a hundred people comfortably while we arrange transport back to their homes."

"What about the buyers?" Lacey looks up at me, her amber-flecked eyes holding that familiar determination I've come to cherish.

I slide over a thick folder.

"Mostly politicians. The kind who thinks their position puts them above the law." My jaw clenches. "They'll learn soon enough."

"And Kirsan?" Her voice catches slightly on his name. "Will he be there?"

"He will." I move behind her chair, resting my hands on her shoulders. She leans back into my touch. "He likes to personally talk to potential buyers about his 'merchandise.' Which means he'll be at the main runway shows, pointing out which models are for sale."

"Using the runway as a catalog." Lacey's shoulders tense under my fingers. "It's sick."

"It is." I massage the tension from her muscles. "But it makes him predictable. We know exactly where he'll be and when."

"How many potential buyers are we looking at?"

"Forty-three confirmed so far. Senators, judges, and CEOs." I reach past her to spread out their photos. "Every one of them untouchable."

"Until now." There's steel in her voice that makes my heart swell with pride.

"Until now," I agree, letting my hands slide from her shoulders. "These men have operated without consequence for far too long."

I move to perch on the edge of my desk, studying Lacey's neat handwriting on the runway layouts.

"Have you thought about who will walk for Eleftheria?"

"I have." Lacey's voice holds that quiet determination that both thrills and terrifies me.

"Who?"

"Me."

"Absolutely not." The words come out harsher than intended. "You're carrying our child. I won't put either of you at risk. Especially since we know Kirsan will be there."

"But it has to be me." She stands, one hand unconsciously moving to her slightly rounded belly. "Think about it, Vadim. You killed his daughter. He needs to see someone that will make him react with emotion rather than logic."

My jaw clenches. "But—"

"Who else can get that reaction from him?" She steps closer, taking my hands in hers. "Sayanaa is dead. I'm the only one who can make him lose control."

"Zvyozdochka..." I start to protest, but she presses a finger to my lips.

"You know I'm right. We need him emotional, irrational. What better way than having your pregnant wife—the woman his daughter failed to break—walking that runway?"

I close my eyes, hating that her logic is sound. The thought of her anywhere near Kirsan makes my blood run cold, but she's right. Nothing else would provoke such a visceral response from him.

"We could ask any of the women we rescued," I suggest, knowing it's a weak argument even as I make it. "Taliya has already proven—"

"No." Lacey's voice is firm. "I won't ask them to face their abusers. Not when those wounds are still so fresh."

Her words sound familiar, and it takes me a moment before I realize that they're practically the same as mine to Demyon all those months ago.

He'd suggested using Irina as the fake bride in Paris, arguing that she knew the most about fashion and would be the most convincing.

I'd refused his suggestion for the exact same reason Lacey is refusing mine now.

We're both trying to protect others while willingly putting ourselves in danger. I know that the same determination I felt when I insisted on using someone—anyone—other than Irina is also there in her heart.

"You're doing exactly what I did," I murmur, brushing my thumb across her cheek. "Protecting others at your own risk."

"Just like you would." She leans into my touch. "Just like you did."

I close my eyes, remembering Irina's bright smile, her endless enthusiasm. How even after everything Kirsan did to her, she still wanted to help others escape that fate.

But I also remember how her body crumpled in death. The inconsolable scream of anguish from Lacey when Irina's body entered the fires of the crematorium upon our return to Seattle.

If Lacey met that same fate, I will never forgive myself.

"We can find another way," I say softly.

"No." Lacey's hand covers mine. "We can't. This is the best way, and you know it."

"You're right," I concede, even as my heart rebels against the words. "But we'll need extensive security measures. Nothing left to chance."

"Of course." Lacey squeezes my hands. "And this is as good of a time as any to have Megan's bring Svoboda's true purpose to light. Couple the fear you'll strike into the hearts of the monster with the hope that Svoboda will bring."

"And the industry won't be able to look away," I finish her thought. My mind races through the possibilities.

"Exactly." Lacey steps closer, her belly pressing against me. "Megan can release everything—the interviews, the evidence, all of it—right as the operation concludes. The industry will have to address what's happening in their shadows."

"It's perfect." I pull her closer, breathing in her citrus-lavender scent. My hand splays protectively over our daughter.

"Let's go talk to Megan now." Lacey looks up at me. "She's been sitting on this release for weeks."

I nod slowly, though my protective instincts still scream against putting Lacey anywhere near Kirsan.

"Zvyozdochka," I say. "Promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"If at any point I say it's too dangerous for you to do this, promise me that you'll listen and back out. I don't want to lose you."

Lacey looks at me, her eyes swimming with emotion. Slowly, she nods, and I feel tension slowly uncoiling in my shoulders. Not completely gone, of course. But enough to feel like I can breathe again.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing a kiss to my jaw. "Now come on, let's go talk to Megan."

I let her lead me from the office, my mind already planning additional security measures. I'll need to coordinate with Demyon, arrange for more men. Nothing can go wrong.

Not with both my wife and daughter's lives at stake.

"ARE you both out of your fucking minds?" Megan springs up from her chair the moment we stop talking. "She's pregnant!"

"Megan—" Lacey starts, but Megan cuts her off.

"No. Abso-fucking-lutely not." Her eyes lock onto mine, blazing with fury. "How dare you even consider putting my sister in danger like this? Haven't you done enough?"

"This wasn't his idea, Meg!" Lacey interjects. "It was mine."

"Bullshit." Megan's hands ball into fists. "He's manipulating you, can't you see that? First the marriage, now this?"

I feel my jaw clench but force myself to remain silent. This isn't my fight.

"Nobody is manipulating me." Lacey's voice carries that steel edge I've come to know so well. "I chose this. All of it."

"You're pregnant, Lacey!" Megan's voice cracks. "You can't just put yourself out there like this! There has to be another way."

"There isn't." Lacey moves to take her sister's hands. "Believe me, if there was, we'd be doing that, but there just isn't. We need Kirsan emotional and irrational. And I'm the only person who can get him to act that way."

"Lacey, don't do this." Megan's voice breaks. "I'm begging you. Please don't do this. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't." Lacey pulls her sister into an embrace. "I promise."

"How can you be so sure?" Megan pulls back to look at Lacey. "How do you know you'll come back?"

"Because Vadim will be there." Lacey's voice holds absolute conviction. "He'll protect me."

Megan's skeptical gaze shifts to me. "Like he protected Irina?"

The words hit like a physical blow. I force myself to meet her eyes, seeing the same fierce protectiveness for Lacey that I feel burning in them.

"That's not fair," Lacey says softly. "What happened to Irina wasn't Vadim's fault."

"Isn't it?" Megan's voice is sharp. "He put her in danger. Just like he's putting you in danger now."

"Megan, I told you." Lacey shakes her head. "I'm choosing this. And Vadim will keep me safe."

"You keep saying that." Megan's hands ball into fists. "But you don't fucking know, Lace! Nobody knows!"

I watch the sisters' exchange, feeling like an intruder in their intimate moment.

"I'm not changing my mind, Meg." Lacey's voice soft but unyielding. "What we need from you is to focus on your part. Getting the truth out there about what Svoboda really does."

Megan runs her hands through her short black hair, clearly frustrated. "Fine. I'll write about how Svoboda helps trafficking victims escape. How you give them jobs, dignity, a chance at a real life." She looks between us. "But I still think what you're doing is a terrible idea."

"I know." Lacey reaches for her sister's hand. "But you know me. Once I set my mind to something..."

"Nothing will stop you." Megan's shoulders slump in defeat. "God, you're the most stubborn person I know. Always have been." She squeezes Lacey's hand before letting go. "Can I talk to your husband alone for a minute?"

Lacey glances at me, concern flickering across her face. I give her a slight nod.

She presses a quick kiss to my cheek before heading to the door. "Try not to kill each other."

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with my sister-in-law's piercing gaze. I've faced down countless enemies without flinching, but something about Megan's protective fury makes me want to look away.

"Well?" I keep my voice steady. "What did you want to say to me?"

As soon as the door closes, Megan rounds on me. "If anything fucking happens to my sister or my niece in Los Angeles, there won't be a place on Earth where you can hide from me."

"I know." I meet her fierce gaze.

"I mean it, Vadim! Not your army of killers, not your fucking money, not even that big blond boy toy of yours will keep you safe from what I'll do to you."

My lips twitch at her description of Demyon. "That last part felt unnecessarily specific."

"Don't fucking change the subject." A hint of color touches her cheeks. "This is about Lacey."

"It is." I soften my voice. "Don't forget, the child she's carrying is my daughter too, Megan. I will protect them both with my life."

"You better." She crosses her arms. "Because if anything happens to either of them—"

"Nothing will happen to them." I cut her off. "I give you my word."

"Your word?" She arches an eyebrow. "The word of a fucking criminal?"

I recoil at the venomous way she spits that word out.

"The word of a father." I correct her. "And the word of a husband who loves your sister more than his own life. I will keep them safe. Both of them."

I FIND Lacey in our bedroom, staring out at the distant Seattle skyline through rain-streaked windows. Her hand rests protectively over our daughter, and the sight makes my heart clench.

"Your sister's right, you know." I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her. "This is incredibly dangerous."

"I know." She leans back against my chest. "But it's the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do would be keeping you and our daughter safe." My hand covers hers on her belly. "Far away from Kirsan."

"And what about all those other daughters?" She turns in my arms. "The ones he's selling in the open?"

The fierce determination in her eyes takes my breath away. Here she is, carrying our child, and still thinking about how to protect others.

"You're the most impressive person I've ever met," I tell her, meaning every word. "Do you know that?"

"Stop trying to distract me." But her lips curve into a smile.

"I'm not." I cup her face. "You're incredible, zvyozdochka. The way you fight for others, the way you refuse to look away from injustice..." My voice catches. "But I'm terrified of losing you."

"You won't lose me." She covers my hand with hers. "I trust you to keep us safe."

"What if I can't?" The fear that's been gnawing at me finally breaks free. "What if Megan is right? What if something goes wrong, like it did with Irina? I love you too much to watch you die."

"Then we'll make sure nothing goes wrong." She pulls me down until our foreheads touch. "Together."

I close my eyes, breathing in her familiar citrus-lavender scent. "I love you. Both of you. More than anything in this world."

"I love you too," Lacey whispers before pressing her lips against mine. "I love you so much."

Her kiss starts gentle but quickly deepens with need. My hands roam her body, memorizing every curve, every subtle change that the pregnancy has brought. Her breasts are fuller, more sensitive. Her belly has the slightest swell.

But there's a gnawing dread I can't shake. What if this is the last time I get to hold her like this? What if Kirsan—

"Stop thinking so much," Lacey murmurs, nipping at my lower lip. "I can feel you getting lost in your head."

"I can't help it." My voice is rough with emotion. "If anything happens to you—"

"Nothing will happen." She cups my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Focus on the now. On this moment. Right now, we're here. Together and safe."

Her words strike true, anchoring me to the present. I capture her mouth in a desperate kiss, pouring everything I feel into it. She matches my intensity, her fingers threading through my hair as she guides me towards our bed.

I trail kisses down her neck, overwhelmed by the need to taste every inch of her skin, to burn the memory of her into my very soul. Her quiet gasps and sighs urge me on as my hands slide under her shirt, finding the warm silk of her skin.

"Make love to me, Vadim," she whispers. "So that I'll always remember this moment."

33

LACEY

VADIM CAPTURES my lips in a heated kiss that steals my breath away. His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks with an almost desperate tenderness that makes my heart ache. There's something different about the way he's touching me tonight—as if he's trying to memorize every curve, every texture, every taste.

A nagging fear claws at the back of my mind, whispering that this could be our last night together like this. I push back against those dark thoughts by kissing him harder, deeper, pouring all of my love and need into it. His response is immediate and fierce.

"Zvyozdochka," he breathes against my mouth. The endearment carries so much more weight and meaning now than it has ever done before.

Zvyozdochka.

Little star.

Once upon a time, he whispered that he'd make me shine like a constellation—half a challenge at my own bravado, and half a demonstration of his absolute power.

I can still feel the weight of that heavy necklace at my throat, the way his fingers traced my skin at every inch that he could adorn me in diamonds, and the salty taste of his cum on its diamond.

The juxtaposition had left me confused and aroused in ways I've never been before—the way he promised to decorate me like a queen before he made me fall to my knees like a whore. But I understand it now.

I used to think being called his little star meant being decorative, to be a shiny little thing for him to own.

But I was wrong.

It was never a term that meant I was a thing to be owned, but a reminder that I am the light that guides him through the darkness—his fixed point in this dark and turbulent world that shaped him.

He saw it in me long before either of us could recognize it. Before either of us can breathe life into the true meaning of that term.

My fingers trace the strong lines of his jaw, committing to memory the slight stubble that's grown in since morning. His hands slide down my sides, following familiar paths but with an intensity that makes me shiver.

Every touch feels amplified, electric.

He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, and I arch into him with a gasp. The heat between us builds rapidly, driven by something rawer than just desire—it's a bone-deep hunger to possess and be possessed, to know and be known completely.

My hands roam his broad shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath my palms. His mouth finds that sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me melt, and I clutch him closer. We're pressed together so tightly I can feel his heartbeat thundering against my chest, matching my own frantic rhythm.

The desperate edge to our passion should frighten me, but instead it makes everything feel more real, more visceral and raw. Each caress, each shared breath becomes precious—something to be savored and sealed into memory.

His hands tremble slightly as they move to undress me, and that small betrayal of vulnerability makes my heart swell.

He touches me reverently, like I'm something sacred—something he ought to worship.

Each button of my blouse that he unfastens is accompanied by a brush of his fingertips trailing fire against my skin.

"My fierce, beautiful zvyozdochka," he murmurs, sliding my blouse off my shoulders. His palms skim down my arms, raising goosebumps in their wake. "You never cease to amaze me."

His hands drift to my belly, now gently curved with our growing child. The tenderness in his touch makes tears prick at my eyes.

"Look what you've given me," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "A family. A future. Everything I never dared to dream I deserved."

My breath catches as his fingers trace patterns on my skin. He unzips my skirt with deliberate slowness, letting it pool at my feet. His hands ghost over my hips, my thighs, mapping every inch as if committing it all to memory.

"The way you shine," he continues, pressing soft kisses along my collarbone. "Not just your beauty, though you're the most stunning thing I've ever seen. But your spirit—so bright it burns away all my darkness."

His hands move to cup my breasts, now fuller from the pregnancy. The gentle exploration makes me arch into his touch, seeking more.

"I never knew love could feel like this," he confesses against my skin. "So complete. So consuming." His thumbs brush over my sensitive nipples through the lace of my bra. "You've made me whole in ways I didn't even know I was broken."

His words break something inside me and sends tears spilling from my eyes.

It's unfair!

Just when we've finally found our way to each other—truly and completely—we have to risk it all.

The thought of losing him, of our daughter growing up without her father, cuts deeper than any physical pain.

"It's okay," he whispers, kissing away my tears as his fingers work the clasp of my bra. "Don't cry."

"I can't help it," I confess as the lace falls away and his warm hands cup my breasts. "I love you so much. The thought of losing you—" My voice breaks. "I can't bear it."

His thumbs brush my nipples in gentle circles as he captures my gaze. "Then don't think about that future," he murmurs. "Be here with me now. In this moment." His lips find mine again, soft and reassuring. "Let it unfold as it may."

I close my eyes and lean into his touch, trying to focus only on the present—on his hands on my body, his lips against mine, the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. But even as pleasure sparks through me at his caresses, I can't completely silence the voice in my head whispering that this might be the last time he holds me like this.

I pull back from his kiss, my hands trembling slightly against his chest.

"Please," I whisper. "I want to remember every detail."

His eyes darken with understanding, and he nods. My fingers move to his shirt buttons, working each one free with deliberate care. The crisp white fabric parts beneath my touch, revealing his sculpted torso inch by inch.

I push the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. My hands trace the planes of his chest, following the intricate patterns of his tattoos. Each one tells a story—of pain, of power, of survival.

But most importantly, of a man who loves me.

My lips follow the path my fingers blazed, pressing soft kisses to his warm skin. Here, a jagged scar from a knife fight. There, the smooth raised line of a bullet wound. Every mark is a testament to his strength, to the battles he's fought and won.

I explore each ridge of hard muscle with reverent attention, memorizing the way they flex under my touch. The soft sounds he makes as I work my way down his body only fuel my determination to map every detail.

My tongue traces the tattoo over his heart. Lower still, my teeth graze along the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.

When I reach his pants, I look up to find his stormy gray eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The raw emotion I see there mirrors everything I'm feeling—love, desire, fear, hope—all tangled together in an impossible knot.

I reach for Vadim's belt buckle with trembling fingers, undoing it slowly. The soft clink of metal and rasp of leather feels amplified in the quiet room. My hands work at his zipper next, the sound sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

As I ease his pants down his powerful thighs, his familiar masculine scent surrounds me—spicy and rich, and tinged with something that's uniquely him. His fingers move gently through my hair as I press soft kisses along the carved muscle of his thighs, trying to commit every detail of those hard bands into my memory.

The impressive length of him pulses before my face, and my mouth waters at the sight. I want to memorize everything—the way the veins trace patterns along his shaft, the velvet softness of his skin, the slight curve that fits so perfectly inside me.

I trail reverent kisses up his length, savoring each twitch and throb against my lips. When I reach the swollen head, a glistening drop beckons. I lap it away with the tip of my tongue, relishing his sharp intake of breath.

Opening my mouth, I take him inside, letting his thick shaft stretch my lips. The weight of him on my tongue feels like coming home.

His appreciative moans send shivers down my spine as I work. "So good, zvyozdochka," he whispers. "You're perfect."

Fresh tears roll down my cheeks at the tenderness in his voice. His fingers brush them away with gentle strokes that make my heart ache. I can't keep crying like this—I need to focus on making this moment unforgettable for him.

My hands join in, caressing and stroking as I worship him with my mouth.

Desire builds with each moan I draw from him. When his strong hand starts kneading my breasts again, I can't hold back a moan of my own.

His other hand trails down my back, following the curve of my spine. Past the swell of my hips, and the round of my ass until those powerful fingers rest just outside of my wet folds.

I pull back from him, panting. "Please," I whisper, my voice thick with need. "I want your fingers inside me."

His eyes darken at my plea. He bends down and captures my mouth in a searing kiss that makes my head spin. When he pulls away, I'm left breathless and trembling.

Thick fingers slide between my wetness, teasing at first. Then finally, mercifully, he pushes one deep inside me.

My body arches into his touch and takes him deeper inside. The fullness makes my toes curl against the carpet. My hands clutch at his thighs, desperate for something to anchor me as waves of pleasure crash through me.

Another finger joins, and together, they start moving in a steady rhythm that has me moaning his name. Each stroke hits perfectly, making my thighs shake. The intimacy of his touch, combined with the tenderness in his stormy gray eyes as he watches my reactions, threatens to overwhelm me completely.

"So good," he murmurs approvingly as I writhe against his hand. "So perfect."

I swallow him into my mouth again, cherishing the familiar stretch of my lips around him. His quiet groan sends shivers through me as I work him deeper. With each motion, I take more of his impressive length until I feel him nudge my throat.

The rhythm of his fingers matches my pace perfectly, sending waves of pleasure through my core. My whole body tingles with building need.

Our shared need fills the air with the scent of sweat and sex.

I hollow my cheeks as I pull back, then take him deep again. His free hand squeezes my breast, not directing, just connecting. The tenderness of that touch contrasts beautifully with the intensity of what's happening between my legs.

His fingers curl inside me in that perfect way that makes my thighs quiver. The slick sounds of his movements mix with my muffled moans around him. I can feel myself getting wetter with each thrust of his skilled fingers.

Our bodies move together in perfect synchronization, each of us giving and taking pleasure in equal measure. The intimacy of the moment—being so completely connected, so thoroughly devoted to each other's pleasure—makes my heart swell.

This is what love-making is, I realize as I taste his rich scent on my lips and tongue.

This perfect dance of give and take, push and pull between us. Every touch feels electric, meaningful, charged with emotion that transcends mere physical pleasure.

I sink down further to feel him touching a spot that belongs to him and him alone.

My hands find purchase on his firm ass, pulling him closer until he's buried completely in my throat. The stretch of my lips around his thick shaft feels divine.

Through the tears blurring my vision, I look up to meet his intense gaze. Those stormy gray eyes are fixed on me with such raw emotion it makes my heart thunder.

He's getting harder on my tongue, throbbing with his impeding release.

I let him slip partway out of my mouth, my tongue swirling around the sensitive head as I gulp down every drop of his salty arousal.

My eyes stay locked on his, urging him to let go, to give himself over to the pleasure completely. To trust me with his pleasure the way I trust him with mine.

His cock pulses against my tongue, a warning that he's close. The knowledge sends another flood of wetness around his pumping fingers. I moan around him, wanting—needing—to feel him come undone.

His fingers twist inside me, sending electricity shooting up my spine. "I'm going to cum," he whispers hoarsely.

Do it, I urge him with my eyes. I want you to drown me in your cum.

I tighten my inner muscles around his probing fingers, squeezing them in a rhythmic pulse. His breath catches at my response. I hollow my cheeks and quicken my pace, begging him silently with each bob of my head.

Please, please, please!

The rich taste of his arousal floods my mouth as his cock throbs against my tongue. His powerful thighs tremble beneath my palms.

Deep, primal sounds rumble from his chest—part growl, part moan. The vibrations travel straight to my core, making me clench even tighter around his fingers.

His control shatters. With a strangled cry, he erupts. Hot, thick ropes coat my tongue and throat as his release pulses through him. I drink down every drop, my tongue working to catch any that might escape.

The taste of Vadim's release triggers something primal inside me. His fingers curl against that perfect spot, and my orgasm crashes through me with overwhelming intensity.

My body convulses around his probing fingers, but I force my eyes to stay locked on his stormy gray gaze.

"Oh!" I pull back from his still-pulsing cock with a gasp that turns to a whimper.

A whimper becomes a cry.

And a cry finally transforms into a long sustained screaming note.

"Yes! YES! YES!" I scream up at him, as the final spurts of his warm release drop like stars on my heaving breasts.

They streak along the swell of my belly where our daughter grows.

They splatter on my trembling thighs.

The waves of pleasure continue to rock through me as his fingers work me through my climax. Each pulse makes my toes curl and my thighs shake. Stars dance at the edges of my vision, but I refuse to close my eyes. I want—need—to see the raw emotion in his gaze as we share this moment of perfect connection.

His cum glistens on my skin in the soft light, marking me as his. The thought sends another aftershock of pleasure rippling through my core. My inner muscles clench rhythmically around his fingers as the intensity of my orgasm slowly begins to ebb.

A whimper escapes my throat as Vadim slowly withdraws his fingers. My inner muscles clench, trying to keep him inside. My body still trembles with aftershocks as he brings those glistening fingers to his mouth.

His stormy gray eyes hold mine captive as his tongue darts out to taste my arousal. The sight makes my breath catch. A low moan rumbles from his chest as he sucks his fingers clean.

"So sweet," he purrs. "Like honey and starlight mixed together."

A languid smile tugs at my lips.

"You finally did it," I whisper, still catching my breath. "Made me into the little star in the heart of your constellation."

His eyes glimmers at my words, pupils blown wide with renewed desire and sends fresh heat pooling between my thighs.

"Oh zvyozdochka," he growls, voice rough with need. "I'm not nearly done making you shine yet." His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my swollen lips. "Get on the bed."

The commanding tone in his voice makes me shiver with anticipation. This is the voice of the pakhan—the man who rules Seattle's underworld with an iron fist.

But as he kneels between my legs and spread my thighs open, his touch remains gentle, reverent, as if handling something infinitely precious.

34

VADIM

I STARE up at Lacey as I kneel between her legs. Her thighs tremble under my palms as I spread them apart. Her pussy glistens in the dim light, already dripping with arousal for me. Only me. I start with a soft kiss against her inner thigh, then graze my teeth over the delicate flesh.

"Please..." she whispers, hips shifting restlessly.

I smile against her skin and move even slower, savoring each inch. Her scent drives me wild but I maintain control, letting my lips and teeth mark a deliberate path closer to where she wants me most. Her fingers tangle in my hair and try to guide me.

"Vadim..." Her voice catches as I nip particularly close to her center. "Don't tease..."

Her plea only makes me want to draw this out longer. I let my tongue dart out, tasting the skin near her pussy but never quite reaching it. She whimpers, bucking her hips desperately.

"Please, I need you..." The raw need in her voice makes my cock throb. But I won't give in. Not yet.

I continue my torturous path, alternating between kisses and gentle bites along her inner thighs. Her legs shake as I get closer and closer to her pussy before pulling back again. Her fingers tighten in my hair.

"Please..." she begs again, voice breaking. "Please, I can't take it anymore..."

I smile against her thigh, letting my breath ghost over her wet pussy. Her hips buck wildly, seeking contact that I deliberately withhold.

I breathe in deeply, letting her intoxicating scent fill my lungs—that delicate blend of lavender and citrus mixed with the heady aroma of her arousal. My cock throbs painfully at how wet she is, her essence already seeping into the sheets beneath us.

"Look at you, zvyozdochka," I murmur against her thigh. "You're soaking the bed."

“For you,” she whimpers, her hips rising off the mattress. “It’s all for you. Just please..."

Her words send a surge of possessive desire through me. My fingers find her pussy, gently spreading her lips to expose her completely to my gaze. Her clit is glistening, swollen with need, and I can't resist any longer.

I seal my mouth over her, drinking in her sweetness with a deep groan. Her taste explodes across my tongue—familiar yet somehow always new, always perfect. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders as I begin to feast.

Her breathy moans fill my ears as I worship between her thighs. Each whimper sends electric thrills down my spine, knowing that I'm the one drawing these sounds from her perfect lips. My fingers dig into her thighs, spreading them wider, giving me deeper access to feast.

I let my hand drift up her body, gathering the pearly drops of my cum that marks her skin. Her back arches as I reach her breasts, kneading the soft flesh.

She's so responsive, so perfect. My fingers find her hardened nipple and I pinch lightly, making her cry out.

"That's it, zvyozdochka," I growl against her pussy before diving back in. My fingers, now sticky with cum, trace her lips. She opens eagerly, taking them into her hot mouth. The sensation of her tongue swirling around my fingers while I devour her makes my spent cock twitch with renewed interest.

She sucks hard, cleaning every trace of myself from my fingers while her hips buck against my mouth. The sensation of her mouth and clenching pussy drives me wild. I press my tongue deeper, savoring her taste as I let her coat my chin.

I stare up at Lacey from between her trembling thighs. Her amber-flecked eyes lock with mine, dark with desire as she sucks my fingers clean. Her cheeks hollow with each pull of her lips, and the sight makes my cock twitch with renewed vigor.

Sweat glistens on her flushed skin, making strands of blonde hair cling to her neck and temples.

Her delicate fingers weave through my hair, nails scraping my scalp as she pulls me closer against her dripping pussy. The movement sends another flood of her arousal coating my chin. I maintain eye contact, watching her pupils dilate further as my tongue works deeper inside her.

She moans around my fingers. Her thighs quiver against my shoulders as her hips rise to meet my mouth. The way she responds to every flick of my tongue and every kiss of my lips. It drives me wild knowing that only I can make her fall apart like this.

Her pussy clench around my tongue. She's close—I can sense it in the way she tastes. I can feel it in the desperate buck of her hips. Still, she doesn't break our gaze, even as her body trembles on the edge of release.

Her beauty is breathtaking.

Not just the physical perfection of her curves or the way her blonde hair catches the light, but the fierce spirit that burns within her.

My heart swells with pride seeing how far she's come since that first day at Mrs. Klossner's. Back then, she tried so hard to hide her inner fire, to make herself small for a world that never deserved her.

Now that same fire blazes freely, warming everyone around her with its light.

She's transformed from someone who thought she needed to beg for scraps of love into a woman who knows her own worth. A queen who commands respect not through fear like Sayanaa, but through the strength of her convictions and the depth of her compassion.

My cock throbs painfully as I think about how she stood up to Freddy, how she faced down Olga, and how she refused to let Sayanaa break her.

Even now, pregnant with our daughter, she's ready to walk into danger to protect others. The thought of potentially losing her terrifies me more than anything I've ever

“Can you feel it?” she whimpers, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Can you feel just how wet this pussy is for you?”

I smile against her wet flesh, knowing that no matter how much she begs me to fuck her like a whore, I'll always worship her like the goddess she is. Because that's what she deserves—what she's always deserved, even when the world tried to convince her otherwise.

“I’m going to come for you…” she mews. “Just for you.”

She may want me to dominate her body, but her spirit remains unbreakable. And that makes me love her even more fiercely.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! FUCK!”

I feel her inner walls clench around my tongue as her orgasm hits. Her thighs lock around my head while her back arches off the bed. She releases my fingers with a cry, and I groan against her pussy as I drink in every drop of her essence.

My hand finds her breast, feeling the increased fullness from her pregnancy. I roll her hardened nipple between my fingers as she writhes beneath me, prolonging her pleasure. Her moans seem to echo in our bedroom.

"Vadim..." she pants as the tremors begin to subside. "Please... I can't wait anymore..."

I continue lapping at her sensitive flesh, savoring how she twitches with each pass of my tongue. My fingers knead her breast more firmly, drawing another breathy moan from her perfect lips.

"I need you." she begs again, her voice thick with desire. "I need your cock.”

Her words send a surge of possessive hunger through me. I give her pussy one final kiss before looking up at her flushed face. Her amber-flecked eyes are dark with want as she meets my gaze.

"Please," she whispers again. "Make me come for you again…”

The raw need in her voice matches the ache in my chest. I want nothing more than to bury myself inside her, to claim her completely. To show her with my body what my heart already knows—that she's mine, just as I am completely hers.

“As my queen commands," I growl against her thigh, meaning every word. Because that's what she is—my queen, my salvation, my everything.

I kiss my way up Lacey's perfect body, letting my lips linger over the gentle swell of her stomach where our daughter grows. The thought of her carrying my child fills me with fierce protectiveness and overwhelming love.

My mouth finds her breasts, still marked with traces of my earlier release. The taste of myself mixed with the salt of her skin is like an aphrodisiac. She arches into my touch as I worship her flesh, savoring how pregnancy has made her even more sensitive, more beautiful.

When I finally reach her lips, she kisses me deeply, our tongues dancing as we share the taste of each other's pleasure. Her soft moan vibrates against my mouth, and fills my heart with renewed hunger.

Her delicate fingers wrap around my length, trying to guide me where she wants me. But I resist, pulling back just enough to drink in the sight of her.

"Let me look at you, zvyozdochka," I murmur against her lips. "I want to remember every detail.”

She whimpers but stills her hand, letting me gaze down at her flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips. Her amber-flecked eyes are dark with desire, her blonde hair fanned out across the pillow like a halo. The gentle curve of her belly only enhances her beauty.

"You're perfect," I breathe, tracing my fingers along her collarbone. "So incredibly perfect."

I enter Lacey slowly, watching her face as I fill her. Her amber-flecked eyes widen and her lips part in a soft gasp. The warmth of her body welcomes me, and I have to pause to catch my breath at how perfect she feels.

"I love you," I whisper against her lips, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

Her fingernails dig into my back, urging me deeper. "I love you too."

She pulls me closer until there's no space left between us. Her hands drift down to my hips, silently begging me to move faster. But I want to savor this moment, to memorize every sensation.

When I kiss her again, I pour all my fears and hopes into it. Her response tells me she understands—that she shares the same worries about what tomorrow might bring. Her fingers tighten on my skin as if afraid I might disappear.

I break the kiss to look into her eyes, seeing my own emotions reflected there. The love. The fear. The desperate need to hold onto this moment.

"Stay with me," she breathes, and I'm not sure if she means right now or forever.

"Always," I promise, knowing I'll move heaven and earth to keep my word.

Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer as I continue to move within her. Each thrust is deliberate, measured, as if we have all the time in the world. As if dawn will never come to steal this perfect moment from us.

I lose myself in Lacey's warmth as we move together. The boundaries between our bodies blur until I can no longer tell where I end and she begins. But that's exactly what I want—this perfect unity, this complete surrender to each other.

Her inner walls grip me tightly as I increase my pace. She matches me perfectly, rising to meet each thrust. Her delicate fingers find the back of my neck, pulling me down for another searing kiss.

The way she responds to me, accepts all of me without hesitation or judgment—it still amazes me. She's seen the darkest parts of my soul, witnessed the violence I'm capable of, and yet she doesn't flinch. Instead, she wraps herself around me tighter, as if trying to absorb my darkness into her light.

Before her, I thought I was nothing but a monster wearing an expensive suit. Pyotr's bastard, destined to become just like him. But Lacey broke through every barrier I built. She showed me that I could be more than just the sum of my sins.

Most incredibly, she made me believe I was worthy of love. Not just any love, but her love specifically—that infinite well of goodness that nothing can corrupt. Not Sayanaa's cruelty, not Olga's manipulations, not even my own violent nature has dimmed that light within her.

Her love washes over me like a cleansing tide, making me feel whole in ways I never thought possible. The way she gives herself to me completely, trusting me with not just her body but her heart—it humbles me every time.

Lacey breaks away from my kiss, her nails digging into my shoulders.

"I love you," she cries out with every roll of my hips. "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

The raw emotion in her voice makes my heart stutter. My careful rhythm falters as I feel my control beginning to slip.

"I can't... I can't hold back anymore, zvyozdochka," I groan against her neck.

"Then don't," she gasps, pulling me closer. “Come for me! Please!”

Her inner walls suddenly clamp down around my cock as her orgasm takes her. The sensation of her pussy rippling and clenching around me is exquisite torture. Her body arches beneath me, those perfect breasts pressing against my chest as she shakes. Her amber-flecked eyes roll back, mouth falling open in an exquisite scream of pleasure.

The sensation of her coming undone all around me pushes me over the edge. My second release hits me and I empty myself deep inside her with a guttural groan. Each pulse of my cock draws another tremor from her body as she flutters around me.

"I love you," I manage to gasp between waves of pleasure, barely recognizing my own voice as the tears start clouding my eyes at the thought of what awaits us in Los Angeles. "I love you so much."

35

LACEY

I WATCH as the crew loads racks of clothing onto the Gulfstream—each piece a weapon in our arsenal against Kirsan. My hand drifts to my belly, now noticeably rounded at four months as a flutter of movement passes through my stomach.

"The last time we boarded this jet, we lost Irina." The words catch in my throat. "I keep wondering who I'll lose this time."

"Zvyozdochka." Vadim's voice is gentle as his arms encircle me from behind. "We can still call this off. No one would blame you."

I lean back against his solid warmth, drawing strength from his presence.

"I'm not backing out," I say firmly, even as fear gnaws at my insides. "We have to end this. For Irina. For Taliya. For all the others."

Vadim's breath is warm against my neck as he sighs. "You're the bravest person I know, zvyozdochka. But you don't have to prove anything."

I turn in his arms to face him, seeing the concern etched in those storm-gray eyes. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm trying to protect our daughter's future." My fingers find his jaw. "Our future."

The sound of the cargo hold closing makes me jump. Vadim's arms tighten around me instinctively, and I force myself to breathe. Fear is a constant companion now, but I refuse to let it control me.

"Are you ready?" he asks, searching my face.

I'm not. Not really.

But I nod anyway because some things are worth being afraid for.

The jet reaches cruising altitude and I stare out the window at the endless sea of clouds, trying to quiet the storm of fears in my mind. My hand drifts to my rounded belly where Larina kicks again, as if sensing my anxiety.

"I'm terrified," I whisper, finally voicing the truth I've been holding back. "Not just for me, but for her." My voice catches. "What if something goes wrong? What if—"

Strong arms wrap around me from behind as Vadim pulls me against his chest. His warmth seeps into me, steadying my racing thoughts.

"Nothing will happen to either of you," he murmurs, his hand covering mine where it rests on my belly. "I swear it on my life."

"Megan's right. You can't guarantee that." The words come out sharper than I intend.

I feel him tense behind me, but his voice remains gentle. "No, I can't. But things are different now. I'm different." His fingers lace through mine. "I was fighting alone then. Now I have something—someone—worth protecting."

Another flutter of movement beneath our joined hands makes me catch my breath. Vadim's thumb strokes gentle circles against my skin.

"Feel that?" he asks softly. "That's our daughter telling us she believes in us. Both of us."

Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my lips. "Or maybe she's telling us we're both crazy for doing this."

His quiet chuckle rumbles against my back. "Perhaps. But she's half you, zvyozdochka. Being crazy brave is in her blood."

I lean back into his embrace, letting his steady presence anchor me. The fear isn't gone—I doubt it ever will be until this is over—but it feels more manageable now, less overwhelming.

"There's something else," I admit, turning to face him. "What if this isn't enough? What if we do everything right, take down Kirsan, expose everything... and nothing changes?" My voice catches. "What if the world just keeps turning like it always has, with new monsters rising to take his place?"

Vadim's fingers brush my cheek, tilting my face up to his. "Change doesn't happen in a single moment, zvyozdochka. It comes slowly, piece by piece."

"But—"

"Think about what's already different," he continues. "The police are cleaning house. Megan's stories are reaching millions. And that's just the big picture." His hand strokes the back of mine. "Closer at home, and you can see Taliya finding her voice again as she rediscovers what it means to live." His hand drops to my belly. "And here, growing inside you, is proof that even in the darkest places, something beautiful can be made."

I cover his hand with mine, feeling Larina's gentle movements. "I just need to know it means something. That all of the bloodshed and violence wasn't for nothing."

"It will mean everything," he says firmly. "Maybe not tomorrow or next week. But every woman we save, every trafficker we stop, every corrupt official we expose—it adds up. Like drops of water wearing away stone. And then we'll spend the rest of our lives together knowing that we made a difference."

His certainty steadies me.

"Promise?"

"I promise." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "And when have I ever broken a promise to you?"

THREE HOURS LATER, the lights of Los Angeles stretch beneath us as we begin our descent. Larina's tiny kicks continue fluttering in my belly.

Almost as if she can sense just how nervous I am.

The drive from LAX to our hotel passes in a blur of palm trees and neon signs. I grip Vadim's hand tightly, drawing strength from his steady presence. Just as we pull up to the hotel entrance, his phone rings.

"Understood," he answers, his voice dropping into that dangerous timbre that means business. His expression shifts as he listens, and I catch fragments of Russian mixed with English. "How many?... Good... Keep them safe."

My breath catches.

The rescue operations have already begun.

And the week's events haven't even started yet.

"Twenty-three women rescued from near Long Beach," he tells me after hanging up. "Some as young as fifteen." His jaw clenches. "They were in the midst of being prepared for sale when my men found them."

Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down. This is why we're here. This is what makes it worth the risk.

"I want to see the venue," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "We should check it before tomorrow, make sure everything's exactly how we need it."

Vadim studies my face. "Are you certain? You should rest first..."

"I'm sure." I squeeze his hand. "The more prepared we are, the better chance we have of pulling this off."

I don't add that I probably couldn't sleep anyway, not with the upcoming week looming over us.

He nods slowly. "I'll have the car take us there now."

As we drive toward the venue, I think about those twenty-three women.

No, not women. Girls.

They're safe because of what we started. Whatever happens next, we've already made a difference. That thought steadies me more than anything else could.

"I used to dream about this," I whisper, watching the bright lights of downtown L.A. blur past our window. "Every year when Fashion Week came around, I'd spend hours watching the livestreams, imagining what it would be like to be here."

Vadim's hand finds mine in the darkness of the car. "And now?"

"Now..." I trail off, trying to find the right words. "Now I realize how naïve those dreams were. But I'm still grateful." I turn to face him. "Thank you for making this possible, even if it meant showing me the darker side of the industry I loved."

His thumb traces circles on my palm. "I should be thanking you, zvyozdochka. You never gave up on me, even when I gave you every reason to."

"I couldn't," I admit softly. "Not when I saw the good in you fighting to get out."

The venue appears ahead of us, its modernist glass façade gleaming under spotlights. Something tightens in my chest as I look at it.

"I can't shake this feeling," I say, my voice barely audible. "Like we're approaching the end of something."

Vadim's hand tightens on mine as the car rolls to a stop. His eyes search my face with concern, but before he can respond, the driver opens our door.

The warm Los Angeles air hits my face as we step out onto the curb and head inside.

Inside the venue, the catwalk stretches before me like a gleaming sword—beautiful but deadly. My heart pounds as I take in the stark white runway, imagining what will unfold here soon.

"Come," Vadim says softly, his hand steady at the small of my back as he guides me through the backstage area.

The space behind the runway is a maze of temporary walls and clothing racks. Even empty, I can feel the electric energy that will soon fill this space. Vadim shows me the exact spots where his men will be positioned, hidden among the chaos of the show.

"I'll be right there," he tells me, pointing to a spot in the front row. "Close enough to reach you in seconds if needed." His voice drops lower. "Close enough to protect you both."

My hand drifts to my belly instinctively as Larina gives another little fluttering kick. The thought of Vadim watching me, ready to keep us safe, sends an unexpected thrill through me.

"Will you walk for me, Lacey?" he asks suddenly. "Right now?"

I look up at him in surprise. "Here?"

He nods, his storm-gray eyes intense. "I want to see my wife own this runway before anyone else does."

The possessiveness in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. I bite my lip, considering. It would be good practice, and something about the idea of walking just for him feels... right.

"Okay," I whisper.

His smile is both proud and predatory as he backs away toward the seats. "Show me what they'll all see, zvyozdochka."

I take a deep breath and step onto the empty runway. The spotlights aren't on, but I can feel their ghostly presence above me. My hand brushes my belly for courage before I begin.

The first step feels like entering another world. My heels click against the gleaming surface as muscle memory from years of practicing in my room takes over.

Back straight, shoulders down, chin lifted just so.

But this isn't like any other walk I've done before. My eyes find Vadim's in the darkness and lock there, drawing strength from his intense gaze. The rest of the empty venue falls away until there's only him watching me move.

Each step feels more confident than the last. My hips sway naturally, and I let a hint of a smile play at my lips as I reach the end of the runway. The pause there feels electric as I hold Vadim's gaze for three heartbeats before making my turn.

The walk back is even better. I can feel his eyes burning into me, following every movement. When I reach the end, I step down and straight into his waiting arms.

"Zvyozdochka," he breathes against my hair. "You were incredible up there. Like you were born for this."

I press closer, breathing in his familiar scent. "It felt... different than I expected. Better." My fingers curl into his jacket. "When we drove up, I couldn't shake this feeling that we were heading toward an ending. But now..."

"Now?" His hand strokes down my back.

"Now it feels like we're at the beginning of something amazing." I pull back just enough to see his face. "Like everything that came before was just preparing us for this moment."

His answering smile makes my heart skip. "Because they were.”

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!

37

LACEY

I CAN'T MOVE. Can't breathe. Can't think.

Vadim crumples to the ground, his hand pressed against his stomach as crimson blooms across his white shirt. He tries to push himself up but stumbles. The world tilts and spins around me as screams erupt from the audience.

Kirsan stalks toward me, the bloody knife glinting under the harsh runway lights. His eyes are cold and empty – a predator's gaze fixed on its prey. But I can't look away from Vadim. My husband. The father of our child. Our little Larina kicks inside me, as if sensing my terror.

One foot in front of the other, Kirsan advances up the catwalk steps. The knife drips red onto the pristine white runway. His lips curl into a grotesque smile that doesn't reach his dead eyes.

"Like father, like son," he says, his cultured accent making the words sound almost musical. "Bastard or not."

Vadim struggles to his feet again, crimson spreading across the floor beneath him. The sight finally breaks through my paralysis. Reality crashes back like a wave of ice water.

I turn and run, my heels clicking against the catwalk as I flee backstage. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear the chaos erupting behind me. Blood rushes in my ears. My hands instinctively cradle my belly as I run, protecting our daughter.

I'm sorry, Vadim. I'm so sorry.

But I have to protect Larina. I have to get away from the monster with the knife who wants to take everything from us.

I race through the backstage area, my lungs burning as I try to navigate the maze of dressing rooms and storage spaces. The sound of screaming and gunfire echoes off the walls, making it impossible to tell where anything is coming from. Models huddle under makeup tables, clutching each other and sobbing.

My hand stays pressed against my belly as I run. Stay safe, little one. Please stay safe.

The sound of Kirsan's footsteps follows behind me, unhurried and constant. Each time I dare to look back, I see Kirsan's tall figure stalking after me with that same dead-eyed smile. Behind him is a trail of crimson droplets.

Vadim's blood.

Oh god, Vadim...

I force the image of him crumpling to the ground from my mind. I can't think about that now. I have to keep moving. Have to protect our daughter.

I dodge around racks of clothes and boxes of shoes, trying to lose Kirsan in the chaos. But he keeps coming, methodically following my path like a predator that knows its prey is cornered.

My shoe catches on an electrical cord and I stumble, catching myself against the wall. The momentary delay is enough for Kirsan to gain ground. I push myself forward again, heart thundering in my chest.

I round another corner and freeze.

Dead end.

Nothing but a solid wall in front of me, lined with mirrors that reflect my terrified face back at me. Behind me, those measured footsteps grow closer.

No no no...

I spin around, pressing my back against the wall. My hands cradle my belly protectively as Kirsan's shadow appears at the end of the hallway.

He approaches me with slow, measured steps.

Despite the knife in his hand, I see tears glistening in his pale, predatory eyes. Each step echoes off the mirrored walls, mixing with the distant sounds of chaos and screaming.

"You took her from me," he says, his voice cracking. "My Sayavochka. My precious daughter."

I press harder against the wall, my hands protectively cradling my belly. Larina kicks again, as if sensing my terror.

"She loved him. Truly loved him." Kirsan's cultured accent makes the words sound almost musical, even as venom drips from each syllable. "And what did your husband do? He put a bullet in her head like she was nothing."

My throat feels too tight to speak. All I can do is watch as he moves closer, the knife glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"I want Vadim to feel what I felt." A tear rolls down Kirsan's cheek. "That's why I didn't kill him. Just... slowed him down. He'll come for you, his precious wife carrying his precious child." His lips curl into a grotesque smile. "But he won't make it in time."

Kirsan raises the bloody knife, still wet with Vadim's blood. "When he gets here, I'll make him watch as I cut your child from your belly. Let him feel what I felt. Let him watch his family die. It's only fair, don't you think?"

The clinical detachment in his voice makes my blood run cold. This isn't rage or madness – this is calculated cruelty. He means every word.

My hand fumbles behind me, desperate to find anything I can use as a weapon. Sweat trickles down my spine as Kirsan advances. My fingers brush against something warm and metallic—a curling iron still plugged in.

I wrap my fingers around the handle, never taking my eyes off the knife.

Kirsan takes another step closer, raising the blade still wet with my husband's blood.

That's when I swing.

The curling iron catches him across the face with a sickening crack. Before he can recover, I press the scorching barrel against his cheek. The sound and smell hit me at once—sizzling flesh and burning hair.

Bile rises in my throat but I force myself to hold on, to keep pressing even as he howls in agony.

The knife flashes wildly as he slashes at me. White-hot pain explodes across my arm. I cry out, the curling iron falling from my grip as blood wells from the gash.

I try to run, to get past him while he's still reeling from the burn. But his hand shoots out and yanks at the carpet beneath my feet. The world tilts and spins. I barely manage to twist my body, protecting my belly, as I land hard on my back. The impact knocks the wind from my lungs.

Through tear-blurred vision, I see Kirsan looming over me. Half his face is an angry red welt, already beginning to blister. But his eyes... his eyes are completely empty as he stares down at me.

Like a devil risen from hell itself, come to claim my soul.

"That was very stupid, little thief," Kirsan says, touching the angry red welt on his face. His empty eyes flash with something worse than rage. "I've changed my mind. I won't cut the child out anymore."

My heart leaps for a moment before his next words freeze the blood in my veins.

"I'll kill it in your womb instead. It's all the same."

His foot connects with my face before I can process the words. Pain explodes through my jaw as copper fills my mouth. Through tear-blurred vision, I see his other foot rising, aiming for my swollen belly.

Pure instinct takes over. I kick up hard, deflecting the blow meant for our daughter. Larina kicks inside me, as if sensing the danger.

"You fucking whore!" Kirsan screams, raining down more kicks. "Just like your husband's mother!"

I curl around my belly, using my arms to shield our baby as his boots swing back for another vicious kick. I manage to block it again. But one kick after another come towards me, hitting my arm, my shoulder, my face.

Each impact sends fresh waves of agony through my body, but I refuse to move.

I won't let him hurt our daughter.

Larina keeps kicking inside me, her movements becoming more frantic with each blow sending tremors down my body. My world starts blacking out around me. It's only a matter of time before Kirsan breaks a bone, and then, there'll be nothing to stop him.

Tears stream down my face as I silently beg her forgiveness.

I'm so sorry, my sweet girl. Mama couldn't save you. I'm so sorry...

"Kirsan."

The weak voice cuts through my haze of pain. The final vicious kick that I'd been bracing for never comes.

Through tear-blurred vision, I see Kirsan turn away from me. My heart leaps at the sight of Vadim standing at the end of the hall, his white shirt soaked in blood.

His gun is raised, but his hand trembles slightly.

"Step away from my wife." Vadim's voice is hoarse but carries the unmistakable authority of a pakhan.

Blood drips steadily from Vadim's shirt onto the floor, forming a growing crimson pool at his feet. His face is deathly pale, but his eyes burn with an intensity I've never seen before.

The gun doesn't waver.

Kirsan doesn't move. His shadow still looms over me.

"And just what, Vadim Petr—"

The crack of the gunshot claps like thunder in the confined space. Kirsan's body jerks violently. For a heartbeat that feels like eternity, he remains standing. Then he crumples to the ground beside me, his dead eyes still open and staring.

I stare at Vadim in wonder. My husband. My protector. Even with a knife wound in his gut, he still came for me. He saved me.

Every part of my body screams in agony as I push myself up onto my hands and knees. Each movement sends fresh waves of pain through my bruised flesh, but I force myself to stand. To walk towards him.

His eyes meet mine, filled with such love and relief that my heart aches. Then suddenly, horribly, they roll back in his head. The gun clatters to the floor and his knees buckle.

"No!" The scream tears from my throat as Vadim collapses. His body goes completely still.

I rush to him, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs. My hands shake as I cradle his head in my lap. His skin feels clammy and cold beneath my fingers.

"Vadim, please," I beg, my tears falling onto his deathly pale face. "Wake up. You promised me forever, remember? You promised we'd raise Larina together."

But he doesn't respond. His skin grows colder with each passing second. The crimson stain on his shirt spreads wider, soaking into my dress where I hold him.

"Please don't leave me," I whisper, pressing desperate kisses to his face. "Don't leave us alone. We need you. I need you."

My fingers clutch at his blood-soaked shirt as sobs wrack my body. "You promised me, Vadyusha. You promised we'd have a life together. Please... please wake up."

But he remains still and silent in my arms, growing colder by the moment.

"Please," I beg again, my voice breaking. "Don't leave me alone in this world."

38

LACEY

THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS in the ER burn my eyes as the doctor shines a penlight in them. Everything hurts. Each breath sends daggers through my ribs. My jaw throbs with every word I try to form.

"Multiple microfractures in both arms," the doctor says, gently probing my shoulder. I wince. "Similar breaks in your shoulder blade and mandible. You're very lucky."

I try to shake my head but even that small movement makes me dizzy. "My baby," I manage to whisper through clenched teeth. "Please... is my baby okay?"

He pauses in his examination. "Your daughter is fine, Mrs. Stravinsky. The ultrasound showed normal fetal movement and heartbeat. You managed to protect her remarkably well."

Relief floods through me, making my eyes burn with fresh tears. Larina is safe. All those kicks I blocked, all that pain I endured—it was worth it. She's alive.

But there's another life I need to know about.

"My husband," I croak out. "Where's Vadim? Is he...?"

The doctor's face grows carefully neutral. "I'm not at liberty to discuss other patients' conditions at this time, Mrs. Stravinsky."

Ice forms in my veins. "Please," I beg, trying to sit up despite the stabbing pain. "He was stabbed. There was so much blood. I need to know if he's—"

"Mrs. Stravinsky, you need to remain still," he cuts me off firmly. "You've sustained serious injuries that require immediate treatment. I cannot discuss anything else right now. Not when I don't have any idea about what is going on."

Tears stream down my face as monitors beep steadily around me. Why won't they tell me about Vadim? The last time I saw him, he was so pale, so cold in my arms.

"Doctor Osborn?" A nurse walks in. "There's someone here to see Mrs. Stravinsky."

"Send them in." He nods.

My heart leaps for a moment, hoping against hope. But it's not Vadim who walks through the door. It's Demyon. His usually bright expression is gone, replaced by something dark and grim that settles in my stomach like lead. I can see it in the tight clench of his jaw, the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly forward.

Fresh tears spring to my eyes.

"Vadim," I choke out. "Please tell me he's alive. They won't tell me anything."

"The only thing they'll let me know is that he's in surgery." Demyon takes my hand, careful of the IV lines. "The doctors are doing everything they can."

A sob rips through me, sending bolts of agony through my ribs. "This is all my fault. I insisted on walking the runway. He didn't want me to. If I hadn't been so stubborn..."

"Stop that," Demyon says firmly. "You couldn't have known what would happen."

"Everyone warned me!" My voice breaks. "And now Vadim might die because of me. Because I thought I was being so clever..."

"Lacey, listen to me—”

"No," I cut him off, tears streaming down my face. "You don't understand. He tried to tell me it was too dangerous. He wanted me to stay safe, to protect Larina. But I wouldn't listen. I was so determined to help end this. And now..."

Demyon squeezes my hand. "This isn't your fault. Kirsan is the only one to blame."

But I can't stop the guilt crushing my chest, worse than any physical pain. The image of Vadim's blood spreading across the catwalk haunts me. The way his eyes found mine before they closed. The desperate way he tried to reach for me even as he fell.

"I can't lose him," I whisper. "I can't."

MY PHONE SHAKES in my trembling hands hours later as I scroll through the interviews Megan has released, hoping to distract myself from the worry gnawing at my mind.

Each interview tells a story of survival, of hope rekindled. Each woman's face shows a different tale of rescue, but they all share the same gratitude towards Vadim and Svoboda.

"He gave me back my life," one says through tears.

"I thought I would die there," another whispers. "But then his men came..."

The testimonials blur together as fresh tears stream down my face. My ribs scream in protest with each shuddering breath, but I can't stop. This is what we fought for. What Vadim has been fighting for all along.

Then I see the final video.

The thumbnail shows Vadim staring at the camera, his expression serious but open. My heart clenches at the sight of him, healthy and whole, so different from how I last saw him bleeding out backstage from the catwalk.

My finger hovers over the play button. Part of me isn't ready to hear his voice, knowing he might never speak to me again.

But I need to see this.

I need to hear him one more time.

With a shaking breath, I press play and Vadim's familiar voice fills my hospital room.

"My mother was sixteen when Kirsan brought her to my father," he says, his eyes haunted but determined. "She was promised a modeling career, a chance to escape poverty. Instead, she found herself trapped in the hands of a monster."

Slowly and painfully, he describes how Polina suffered, how Pyotr kept her prisoner for months. His voice remains steady but I can see the pain etched in every line of his face as he reveals these dark truths.

"I was the product of her imprisonment," he continues. "When I learned the truth at fourteen, I swore I would spend my life undoing what my father and Kirsan had built. Every woman we save through Svoboda is one less victim forced to suffer in that darkness, and one less child born from that suffering."

Fresh tears blur my vision. I reach out to touch his face on the screen, remembering how his skin felt under my fingertips. The way his eyes would soften when he looked at me. How gentle his hands were when he touched my growing belly.

Please…

"The fashion industry has long looked the other way while monsters like Kirsan hide in plain sight," Vadim's voice continues. "But we can change that. We must change that."

A sob catches in my throat. This was recorded just days ago, before everything went wrong. Before Kirsan's knife found him. Now Vadim lies somewhere in this hospital, fighting for his life, and I don't even know if he'll ever speak those words to me ever again.

My fingers trace his face on the screen as he continues laying bare the ugly truth of human trafficking. Even now, wounded and possibly dying, he's still fighting. Still working to save others through this interview.

"I couldn't save my mother from what happened to her," he says softly. "But I can save others."

"What led you to this point?" Megan asks from off-camera. "To agree to do this interview and let the world know—both about what you do and about the darkness behind the fashion industry at large?"

My heart catches as Vadim's expression softens, a gentle smile playing at his lips.

"My wife, Lacey," he says, his voice filled with warmth. "She showed me what true strength looks like. The day I met her, she was fighting for a dry cleaner's that wasn't even hers to fight for. Eleven hours after her engagement ended, there she was, defending someone not for any other reason than the fact that it was the right thing to do."

His gray eyes shine with emotion. "She fought when she knew she couldn't win. Even now, pregnant with our child, she continues to fight for what's right."

Fresh tears blur my vision as he continues.

"And when I found out that she was pregnant…" He smiles and wipes at his eyes. "It's made me realize how much more work there is still to do. She's the one who made me realize that rescuing victims is only one part of a much bigger fight. That rescue means nothing if we don't give everyone still trapped in the system hope that the system itself will be destroyed. That's why I agreed to do this interview. Because I want our daughter to grow up in a world where she never has to fear. Where no child has to suffer like I did, like my mother did."

"Is there anything you'd like to say to Lacey if she's watching this?" Megan asks softly.

Vadim turns to look directly into the camera, and my breath catches. It feels like he's right here with me, those storm-gray eyes piercing straight into my soul.

"Zvyozdochka," he says tenderly, "I love you more than life itself. I love the way you jut your chin out when you argue with me. I love the way you chew your lips when you think. And I even love it when you hum those corny old songs when you think no-one is looking. I love waking up every day next to you. And when this is all over, I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you raising our daughter together until my last breath. Whether I’m cooking for you or pampering you like the queen you are. I promise you, my little star, that I will create a world worthy of the light you bring into it."

I touch the screen again, tears falling freely now.

"Please," I whisper to whatever god might be listening. "Please don't take him from me."

Not when we're so close to that future he promised.

39

VADIM

EVERYTHING HURTS. I drift in and out of consciousness, each breath a struggle. Voices float around me, meaningless syllables that blend together like static. My first instinct is to reach for my gun but my arms won't obey. I can't even feel them.

Where am I? The memories slip through my grasp like water. Fragments of images flash—the catwalk, Kirsan's cold smile, the glint of a blade. The searing pain as metal pierced flesh. Over and over.

Lacey. Her face on the runway, that flash of recognition and fear when she saw Kirsan beside me. I try to call out but my throat is raw. I need to protect her. Need to get to her. But the darkness keeps pulling me under.

More voices, urgent now. The sharp scent of antiseptic burns my nostrils. Someone touches my arm and I instinctively try to fight but my body won't respond. Panic rises in my chest—I'm completely helpless.

For the first time since I was a child watching Pyotr's cruelty, true fear grips me.

The memories start bleeding together. Kirsan's words about a father's love twisting into the way Lacey cradles her belly when she thinks I'm not looking. The fierce protectiveness I feel for our unborn daughter morphing into Kirsan's perverse obsession with Sayanaa.

My vision swims in and out of focus. The ceiling tiles above me blur and shift. I try to piece together what happened after Kirsan stabbed me but there's nothing but darkness and pain.

One word manages to escape my lips, barely a whisper: "Lacey..."

Warmth envelops my hand, and suddenly the pain recedes like a wave pulling back from shore. The harsh hospital lighting burns through my eyelids, but with each passing second, the world comes into sharper focus.

That incessant beeping grows louder—my heartbeat, I realize dimly.

Then I see her.

Lacey's face hovers above mine, those amber-flecked brown eyes glistening with tears. My throat constricts at the sight of the bruises marring her jaw, her neck, her arms. But she's alive. She's here.

"Hey," she whispers, squeezing my hand. Her touch anchors me, drawing me fully back to consciousness. "Welcome back."

My vision sharpens with each blink until the faces around me come into focus. My mother stands near the window, her hand clasped with Martin's. Serena hovers close to them both. The sight of my family gathered here makes my chest tighten with emotion.

Demyon leans against the wall, arms crossed and exhaustion etched into his features. Dark circles ring his eyes, but that familiar hint of a smirk plays at his lips. Megan stands beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm in a way that speaks volumes.

But it's Lacey who draws my gaze like a magnet. Those rich amber-flecked eyes I love so much shine with tears as she squeezes my hand. Despite the bruises marking her skin, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Three days," Lacey says softly before I even have a chance to ask. "You've been unconscious for three days."

Three days. The words echo in my mind as I try to process them. Three days of lying here helpless while my family waited. Three days of Lacey worrying. I want to apologize, to pull her close and never let go. But even lifting my arm takes a monumental effort.

I try to speak but my mouth is too dry. She seems to understand, bringing a cup of water to my lips. The cool liquid soothes my raw throat.

"Larina?" I manage to rasp out.

A soft smile breaks through her tears. "She's fine. We're both fine." Her free hand drifts to her belly, and relief floods through me so intensely it makes me dizzy.

"You scared me," she says, voice breaking. "I thought... when I saw all that blood..."

I want to tell her I'm sorry for frightening her. Want to pull her into my arms and never let go. But my body feels leaden, unresponsive. All I can do is squeeze her hand weakly.

She leans down and presses her forehead to mine. The familiar citrus-lavender scent of her hair washes over me, and for the first time since waking, I feel truly safe. Truly at peace.

"I love you," she whispers against my skin. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

Demyon pushes off from the wall and approaches my bed. "You're a hero, you know that?" His familiar smirk widens. "Every news organization in LA is practically breaking down the doors trying to get to you."

I manage a weak chuckle. "Keep them away, would you?" The words scratch my dry throat. "I've had enough excitement for now."

"Welcome back, boss." Demyon's eyes hold genuine warmth beneath his usual irreverence.

My mother steps closer to the bed, her storm-gray eyes—the same ones I inherited—swimming with tears.

"I saw your interview, Vadyusha," she says softly. Her hand trembles as she reaches for mine. "The things you said about wanting to make the world better..."

"Mom—" My voice catches. Even now, using that word feels precious and new.

"No, let me finish." She squeezes my fingers. "I was wrong to push you away. Wrong to see only your father when I looked at you. You're nothing like him, Vadyusha. You're everything I hoped you would become."

The weight of her words settles in my chest. "You have nothing to apologize for," I tell her. "What Pyotr did to you—"

"Is in the past." Martin steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my mother's shoulder. His easy smile reminds me of simpler times. "You did good, son. Real good."

But my attention keeps drifting back to Lacey. The angry purple bruises blooming across her jaw and down her arms make my stomach clench.

She catches me staring and gives me a reassuring smile, but I can't look away from the marks marring her skin. My eyes drift to the gentle swell of her belly where our daughter grows. The thought of how close I came to losing them both squeezes at my chest.

She must read the guilt in my expression because she takes my hand and places it over her belly. Through the thin hospital gown, I feel Larina's tiny kicks against my palm. The sensation grounds me, reminds me what I'm fighting for.

Lacey's fingers thread through mine. "Do you want to see the interview?"

"Did Megan embarrass me like I expected her to?" My voice comes out hoarse.

Megan straightens. "We should give you two some privacy." She herds everyone toward the door, though my mother lingers for a moment, worry etched in her features. Martin gently guides her out with a reassuring nod in my direction.

Once we're alone, Lacey pulls out her phone and brings up a video. Her hands tremble slightly as she hits play. I watch myself on screen, telling the world about my mother, about Pyotr, about the mission that's consumed my life. When I start talking about Lacey, my chest tightens at the raw emotion in my recorded voice.

The video ends, and Lacey turns to me with a ghost of her usual sass. "So... you think Moon River is a corny old song?"

I try to laugh at her mention of Moon River, but pain lances through my chest. "Careful, zvyozdochka. It hurts to laugh."

Lacey leans in, pressing her lips softly against mine. The gentle kiss speaks volumes—relief, love, forgiveness. When she pulls back, those amber-flecked eyes shine with emotion.

I drink in every detail of her face, memorizing how the light catches the golden flecks in her irises, how her lips curve into that soft smile that's become as essential to me as breathing. My heart thunders against my ribs, a fierce reminder of just how deeply this woman has worked her way into my soul.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you too." The words come easier now, as natural as breathing.

"There's something else you should know." She fidgets with the edge of my hospital blanket. "Captain Rutledge has been calling. He wants to speak with both of us."

My jaw tightens. Even now, the thought of that man near Lacey sets my protective instincts on edge. "I don't like it."

"Hey." She takes my hand, squeezing gently. "I'll be right there beside you when we go. We'll face whatever comes next together."

"I'm supposed to protect you," I protest weakly.

She shakes her head, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. "No. We protect each other. That's what partners do."

Looking at her now—bruised but unbroken, fierce and loyal despite everything we've been through—I'm overwhelmed by how much I love her. "How did someone like me get so lucky and end up with someone like you?"

Her lips curve into that playful smile I adore as she leans in to kiss me again.

40

VADIM

I HOLD Lacey's hand as we enter Rutledge's office. Her touch steadies me, though my wounds still ache. The captain's eyes track our every move, sharp and calculating as ever.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stravinsky." His voice holds none of its usual edge. "Please, sit."

Lacey squeezes my hand before we settle into the chairs. Her presence beside me feels like armor.

"I'll be direct," Rutledge says, folding his hands on his desk. "The interviews your sister-in-law published have... complicated things."

"How so?" I keep my voice neutral, though I already suspect where this is heading.

He exhales heavily. "Public opinion has shifted dramatically in your husband’s favor. The story of a son working to undo his father's legacy of evil... it's compelling. Add in the rescued women singing his praises, and suddenly he’s being hailed as some kind of hero."

"That wasn't our intention," Lacey interjects softly.

"Wasn't it?" Rutledge's gaze fixes on her. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a masterful PR move. If I move against Svoboda or your husband now, the public backlash would be significant."

I feel a familiar protectiveness rise as he stares at my wife. "You're worried about optics?"

"I'm worried about the police's ability to maintain public trust while fighting organized crime." He leans back. "How can I justify to the public that I’m going after the man who's done more to combat human trafficking in this city than the police?”

"That must be so frustrating for you," I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

"Vadim," Lacey whispers, a gentle warning.

"There is, however, someone else who is not convinced." Rutledge pulls out a manila folder. "Caroline Riley continues to insist you murdered Nathan Walker on behalf of your wife."

I feel Lacey tense beside me. Her fingers tighten around mine.

"That's ridiculous," Lacey says, but her voice wavers slightly.

Rutledge opens the folder. "We found some interesting prints at Mr. Walker's apartment. Still have them on file. I'm sure that if I were to take your fingerprints right now, Mr. Stravinsky, they'd be a perfect match."

"What's your point, Captain?" I keep my voice level, though my heart pounds faster.

"Look, you know as much as I do that I hate saying this." He meets my eyes. "But what you've done for this city? I can't deny it's made a difference. The trafficking rings are in shambles. Women are being rescued. Lives are being saved." He sighs heavily. "But as long as Walker's murder remains unsolved with you as a person of interest, I can't close any case involving you or Svoboda."

"What exactly are you asking for?"

"I need either incontrovertible evidence that you didn't kill Nathan Walker, or for Caroline Riley to retract her accusation.” Rutledge's gaze is steady. "Give me either, and we can put this whole ugly business behind us."

The irony of this moment isn't lost on me. The very man who swore to bring me down is now practically begging me to prove my innocence.

"And if we can't provide what you’re asking for?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Then I'll have no choice but to press charges.” Rutledge's expression hardens. "In fact, given your status as a person of interest, protocol demands I take you into my custody right now."

"No!" Lacey's voice cracks with desperation. "You can't—"

"Mrs. Stravinsky," Rutledge cuts her off. “Your testimony about Mr. Walker's character and involvement with trafficking was compelling. But your husband's potential fingerprints at the crime scene put a rather significant hole in your story." He fixes her with that razor-sharp stare. "Which makes you an accessory after the fact."

My blood runs cold. The thought of Lacey in prison, pregnant with our child...

“I know what you can and cannot do. Which is why I gave you an option. You have twenty-four hours," Rutledge continues, his voice softening slightly. "Get Ms. Riley to rescind her accusation against your husband."

"Twenty-four hours?" Lacey asks.

"That's how long I can reasonably delay taking Mr. Stravinsky's prints." Rutledge closes the folder with deliberate care. "After that, my hands are tied."

I feel Lacey's fingers trembling in mine. The weight of what we need to accomplish in the next day settles over us both like a heavy shroud.

"One day," Rutledge repeats. "Make it count."

"A moment with my wife, Captain?" I keep my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

Rutledge nods, gathering his files. "Five minutes. I'll be right outside."

As soon as the door clicks shut, Lacey's composure crumbles. "Vadim, Caroline hates me. She blames me for ruining her relationship with Nathan."

"Zvyozdochka..." I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.

"No, you don't understand." Her voice cracks. "She was obsessed with him. The way she looked at me that day in his office when I caught them..." Lacey's hand drifts to her belly protectively. "She won't help us. She wants me to suffer."

I study my wife's face, seeing the fear etched there. The bruises from Kirsan's attack are still dark against her skin. "We could try—"

"What? Threaten her? Bribe her?" Lacey's laugh is bitter. “You know that won’t work.”

She's right. The reality of our situation settles over me like a lead weight.

We're trapped.

"Rutledge is asking for the impossible," Lacey whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Caroline will never rescind her statement. Never."

I pull her into my arms, feeling her shoulders shake as she cries. The wound in my side throbs, a reminder of how close I came to losing everything in Los Angeles. Now it seems I might lose it all anyway, not to Kirsan's knife but to a spurned woman's vendetta.

"I just got you back," Lacey breathes against my chest. "And now they're going to take you away from me again. It's not fair!"

I pull back from Lacey, my mind already racing with possibilities. "What if we could make Caroline see Nathan for who he really was?"

"She won't listen to me." Lacey shakes her head, wiping tears from her face. "She thinks I'm lying about everything."

“It won’t matter what she thinks, because we have proof." I cup her face gently. "Zvyozdochka, everything we need is at Pankration."

“The bible…” Her eyes widen with realization. "Your list.”

"Caroline was Nathan's secretary." I brush my thumb across her cheek. "She would have handled all his paperwork, arranged his meetings..."

"She would have processed the deals..." Lacey's voice grows stronger as understanding dawns. "The trafficking contracts would have gone right across her desk."

"Exactly." I nod, encouraged by the spark returning to her eyes. "If we can show her the evidence that Nathan made her an unwitting accomplice in human trafficking..."

"She'll realize what kind of monster he really was." Lacey grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. "And once she understands that she was helping him sell women and girls."

"Her loyalty to him might finally break." I complete her thought, hope blooming in my chest.

"We have to try." Determination replaces the fear in Lacey's voice. "If we can make her see the truth about Nathan, maybe she'll withdraw her statement."

I press my forehead to hers, breathing in her familiar scent. "It's worth a shot, zvyozdochka."

"What if she still doesn't believe me?" Lacey's voice trembles. "What if we show her everything and she still chooses to stand by Nathan?"

I trace my thumb across her lower lip, remembering how fiercely she defended Mrs. Klossner's dry cleaners that first day we met. The fire in her eyes then matches the determination I see now, even if she doesn't recognize it herself.

"Zvyozdochka, you'll know what to do when the moment comes." I cup her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "You're not that scared catering girl anymore dreaming about becoming a fashion designer. You're my wife. The mother of my child."

Her hand drifts to her belly instinctively. "But—"

"No." I silence her doubt with a gentle kiss. "You're Lacey Stravinsky now. And a Stravinsky either finds a way or makes one."

The ghost of a smile plays at her lips. "Is that what you tell yourself when things look impossible?"

"I didn't need to tell myself anything once I had you by my side." I brush away a stray tear from her cheek. "You've already proven yourself more than capable of doing the impossible. The bible heist? Surviving Kirsan? Those weren't luck, zvyozdochka. That was all you."

Her eyes soften as she leans into my touch. "I just... I can't lose you. Not now. Not when we're so close to having everything."

“Then don’t let Caroline take this from us." I rest my forehead against hers. "Show her who you really are – the woman who brought a bratva pakhan to his knees."

"On your knees?" Lacey's eyes sparkle with renewed determination. "I'll hold you to that."

Then, she leans over and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is soft but carries a fierce promise.

I watch her leave, memorizing the graceful way she moves, the subtle sway of her hips, the protective way her hand rests on her belly. The door clicks shut behind her.

Heavy footsteps announce Rutledge's return. He settles back into his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes. "Anything else you'd like to say, Mr. Stravinsky?"

"We're done talking." I meet his gaze steadily. "You can take me to bookings now."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "No last-minute deals? No thinly veiled threats?"

"No need."

"I'll be frank with you." Rutledge leans back, folding his hands across his desk. "For the city's sake, I hope your wife can convince Ms. Riley to drop her accusation."

"She will." The certainty in my voice seems to surprise him. "I'm sure of it."

I see the questions forming behind his eyes, but I've already said all I need to say.

My zvyozdochka has never failed me before.

She won't start now.

41

LACEY

I FIDGET with my wedding ring while waiting for Caroline at the coffee shop near Nathan's old office. My belly feels like it's filled with lead rather than my daughter. Every time the door chimes, my heart skips.

I still remember walking into Nathan's office after hours, hoping to surprise him only to find Caroline's legs wrapped around his waist, her red lipstick smeared across his neck.

I still remember the way she smirked at me as I yelled at them both.

Now my husband's freedom depends on her.

The same woman who helped destroy my engagement.

The irony isn't lost on me.

The door chimes again. Caroline walks in, perfectly put together in a modest white blouse and pencil skirt. Her head is raised high as she approaches. Her mouth is drawn in a line, but at this angle, it looks like a condescending little smile.

"Lacey." She slides into the seat across from me. Her eyes drift to my swollen belly before meeting mine. "I know exactly what you're doing here."

My fingers tighten around my cup. I take a steadying breath, recalling Vadim's words: I'm a Stravinsky now. I'll either find a way or make one.

"And what exactly." I fight to keep my voice neutral. "Am I doing, Caroline?"

"You're trying to get me to retract my accusation about your criminal husband murdering Nathan."

My heart pounds against my ribs. The raw hatred in her voice catches me off guard. I expected anger, even bitterness. But this? There's real pain in her voice.

"I know there's no love between us," I say carefully. "But I want to clear the air."

"Clear the air?" She laughs, high and brittle. "Nathan was the love of my life. And your husband murdered him."

The conviction in her voice sends a chill down my spine. I recognize that look in her eyes—the same desperation that I once felt. That terrifying certainty that can only take shape when grief twists into a desire for vengeance.

"You think Nathan loved you?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

"He did." Her voice cracks. "Everything we did—the late nights, the business trips—it wasn't just sex. We were building a future together."

Then, as if she wants to twist the knife, she adds. "For months."

Months.

The word slices through me like a knife. Even after everything—finding my true love in Vadim, carrying our daughter, building a life together—that single word still has the power to hurt me.

My hands unconsciously drift to my belly, seeking comfort from Larina's familiar kicks.

I shouldn't care. I know I shouldn't care. But some traitorous part of me still does. That naïve girl who once believed in Nathan's promises, who dreamed of a future together, who trusted him completely.

She's still there, buried deep inside. And she's screaming in pain at Caroline's revelation.

But I refuse to let that pain control me.

The past is written in stone—Nathan's betrayal, the months of lies, the way he made me feel worthless—none of that can be changed. What matters now is what lies ahead. My future with Vadim. Our daughter growing inside me. The life we're building together.

The life that I'm fighting to save right now.

My fingers brush over my wedding ring, and I draw strength from its familiar weight. This isn't about Nathan anymore. This isn't about Caroline or their affair or my broken engagement. This is about protecting my husband—a man who has shown me what real love looks like.

A man who would do everything to keep me safe.

Now, it's my turn to do for him what he's always done for me.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

"Caroline—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Don't." Her voice is ice. "Don't you dare pity me. Your husband took everything from me, and I'm going to make him pay."

"I understand how you feel," I say softly. "After I caught you both that night, all I could think about was revenge. It consumed me. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined different ways to make him hurt like he hurt me."

Caroline's eyes flash dangerously. "So you admit it." Her voice rises with each word. "You wanted revenge. You and your Russian mobster husband plotted to kill Nathan!"

"No." I shake my head firmly. "That's not what happened."

"Then what did happen?" Tears start rolling down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. "One day he's alive, the next his mutilated body washes up on the shore with—" Her voice breaks. "With his fingers cut off and his teeth pulled out."

My heart aches at the raw pain in her voice. Without thinking, I reach across the table for her hand.

She yanks it away as if my touch burns. "Don't touch me!" she hisses through her tears. "You don't get to comfort me."

"There was a time I would've said the same thing to you," I say, watching her tears fall. "When I caught you both that night, I wanted to claw your eyes out. I wanted to make Nathan feel the same betrayal that was tearing me apart."

"You don't know what—" Caroline starts, but I raise my hand.

"Let me finish." My voice carries an edge of steel that surprises even me. "Because what I'm about to tell you is more important than either of our feelings about Nathan."

She falls silent, jaw clenched.

"Nathan wasn't just cheating on me with you, Caroline. He was involved with dangerous people. The kind who trades in human lives like they're commodities."

"What are you talking about?" Her mascara-stained face contorts in confusion.

"Human trafficking. With the same people that Vadim’s company is rescuing girls from.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. "Nathan helped move money for those monsters. He helped them buy and sell women and children."

Caroline's face drains of color. "You're lying."

"I'm not." I meet her gaze steadily. "Think about all those late-night calls he'd take. Those mysterious meetings that he couldn't tell you about. The deals that seemed too good to be true."

"That doesn't mean..." Her lips tremble. "Are you saying he deserved to die?"

The question hangs between us like a loaded gun. I think about everything I've learned since that night—about the trafficking victims, about Kirsan's operation, about the countless lives destroyed. I think about what Vadim would say.

"Yes." The word comes out stronger than I expected. "He did."

Caroline's hands shake as she grips her coffee cup. "Why?"

"Some things are unforgivable, Caroline." My voice stays steady despite the storm of emotions inside me. "What Nathan did—what he was planning to do—crosses a line that can never be uncrossed."

"You keep saying that." Caroline's fingers drum against her coffee cup. "But you haven't explained what he supposedly was planning that was so terrible."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Nathan was going to sell me to them."

"What?" Caroline's face twists in disbelief. "That's ridiculous. Nathan would never—"

“Wouldn’t he?” My hands tighten around hers.

Caroline shakes her head violently. “This isn’t true.”

"I've seen them, Caroline." My voice remains steady. "I've seen what they do to women." My voice cracks. "I've seen the shipping containers they stuff women into. I've heard the screams. I’ve watched them murder a girl just to make a point.”

Caroline's face has gone pale, but there's still that stubborn denial in her eyes.

"These aren't stories I'm making up." I lean forward. "I was there. I survived it. And Nathan?" I swallow hard. "He knew exactly what kind of monsters they were when he planned to hand me over to them."

"You're lying." Caroline's voice breaks. "Nathan wasn't like that. He promised me—" She chokes back a sob. "He promised to help me start my own business. Said he'd invest in my dreams."

My heart stops. Those words. Those exact words.

"Let me guess." The bitterness rises in my throat. "He told you that the timing wasn't quite right yet. That you just needed to be patient a little longer."

Caroline's eyes widen. "How did you—"

"Because he told me the same thing." My eyes drill into hers. "For two years, he dangled my dream of having my own fashion start-up in front of me. Always promising that the next deal would be the one to give me his all. That soon I'd have everything I wanted. Everything I deserved.”

"That's different." Caroline shakes her head. "What we had was real. He was going to help me open my own accounting firm. We had plans."

"Plans." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. "Did he tell you that you were special? That you understood him in ways no one else could?"

Caroline's silence is all the answer I need.

"Did he say that once everything falls in place, you two could finally be together properly?" My voice grows softer. "That all the sneaking around was just temporary?"

Tears stream down Caroline's face. "You don't know what we had."

"I do." My heart aches for her—for both of us. "Because before you, he used those same promises to keep me hoping. To keep me believing. To keep me compliant."

"No." Caroline's hands ball into fists. "What we had was different. He loved me."

"The way he loved me?" I ask gently. "The way he probably loved whoever came before me? And the way he would've loved whoever comes after you?"

"Prove it." She yanks her hands from mine, anger flashing in her eyes. "Prove to me that you're not lying."

My fingers are steady as I reach into my purse.

I'd spent hours searching through Vadim's office in Pankration for his list—the same one I'd first discovered in his suit jacket at Mrs. Klossner's. The memory of finding it feels like a lifetime ago, back when I thought Vadim was just another wealthy businessman trying to buy out small businesses.

I'd finally found it tucked away in his desk drawer, right next to the bible that held all the evidence of Nathan and Kirsan's crimes.

Now, I slide the paper across the table to Caroline.

"Look at these boutiques." My voice stays steady. "The SKU numbers, the prices. Do any of them seem familiar?"

Caroline's eyes scan the page, her brow furrowing. "I…" Her fingers trace over the numbers. "Yes..."

Her hands start shaking as she continues reading. I see the moment recognition hits—her face drains of color as she spots names and numbers she must have typed herself, working late nights at Nathan's behest.

"I processed these invoices." Her voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Nathan said they were high-end fashion acquisitions. Private collections." She looks up at me, horror dawning in her eyes. "I remember that the prices were insane for some of the items. Nathan told me that they were just exclusive pieces, and told me to not ask too many questions. I mean, almost eight hundred thousand for a dress?"

"Because these aren't prices for clothes." My stomach churns. "They're prices for people. Each SKU is a woman or girl being sold through these boutiques. Nathan helped set up the financial arrangements. And there are far more than what’s on this list."

Caroline's eyes start blinking fiercely as she stares at the numbers. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh God." She presses her hand to her mouth. "I helped him process all of these." Her eyes dart wildly around the coffee shop. "I helped him do this. All those women..."

I watch her carefully as the full weight of her unwitting complicity crashes down on her. Her perfectly composed façade crumbles completely, shock and horror etching deep lines across her face. Her indignation and confidence are gone, replaced by the haunted look of someone as broken as I felt that night when I caught them together.

Her mascara runs in black rivulets down her cheeks as she looks up at me with desperate eyes.

"Tell me..." She swallows hard. "Did your husband kill him?"

The question hangs between us. I think about Vadim, sitting in a cell right now and waiting for me to fix this. I think about all the times he's protected me, all the monsters he's slain to keep me safe.

"I can tell you what you think you want to hear,” I say slowly, reaching for Vadim’s words with my voice. "But it won't change anything. It won't undo what he did. It won't erase your part in it, however unknowing. And it certainly won't bring him back."

"But—"

"Caroline, listen to me." I lean forward, my voice dropping lower. "Of all the people in this world, only Vadim has been fighting these monsters for years. He's saved thousands."

As I speak, I think of Polina. Of the horrors she endured at Pyotr's hands. Of being forced to watch her little brother be murdered in front of her. Of the decades of trauma that she carried as a result of it.

The same evil that stole her life nearly claimed mine through Nathan.

"I understand your need for vengeance. Trust me, I do." My hands cradle my belly protectively. "But if you pursue this, you'll be condemning thousands of girls to a fate worse than death."

Caroline's lips quiver as she stares at the list. "Your husband killed Nathan," she mutters, but her voice lacks conviction. "I have to do the right thing."

"The right thing?" I ask softly. "I could also do the right thing and tell Captain Rutledge everything you just told me. About how you helped Nathan process these transactions. About how you were complicit in his involvement with human trafficking. I can put you away forever with a few words, just like how you can put away Vadim forever with the same.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening. "Are you blackmailing me?"

"No." I meet her gaze steadily. "I'm doing exactly what you're doing—choosing what truth to tell." I reach across the table and take her trembling hands in mine. "Nathan doesn't deserve your grief, your pity, or your loyalty. Don't follow him into the grave he dug for himself."

Her shoulders slump. The fight drains from her completely.

As I watch her crumble, I can practically hear Vadim's voice in my head.

Like a true pakhan's wife, he would say with that proud look on his face. You know how to wield power and influence without being corrupted by them.

The thought steadies me. Gives me strength.

"Here's what's going to happen." I lean forward, keeping my voice low but firm. "You're going to go to Captain Rutledge right now and tell him you were mistaken. You're going to admit to him that grief clouded your judgment and made you see conspiracies where there were none."

My hand tightens around hers across the table—not in comfort this time, but in warning.

"And then you're going to disappear from our lives completely." I squeeze her fingers. “If you don't, then you will learn that there are consequences for aiding and abetting human trafficking. Consequences that both of us know you are not willing or able to face."

The words roll off my tongue with surprising ease. Not because I enjoy saying them, but because I have to say them.

"Do we understand each other?"

Caroline nods weakly, tears still streaming down her face.

“Good.” I release her hand and stand up, gathering my things. As I do, I catch my reflection in the window. For a moment, I barely recognize myself.

But then I feel Larina kick, and I remember exactly who I am: Vadim's wife, a future mother, and someone who will do whatever it takes to keep her family whole.

42

VADIM

"YOU WERE INCREDIBLE, ZVYOZDOCHKA." My hand finds the small of Lacey's back as we walk through the foyer to Pankration. "The way you turned Caroline's accusations back on her..." I shake my head in admiration. "Even I couldn't have done it better."

"I had a good teacher." Lacey's lips curve into a smile that makes my heart race. "You taught me that sometimes the most effective weapon isn't force, but truth."

"Is that what I taught you?" I pull her closer, drinking in her scent of citrus and lavender.

"Among other things." Her fingers trail up my chest. "You taught me that power isn't about making threats, but about knowing which ones to make. And when to make them."

I capture her wandering hand in mine, bringing it to my lips. "You've become quite the pakhan's wife."

"I learned from the best." She rises on her tiptoes to kiss me. "But I have to admit, hearing Caroline confess how long she'd been with Nathan still hurt."

"Zvyozdochka..." I start, but she silences me with another kiss.

"Don't. The past can't be changed. What matters is our future together." Her hand drifts to her swollen belly. "All three of us."

I feel Larina kick against my palm as I place my hand over hers. The fierce protectiveness I feel for them both nearly overwhelms me. "You really have learned well, haven't you?"

"Well enough to know exactly what you're thinking right now." Her amber-flecked eyes sparkle with mischief. "And to know that you're impressed by how naturally manipulation comes to me now."

I laugh, the sound echoing through Pankration's halls. "Should I be worried?"

"Never." She presses herself closer. "After all, I only use my powers for good."

"I need a shower," I tell Lacey as we head upstairs. "Booking isn't exactly known for their amenities."

Her hand tightens in mine. "I was wondering what that smell was."

"Careful, zvyozdochka. I may need to punish you for that." The familiar banter feels right after the tension of the past day.

"Promise?" Her eyes sparkle with that dangerous gleam I've come to love.

We enter our bathroom and I start unbuttoning my shirt. Lacey settles against the counter, watching me intently. The weight of her gaze sends heat coursing through me.

"See something you like?" I shrug off my shirt, letting it fall.

"Maybe." Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I'm just glad you're back. Orange isn't your color."

I step closer, caging her against the counter. "I thought we agreed—you were going to be good."

"Did we?" Her fingers trace the tattoos on my chest. "I must have forgotten."

"Clearly." I capture her wandering hands. "Would you like to join me? Help me wash away the stench of jail?"

Her smile turns wicked. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Strip for me, zvyozdochka," I command softly. "Slowly."

With that wicked smile still on her face, Lacey's fingers move to the buttons of her blouse and undo them one by one. My breath catches at each new inch of skin revealed. Her breasts have grown fuller, straining against her bra in a way that makes my mouth water.

Her hands move to her skirt next, sliding it down her hips. Those too have grown wider, more womanly. The swell of her belly makes my heart race.

"You're staring," she whispers, standing before me in only her underwear.

"How could I not?" I step closer, running my hands over her curves. "You're glowing. Radiant." My fingers trace the new roundness of her breasts, trail down to cup her belly. "Every change makes you more stunning."

Her breath hitches as I explore her body. "What about the shower?"

"In a moment." I press closer, letting her feel my arousal through my pants. "I want to savor this first. A little preview of what's to come."

My hands roam her soft skin, memorizing every new curve, every change that marks her as carrying my child. Her body arches into my touch, seeking more.

I capture her lips in a searing kiss while my fingers make quick work of her bra clasp. Her breasts spill free into my hands, fuller and more sensitive than ever. When my thumb grazes her nipple, she gasps into my mouth.

My hand slides lower, tracing the curve of her belly before dipping between her thighs. Even through her panties, I can feel how ready she is. The fabric is soaked through.

"So wet for me already, zvyozdochka?" I break our kiss to murmur against her lips.

Her eyes are dark with desire as she looks up at me. "I've been wet all day, thinking about this moment. About having you back home. About having you inside me."

"Such a dirty girl." My fingers push aside the damp fabric to stroke her directly. She moans and arches into my touch.

"Your dirty girl," she whispers, her hands clutching my shoulders. "Always and only."

The possessiveness in her words makes my cock throb. I slide a finger inside her welcoming heat while my thumb circles her clit. Her walls clench around me instantly, drawing me deeper.

I break our kiss and spin Lacey to face the mirror, pulling her back against my chest. Her amber-flecked eyes lock with mine in the reflection as my hands roam her curves. One hand cups her breast while the other traces lower, teasing between her thighs.

"Look at yourself, zvyozdochka," I whisper against her ear. "So beautiful. So perfect." My fingers circle slowly, making her gasp. "I'm going to worship every inch of you. Make you forget everything but my name."

She arches into my touch. "Big words from someone who just got out of lockup."

I nip her earlobe, drawing a soft moan from her lips.

"Now." Her eyes sparkle with challenge in the mirror. "What's a hardened criminal like you going to do to an innocent girl like me?"

My laugh rumbles against her neck as my fingers splay open her wet folds. "Innocent? Is that what you're calling yourself now?"

"Compared to you?" She pushes back against me deliberately. "I'm practically an angel."

"Angels don't get this wet from a few touches," I murmur, increasing the pressure of my fingers. Her breath catches. "Angels don't beg for cock like you do."

"I haven't begged for anything yet." But her voice trembles as my thumb finds her sensitive spot.

"You will." I capture her gaze in the mirror again. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging for mercy."

My hand wraps around Lacey's throat, applying the gentlest pressure. She trembles against me, her breath catching. With my foot, I nudge her legs wider apart. She responds by pressing back, her wetness sliding along my length.

"Ready to beg for me, zvyozdochka?" My voice is rough with desire.

Instead of answering, she rolls her hips in a deliberate motion that makes my jaw clench. "Are you?"

My free hand slides between her thighs, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. Her head falls back against my shoulder as I begin slow, torturous circles. She continues grinding against me, each movement perfectly timed to drive me wild.

I bring my other fingers to her lips. Without hesitation, she takes them into her warm mouth, her tongue swirling around them in a way that makes my cock throb. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, full of wicked promise.

My lips trail down Lacey's neck, savoring the taste of her skin. She shivers when I reach that sensitive spot behind her ear, her body pressing back against my hardness. Each graze of my teeth draws a soft gasp from her lips.

"Still not ready to beg?" I murmur against her skin, nipping at the crook of her neck.

Her only response is to rock harder against me, her wetness coating my length. The sight of her in the mirror—flushed and wanting but still defiant—makes my cock throb.

"What will it take, zvyozdochka?" My fingers continue their torturous circles on her clit. "What do I need to do to hear those pretty words?"

She meets my eyes in the mirror, that familiar spark of challenge lighting them from within. "You already know exactly what it takes." Her voice is breathy but still controlled. "You're just too scared to do it."

My hand stills against her. Then, without warning, I pull back and bring my palm down hard on her ass. The sharp crack echoes through the bathroom.

The sound of my palm striking her flesh is almost as satisfying as her sharp yelp of pleasure. Her skin flushes pink under my touch.

"Again," she gasps, pressing back against me. "Harder."

I oblige, bringing my hand down with more force. The impact makes her whole body shudder. Her wetness coats my thighs where she grinds against me.

"Harder," she demands, her voice thick with need.

The third strike leaves a perfect red handprint on her ass. She moans, deep and guttural, her fingers gripping the counter's edge until her knuckles turn white.

"One more time," I growl against her ear. "Ask nicely."

"Make it hurt," she whispers, meeting my eyes in the mirror with that defiant spark I love so much.

My palm cracks against her flesh one final time, the hardest yet. Her whole body jerks forward, and a single word falls from her lips:

"Please..."

The desperation in that single syllable makes my cock throb. I've been waiting to hear that word all night.

"Please what?" I ask, my palm hovering over the reddened flesh. "Tell me exactly what you want."

Lacey's eyes meet mine in the mirror, her pupils blown wide with desire. "Please spank me again." Her voice trembles. "And then fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

The raw need in her voice sends fire through my veins. I bring my hand down one final time, harder than before, savoring the perfect red imprint I leave on her flesh. Her gasp of pleasure turns into a moan as I finally thrust inside her.

"Is this what you wanted, zvyozdochka?" I growl against her ear.

"Yes," she pants, pushing back against me. "You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

Her words spur me on as I set a steady rhythm. Her fingers grip the counter edge while her other hand reaches back to tangle in my hair.

"More," she demands. "Harder. Make me feel it. Make me yours."

I comply, increasing my pace as she continues whispering filthy encouragements. Each thrust draws a new gasp or moan from her lips.

"That's it," she breathes. "Just like that. Show me who I belong to."

"I already showed you who you belong to," I growl against her ear, tightening my grip on her hair. "Now it's your turn to tell me."

"I belong to you," Lacey gasps, her walls clenching around me. "Only you, Vadim."

"Again." I punctuate the command with a sharp thrust that makes her cry out.

"Yours," she pants. "I'm yours."

I reward her with another hard smack to her already reddened ass. Her whole body shudders in response, her inner walls gripping me tighter.

"My what?" I demand, yanking her head back by her hair to meet my eyes in the mirror.

"Your wife," she moans. "Your queen." Her breath catches as I increase my pace. "Your little star and filthy whore."

Each declaration earns her another strike, another deep thrust that makes her gasp and writhe. Her skin flushes pink with arousal, her pupils blown wide with desire.

"Please," she whimpers, pressing back against me. "I'm so close."

I tangle my fingers deeper in her hair, using the leverage to drive into her harder. My other hand finds her clit, circling in time with my thrusts.

"Oh god," she pants. "I'm going to come. Please don't stop."

Her words dissolve into incoherent moans as I maintain my relentless pace. Her fingers clutch desperately at the counter edge, her knuckles white with tension.

"Vadim," she gasps. "I'm... I'm..."

The words die in her throat as Lacey shatters around me, her release triggering my own. My vision goes white as pleasure courses through my body. Her walls flutter to milk every last drop from me as I empty myself inside her.

When I finally pull out, I watch transfixed as evidence of our passion trickles down her inner thigh. She stays braced against the counter, catching her breath, while I reach over to turn on the shower.

Steam quickly fills the bathroom, fogging the mirrors that just witnessed our reunion. I sweep Lacey into my arms, cradling her close to my chest. Her head nestles against my shoulder, completely spent and trusting.

I carry her into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over us both. She sighs contentedly as I hold her under the spray, washing away the traces of our lovemaking.

"I missed you," she whispers against my chest.

"I missed you too, zvyozdochka." I press a kiss to her temple. "But don't worry, we're just getting started."

43

LACEY

VADIM'S LIPS capture mine under the steaming water. His hands cradle my face with a gentleness that makes my heart ache. When we break apart, I feel empty—not just physically, but emotionally.

The need to be closer to him, to feel every inch of his body against mine, overwhelms me.

I reach for the soap, working it into a lather between my hands. Starting at his broad shoulders, I trace each ridge and valley of muscle. His skin is a canvas of scars and tattoos that tell the story of his life. I take my time, memorizing every detail.

"Turn around," I whisper.

He obliges, and I continue my exploration down his back. The soap makes my hands glide effortlessly over his skin. I pay special attention to the tension in his shoulders, working my fingers into the knots until I feel them release.

Moving lower, I trace the dimples at the base of his spine. His breath hitches when my hands curve around his hips. I press closer, my breasts brushing against his back as I reach around to soap his chest and stomach.

The hot water streams down between us as I work my way back up his body. My fingers trail over each of his tattoos. When I reach his neck, I rise on my tiptoes to press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"Let me see you," I breathe against his skin.

He turns to face me again, and I continue my ministrations across his chest. The soap makes my hands slip and slide over his pecs, down the ridges of his abs. His muscles jump under my touch.

I look up to find his stormy gray eyes watching me intently. The hunger I see there makes heat pool low in my belly, but I'm not done worshipping every inch of him yet.

My hands move lower, following the V of his hips. His cock twitches as my soapy fingers brush close, but don't quite touch. Not yet.

"You're going to tease me to death," Vadim groans as I kneel before him.

"That's the idea." I smile up at him through the curtain of water, continuing my slow exploration down his powerful thighs.

I press kisses along the defined muscles of his legs, savoring how they twitch under my touch. When I reach his calves, I take my time massaging the tension there too.

Above me, his breathing grows heavier. I can feel his eyes following my every move as I work my way back up, my hands never quite touching where he wants them most.

His cock hardens fully again, jutting proudly in front of my face. The sight makes my mouth water. Unable to resist any longer, I wrap my soapy hand around his thick length.

He hisses through clenched teeth as I start stroking him mercilessly. My grip is firm but slick from the soap, allowing my hand to glide smoothly from base to tip. His hips buck involuntarily when I twist my wrist on the upstroke.

"Fuck," he growls, one hand bracing against the shower wall while the other tangles in my wet hair.

I quicken my pace, drinking in how his muscles tense and release with each stroke. The raw need in his voice only spurs me on.

Vadim's hands close around my wrists and gently pull my fingers away from his throbbing length. I can't help but smirk up at him through the steam.

"Too much for you?" I tease.

"Never. But that's because I'm not done with you yet," he growls, pulling me to my feet and capturing my lips in a searing kiss.

His hands find the soap and work it into a rich lather. When his fingers cup my breasts, I gasp into his mouth. He takes his time, massaging the soap over my sensitive flesh until I'm arching into his touch.

The hot water cascades down, washing away the suds and leaving my skin tingling. Vadim's mouth replaces his hands, his tongue tracing a wet path down my neck before closing around my right nipple. A moan escapes my lips as he sucks and teases the hardened peak while his fingers work my other breast, pinching and rolling my nipple between his skilled fingers.

My head falls back against the shower wall as pleasure courses through me. I surrender myself completely to his ministrations, letting him take control. My fingers thread through his wet hair, holding him close as he continues his sweet torment.

Every flick of his tongue sends electricity straight to my core. My fingers tangle in his wet hair, holding him closer as he alternates between gentle sucks and light grazes of his teeth.

I arch my back, pushing my breast further into his mouth as his tongue traces circles around my sensitive peak. His free hand slides down my side to grip my hip, steadying me as my knees start to weaken. The hot water streaming down my body only heightens every sensation.

"Vadim," I whimper, my voice echoing off the shower walls. He responds by sucking harder, drawing a desperate moan from my throat.

The tension builds low in my belly as he continues his sweet torture. My thighs clench together, seeking friction. Just when I feel myself approaching the edge, his mouth releases my right nipple with a soft pop. Before I can protest the loss, his lips close around my left breast.

The change in sensation makes me gasp. His tongue flicks rapidly against my neglected nipple while his fingers replace his mouth on my right breast, pinching and rolling the sensitive peak. The dual sensation has me trembling against the shower wall, desperately clutching his shoulders for support.

His fingers reach between my legs as his mouth continues its relentless attention on my breast. I'm already dripping wet when he slides two fingers inside me. My hips rock forward instinctively, seeking more of his touch.

"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for anymore.

His skilled fingers curl upward, finding that perfect spot that makes my toes curl against the shower floor. Each stroke sends sparks of pleasure through my body. The steam from the shower makes everything feel dreamlike and hazy, but his touch grounds me in reality.

My fingers dig into his shoulders as I ride his hand. His thumb circles my clit in time with the thrusting of his fingers, making my thighs tremble. The dual sensation of his hot mouth on my breast and his fingers working me closer to the edge has me gasping his name.

His teeth graze my nipple at the same time he adds a third finger, stretching me deliciously. The slight burn only adds to my pleasure as I rock against his hand with increasing desperation. Water is making everything slick and hot.

"Please, what?" he murmurs against my breast before returning to sucking and teasing my sensitive peak. His fingers pick up speed, matching the rhythm of my rolling hips.

I can barely stand now, my legs shaking as pleasure builds low in my belly. But Vadim's strong arm around my waist keeps me steady as his fingers continue their sweet torture.

"Please," I beg, voice breaking with need. "I can't wait anymore. I need you inside me."

Vadim captures my mouth in another searing kiss as he positions himself. My heart races in anticipation. With agonizing slowness, he enters me, stretching me in the most delicious way. I gasp at the perfect fullness.

"Don't hold back," I plead against his lips. "I need all of you."

The hot water cascades down my back while he fills me completely from the front. The dual sensation makes my head spin.

"Hold onto my neck," he commands softly.

I wrap my arms around him, linking my fingers behind his neck. In one fluid motion that takes my breath away, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing. I remain perfectly connected to him, gasping at how the change in angle drives him even deeper.

The water streams down between us as he holds me effortlessly against the shower wall. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist, pulling him closer.

Vadim holds me under the water against the wall, his powerful body keeping me suspended. My breath catches as he starts to move, each thrust reaching deep inside me. The fullness is overwhelming, making my head spin with pleasure.

His lips capture mine in a deep kiss that steals my breath away and drains the air from my lungs.

I surrender completely to him, loving how he takes control. The raw strength in his arms as he supports me, the commanding way he claims my mouth—it makes me feel cherished and possessed all at once.

My fingers tangle in his wet hair as I start rolling my hips to meet his thrusts. The new angle has me gasping against his mouth. Steam swirls around us, making everything feel dreamlike and hazy.

"You feel perfect," he murmurs against my lips. The praise sends a shiver down my spine.

I tighten my legs around his waist, using the leverage to match his rhythm. His hands grip my hips, guiding my movements. Each deep thrust has me crying out his name, the sound echoing off the shower walls.

The dual sensation of the hot water streaming down my back and Vadim's powerful body pressed against my front heightens every sensation. I arch into him, desperate to be even closer.

I cry out as pleasure builds inside me, each powerful thrust from Vadim sending waves of ecstasy through my body. The shower's steam makes everything feel dreamlike and surreal.

"Let me hear you," he growls against my ear. "I want to hear how good I make you feel."

"YES! Oh you feel so fucking good!"

My screams of pleasure echo off the shower walls as he drives deeper. The way he fills me completely, the perfect angle of his thrusts, it's all too much and not enough at the same time.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice rough with desire. "Louder."

I obey without hesitation, crying out his name as the tension builds low in my belly. My fingers dig into his shoulders while my legs tighten around his waist. The water streaming down between us makes everything slick and hot.

My head falls back against the shower wall as waves of pleasure crash over me. Each thrust takes me higher, closer to the edge. I'm trembling in his arms now, completely at his mercy as he maintains his relentless pace.

"Vadim!" I scream, not caring who might hear. Nothing exists outside this moment—just his powerful body against mine and the mounting pleasure threatening to overwhelm me.

The coil of tension winds tighter and tighter as he drives me toward release. My cries grow more raw with each thrust.

"Please, please don't stop," I beg between ragged gasps. "I need you. I need you so much."

His powerful thrusts drive me higher and higher. The shower's steam makes everything feel dreamlike, but his cock filling me anchors me to reality. My fingers dig into his shoulders as waves of pleasure course through my trembling body.

"You feel so good inside me, Daddy," I whimper, his new title tumbling from my lips before I can stop myself.

The effect is immediate. His rhythm falters for just a moment before resuming with renewed intensity. That's all it takes to send me spiraling over the edge. My orgasm tears through me with shocking force.

"Say that word again," he growls against my ear, his voice rough with need.

"Daddy, please!" I moan, still riding the aftershocks of my release. "Fuck me harder, Daddy. Fill me up. I want to feel you cum deep inside me."

His hips snap forward with desperate urgency. I feel him pulse inside me as he finds his own release, flooding me with his warmth. The sensation triggers another wave of pleasure that has me crying out his name.

I squeeze around him and draw a deep groan from his throat. His lips crash against mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as he holds me pinned against the shower wall. Every inch of his cock fills me completely, and I never want this feeling to end.

My fingers trail over the slick muscles of his back while his hands grip my thighs, keeping me steady as my walls flutter and clench around his twitching cock.

We stay locked together like this, neither of us moving, just savoring the perfect connection. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, under my fingers, and in my weeping cunt. Water streams between our joined bodies, but nothing could make me feel closer to him than I do in this moment.

When we finally break apart, his stormy gray eyes lock with mine. There's such tenderness in his gaze that it makes my breath catch.

"I love you," I whisper, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

His lips curve into that genuine smile that makes my heart skip. "I love you too, zvyozdochka."

44

LACEY

MONTHS LATER

THE FAMILIAR CHIME OF THREE BIRDS' door announces Megan walking in. A gust of wind follows after her with a hint of the familiar wet chill of winter.

She sits down in front of me, and starts fidgeting with her coffee cup.

"I got a job offer," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "In New York."

The words hit me harder than I expect. "New York?"

"The New York Times wants me to be their lead investigative journalist covering human trafficking." She bites her lip. "I'd be stupid not to take it."

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. "Yeah, you would be."

"But what about you? And Vadim? And..." She glances down at my belly.

"We'll be fine. Besides, it's not like you're moving to Mars." I lean back, unable to hide my smile as I spot a familiar broad-shouldered figure through the window. "And I'm pretty sure a certain someone wouldn't let you go that far anyway."

Megan follows my gaze to where Demyon stands outside, pretending to be deeply interested in his phone. A blush creeps across her cheeks.

"He's just being protective," she mutters. "After everything that happened."

"Mm-hmm. Is that why he volunteered to drive you here? And why he's been 'protecting' you at all hours of the night?"

"Lacey!" Her blush deepens but she can't hide her smile. "It's not like that."

"So what is going on between you two?" I lean forward, unable to resist prodding. "Come on, spill."

Megan's fingers dance nervously around her coffee cup. "Nothing. Maybe. Something." She lets out a frustrated sigh. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"We might have..." She drops her voice to barely above a whisper. "You know. A few times."

I raise an eyebrow. "A few times?"

"Fine, more than a few." Her cheeks flush deeper.

"When did it start?" I ask. "You and Demyon?"

Megan's fingers trace the rim of her coffee cup. "Remember when I was staying at that safehouse in Monroe?" A small smile plays at her lips. "He was in charge of keeping an eye on me. God, he was such an asshole at first, all gruff and commanding. But then..."

"Then what?"

"We started talking. Like really talking." Her eyes go distant with the memory. "He'd bring me these awful gas station sandwiches and we'd stay up half the night talking instead of eating those. He'd tell me stories about growing up with Vadim, and I'd tell him about..." She glances at me. "About us. About Laura."

My throat tightens at Mom's name, but I nod for her to continue.

"One night, he brought me a bottle of vodka instead of sandwiches. Said if I was being honest with him, then he was going to be honest with me." She laughs softly. "Next thing I knew, he was kissing me and I was..." Her cheeks flush. "Well, let's just say those Monroe nights got a lot less lonely after that."

"I was wondering why the two of you were thick as thieves."

"God, were we that obvious?" She buries her face in her hands, blushing. "He just... he makes me feel things, Lace. When he looks at me with those green eyes, or when he calls me zaychik..." She shivers slightly. "The way he touches me..."

"Pump the brakes, I don't need those details." I laugh.

"Sorry." But she's not sorry at all. "It's just... he's not what I expected. Under all that tough guy act, he's..." She trails off, staring out the window where Demyon still stands guard. "He's gentle. And funny. And he actually listens when I talk. Not just about my work. But about myself.”

I've never heard my sister talk about anyone this way before.

"God, I'm going to miss that big blond boy toy."

"Miss him?" The words catch me off guard. "What do you mean?"

Megan's shoulders slump.

"He can't come with me to New York. Even though..." She swallows hard. "Even though I really want him to."

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. Of course Demyon can't leave—he's Vadim's right-hand man. And Megan can't turn down this opportunity, not after everything she's accomplished.

"Oh, Meg." I squeeze her hand tighter. "I'm so sorry. Maybe Vadim could let Demyon visit you?"

"Be realistic, Lace." Megan stares at her coffee. "How often could that really happen? Between what he needs to do here and my new job, we'd be lucky to see each other every few months. And that's assuming nothing goes wrong. I mean, what if I'm out in New York for years?"

"But if you care about each other—"

"That's exactly why I have to end it." Her voice cracks slightly. "I can't ask him to put his life on hold for me. And I can't put mine on hold for him either."

I watch as she blinks back tears. "Have you told him yet?"

"No." She lets out a shaky breath. "How do you tell someone that even though you..." She trails off, unable to say the words. "How do you tell them goodbye?"

Through the window, I see Demyon still standing guard, occasionally glancing our way with that soft look he reserves only for my sister. My heart aches knowing what's coming for them both.

"Maybe there's another way," I try, but Megan shakes her head.

"There isn't." She wipes quickly at her eyes. "Long distance never works. One person always ends up resenting the other. Better to end it now while we can still..." She swallows hard. "While we can still remember each other fondly."

I reach across the table and take both of Megan's hands in mine. "You don't have to pretend to be okay with this."

"I'm not pretending." But her voice catches. "I just... I need to focus on the positives. Like having my own apartment in Manhattan. Getting to cover stories that actually matter to me.”

“Living your dream," I remind her gently.

"Yeah." She tries to smile but it looks more like a grimace. "My dream."

Through the window, Demyon checks his phone again before his gaze inevitably drifts back to Megan.

"Tell me about the apartment," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "What neighborhood are you thinking?"

"Upper West Side, maybe?" She straightens up, clearly grateful for the distraction. "The Times is giving me a pretty good relocation package. And there's this cute little coffee shop I found that reminds me of Three Birds..."

But even as she talks about her plans—the museums she wants to visit, the stories she wants to write—her eyes keep turning to the window. To Demyon. Each time they do, her voice gets a little softer, her smile a little sadder.

"And Central Park is gorgeous in the fall," she continues, but her words sound hollow now. "All those trees turning red and gold..."

She trails off as Demyon shifts his weight outside, his broad shoulders tensing slightly as someone walks past. His protective instincts are so ingrained that even now, even here, his first thought is keeping her safe.

A single tear slides down Megan's cheek. She wipes it away quickly, but I catch it.

"Meg..."

"I'm fine," she insists, but her lower lip trembles. "Really. This is what I want. This is what I need to do. I just..." She takes a shaky breath. "I just wish things could be different."

"I'm going to miss you so much." My voice catches as I reach for Megan's hand again.

Megan's fingers tighten around mine. "Promise you'll visit?"

"Of course. And you better FaceTime me every day." I try to smile through the tears threatening to spill. "Who else is going to give me sisterly advice about—"

A sharp pain cuts through my abdomen, stealing my breath. My hand flies to my belly as another wave hits, stronger this time.

"Lacey?" Megan's voice sounds distant through the rushing in my ears. "What's wrong?"

"I think..." I grip the edge of the table, knuckles going white as another contraction rips through me. "The baby's coming."

Megan's eyes go wide. "Now? But you're not due for another week!"

"Tell that to your niece." I try to laugh but it comes out as more of a gasp. The contractions are getting closer together, each one more intense than the last. "Meg..."

"I'm calling Vadim." She's already got her phone out as she stands up and rips open the door. "Demyon! Get in here!"

Demyon rushes in. Through the haze of pain, I see his concerned expression shift to understanding as he takes in the scene.

Another contraction hits and I cry out, doubling over. The pain is unlike anything I've felt before – sharp and insistent, like my body is being torn apart from the inside.

"I'll get the car," I hear Demyon telling Megan.

Megan's hand finds mine again, steadying me as the contraction peaks. "Just hold on, Lace. We're going to get you to the hospital."

45

VADIM

"FUCK!" Lacey's face is flushed and sweaty as she grips my hand through another contraction.

I can't help marveling at her strength, even now.

I brush damp strands of hair from her forehead.

"You're doing well, zvyozdochka."

"Less praising, more getting this baby out," Lacey pants, her amber-flecked eyes flashing with determination despite her exhaustion.

Dr. Chen's calm voice cuts through the beeping monitors. "You're fully dilated now, Mrs. Stravinsky. On the next contraction, I need you to push."

My stomach knots watching Lacey's face contort in pain. Part of me wants to do something—anything—to somehow make this easier for her.

But this is a battle that Lacey must fight herself.

I trust Dr. Chen; she's proven herself loyal after everything we've been through. But seeing Lacey in such distress makes my protective instincts surge, and knowing that there's nothing I can do leaves me feeling helpless in a way that unsettles me.

"Remember your breathing," Dr. Chen coaches as another contraction builds through Lacey. "That's it, just like we practiced."

She crushes my fingers as she bears down. I don't flinch, even as her white-knuckled grip tightens harder than I've ever felt from her.

"I'm right here," I murmur in Russian, pressing my lips to her temple. "You're the strongest person I know."

"Vadim," she gasps between pushes, "I swear to God if you don't stop with the sweet talk—"

Her threat cuts off from another contraction.

"The head is crowning," Dr. Chen announces. "You're almost there, just a few more big pushes."

The next contraction hits and Lacey pushes with everything she has. Her face is red from exertion, tears streaming down her cheeks. I've seen her fight through so much, but nothing compares to watching her bring our daughter into this world.

"Almost there," Dr. Chen encourages. "The head is out. One more big push."

"You can do this, zvyozdochka," I whisper, pressing my forehead to her temple. "Just one more."

Lacey grits her teeth and bears down again. Her whole body trembles with the effort. I hold her hand tight, lending her my strength.

And then—a piercing cry fills the room.

My heart stops at that sound. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. Not all my years running the bratva, not facing down Kirsan, not even watching Lacey on that runway in LA when Kirsan's knife pierced my gut.

This tiny voice crying out into the world for the first time leaves me completely undone.

"It's a girl," Dr. Chen announces, though we already knew. "She's perfect."

Lacey collapses back against the pillows, exhausted but smiling through her tears. I kiss her damp forehead, my own vision blurring.

That cry. Our daughter's first breath in this world. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"Would you like to cut the cord?" Dr. Chen asks me.

I nod, unable to find my voice.

The surgical scissors feel foreign in my grip, and my hands tremble slightly as I cut through the umbilical cord.

Dr. Chen efficiently cleans and swaddles our daughter before placing her in Lacey's waiting arms. My heart clenches at the sight of them together.

"Hi there, Larina," Lacey whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm your mama."

I move closer, drawn by an instinct deeper than anything I've known before. Larina's tiny face is still red and scrunched, dark wisps of hair plastered to her head. She has my coloring but Lacey's delicate features.

"Look what we made," Lacey says softly, turning those amber-flecked eyes to me. The love shining in them steals my breath.

I sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping my arm around Lacey's shoulders as we both gaze down at our daughter. Dr. Chen says something about monitoring and check-ups, but her words fade into white noise.

All I can focus on is how perfectly Larina fits in Lacey's arms. How her tiny chest rises and falls with each breath. How her little hand has worked free of the swaddling to curl around Lacey's finger.

"Zvyozdochka," I murmur, pressing a kiss to Lacey's temple. "You were incredible."

Larina's eyes flutter open at the sound of my voice. They're still that newborn dark blue, but I swear I catch a glimpse of gray—my mother's eyes—in their depths.

She looks up at us with an expression of such innocent trust that it nearly breaks me. This tiny, perfect being that we created together. That we will protect with everything we have.

The door opens and our family files in quietly.

My mother enters first, tears streaming down her face as she sees her granddaughter. Serena follows close behind, practically bouncing with excitement to meet her niece.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye as Megan approaches the bed. Her fingers linger on Demyon's for a heartbeat before she pulls away. Even through my euphoria, I notice the redness rimming her eyes, the slight tremble in her lip that she's fighting to control.

Something has happened between them, but I push the thought aside as Larina stretches in Lacey's arms.

Lenka hovers near the foot of the bed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Even Clifton, who rarely shows emotion these days, reaches for Larina's tiny hand with wonder in his expression.

But it's Larina who holds my attention. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath. How her lips purse in a tiny 'o' as she yawns. The perfect arch of her eyebrows, just like Lacey's.

Megan settles next to Lacey, and I catch that exchange of look between the sisters.

"Oh my God, she's perfect," Megan whispers. "Look at those tiny fingers."

Larina's hand flexes, as if responding to her aunt's voice. My heart swells watching her react to the world around her. Every small movement captivates me completely.

A gentle touch on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find my mother's storm-gray eyes—the same ones I inherited, the same ones I see hints of in Larina—brimming with tears.

"You're a grandmother now, mamechka," I say softly in Russian.

She smiles through her tears, and for a moment, I see the woman she must have been before Pyotr destroyed her life. The woman who once held me like Lacey holds Larina now.

As if sensing my thoughts, Larina's face scrunches up and she lets out a piercing wail. Lacey shifts her position, trying to soothe our daughter.

"I think that's our cue," Megan says, rising from the bed. "Come on everyone, let's give them some space."

The room slowly empties until it's just the three of us. I move closer to Lacey as she cradles Larina against her chest.

"Look at her," Lacey whispers. "She's absolutely perfect."

"She is." I brush my finger along Larina's cheek, marveling at how soft her skin is. "Just like her mother."

46

LACEY

ONE YEAR LATER

I PUSH open the familiar door of Mrs. Klossner's dry cleaners, and the bell chimes above—exactly as it did that first day I met Vadim. My heart skips at the memory. The shop looks different now, renovated and modernized, but still manages to retain a part of its old charm.

Vadim's hand rests on the small of my back as we enter. I lean into his touch, drawing strength from his presence. The counter where I once struggled with Nathan's ring feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

"It feels strange being back here," I whisper, running my fingers along the polished wood. "This is where everything started."

"When you stole my suit," Vadim teases, pressing a kiss to my temple.

"In my defense, I was too flustered to realize what I was doing that day." I turn to face him, feeling that familiar flutter in my stomach when our eyes meet. "Four hundred thirty-five days, sixteen hours, and twenty-eight minutes ago." I tap my wrist where a watch would be. "But who's counting?"

"Not you," Vadim murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes my knees weak.

"Not me," I agree, leaning into him.

The air between us charges with electricity, just like it did that first day. His eyes darken as they roam over my face, lingering on my lips. My breath catches in my throat as his hand slides from my back to my hip, pulling me closer. The familiar scent of his cologne—spicy and masculine—surrounds me. I reach up to straighten his tie, letting my fingers trail down his chest.

"How can I help you folks?"

We spring apart at the voice. A young woman stands behind the counter, a cheery smile on her face.

"Just picking up our dry cleaning," I slide our ticket over. "For Mr. and Mrs. Stravinsky."

"Of course!" The young woman types into the computer. "I'll be right back."

As she disappears into the back, Vadim's fingers trace lazy circles on my hip. "You enjoy saying that, don't you?"

"What?" I ask innocently.

"Mrs. Stravinsky." His lips brush my ear. "That sounds almost as good as zvyozdochka."

Heat blooms across my cheeks. "We're in public," I whisper, though I make no move to pull away.

"Heading somewhere special?" the young woman asks, returning with our garment bags.

"Paris," I reply, watching her eyes light up. "A very delayed honeymoon."

"Oh, how romantic! I've always wanted to—"

The bell to the door chimes again, cutting through the young woman's enthusiastic chatter about Paris.

"Lacey? is that you?"

My heart leaps at the familiar voice, and I turn to see Mrs. Klossner in the doorway, her warm eyes crinkling with delight, her hands clasped together as if she's just discovered a wonderful surprise.

"Mrs. K!" I rush over to hug her. "What are you doing here today?"

"Same as you, my dear," Mrs. Klossner says with a twinkle in her eye. "Coming to pick up my dry cleaning. But since you're here, I should double-check the tickets. Wouldn't want to risk any more mix-ups."

Heat rises to my cheeks as I catch Vadim's knowing smirk. Mrs. Klossner turns to him with a warm smile.

"And Mr. Stravinsky! Always a pleasure. The renovations you did for this shop are wonderful."

"Please, call me Vadim," he says, stepping forward to shake her hand. "And I was happy to do it."

Mrs. Klossner's eyes drift down to where my left hand rests against Vadim's arm, and her smile widens at the sight of my ring.

"I see you finally got that other ring off." She winks at me. "But if you ever need help getting with this one, you know the trick—"

"Hand sanitizer not oil, I haven't forgotten." I reply, unable to stop my grin as I lean into Vadim's warmth. "But I won't need to do that. This one's staying right where it is."

"Forever," Vadim adds, his arm tightening around my waist.

Mrs. Klossner's eyes dance between us. "Good. That's exactly how it should be."

I bite my lower lip, studying Mrs. Klossner's knowing smile. "Mrs. K, I've been meaning to ask you something." My fingers intertwine with Vadim's. "That day with the mix-up... did you know?"

Her eyes twinkle with mischief, but she simply adjusts her cardigan. "Know what, dear?"

"About the suit. About..." I gesture vaguely between Vadim and myself.

"An old woman like me? Making mistakes with a dry-cleaning order after thirty years?" She tuts, but there's something playful in her tone. "What do you think, dear?"

I smile at her non-answer, and turn to look up at Vadim while my heart swells with emotion. "You were right, Mrs. K. He's not what I thought he was at all."

Mrs. Klossner's smile widens as she waits for me to continue.

Heat rises to my cheeks as I press closer to Vadim. "He's everything I never knew I needed and so much more. He makes me feel safe, cherished..." My voice softens. "He showed me what real love looks like, what it means to truly belong somewhere."

Vadim's thumb traces circles on my hip, and I feel his chest rise with emotion behind me.

Mrs. Klossner retrieves her garment bag from the counter, making an exaggerated show of checking the ticket number against her receipt.

"Well, we certainly wouldn't want another mix-up, would we?" She winks at us both. "It's wonderful to see you both again."

Vadim helps me into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, and my heart flutters at his touch. Even after all this time, the simplest contact with him still sends electricity through my body. As he slides into the driver's seat, I can't help but smile at how perfectly everything has fallen into place.

"What's on your mind, zvyozdochka?" he asks, starting the engine.

"Mrs. Klossner knew, didn't she?" I ask, watching his lips curve into that knowing smirk I've grown to love. "She had to have known what she was doing that day."

The engine purrs as we pull away from the curb.

"Mistakes happen," Vadim replies. "Even for the most experienced professionals."

"Really?" I arch an eyebrow at him. "That's what you're going with? That after thirty years of running that shop, she just happened to make a mistake with your suit on the exact day I walked in?"

His hand finds mine across the console, thumb tracing circles on my skin. "Does it matter if she did?"

I study his profile as he drives, remembering how intimidating I once found him. Now all I see is the man I love, the father of my child, my protector.

"I suppose not," I concede, squeezing his hand. "But it's nice to think someone saw something in us before either of us did. That someone believed in our story before it even began."

"Maybe she just wanted some good entertainment on a slow morning." His voice carries that playful edge that makes my stomach flip "After all, you seemed to enjoy arguing with me that day."

"Or maybe." I lean back in my seat, watching Seattle's familiar streets slip by us as the airport comes closer and closer. "I just enjoy you."

THE END

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