Page 81 of Beautiful Cruelty

"No, Lacey," she says quietly. "He didn't save Daddy's business. He saved Daddy. He saved me."

"What?"

Irina's perfect composure cracks, and pain flashes across her face. She looks away, and all I see is haunting sadness in her emerald eyes.

Those emerald eyes shut, and she take a slow shuddering breath before she starts speaking in a small quiet voice.

"When I was fourteen years old. Kirsan came to Daddy on Pyotr's orders."

What remains of my jealousy evaporates instantly.

"Kirsan worked for Pyotr?"

Somehow, Vadim left that part of the story out.

"Pyotr was the one who came up with the ingenious idea for their trafficking operations," Irina explains. "But he and Kirsan wanted to take it to the next level. To lend an air of legitimacy to their new brand and expand to a clientele with far deeper pockets. For that, they needed a designer. Someone who could make their twisted dreams come true."

My stomach churns. How many new models had I seen during my brief time in school? Have I ever paid attention to who they were?

How many disappeared without anyone noticing?

"Daddy didn't want to, of course. How could anyone with a heart agree to something as vile as this?" Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches up, sniffling, to adjust the folds on the dress. "He said no to them. Refused to take their money, no matter how many zeroes they added. But the thing about a bratva pakhan is…"

"You're not allowed to deny them what they want."

"Exactly." Irina nods. "They threatened him in the one way that would break him. The one way they knew would force his hand."

Oh God...

"At first, it was small things. He'd get a phone call from my school about an emergency, and rush over there only to learn that the emergency never happened." Irina opens her eyes again and stares hard at the dress. "Then, cars started slowing down in front of our home. Always a black Cadillac." She pauses for a moment to gather herself. "And then the pictures came."

Her hands fall to the side and she crumples into a nearby chair. I rush over and kneel down before her as she resumes talking.

"Pictures of me at school. Pictures of me out with my friends. Pictures of me sleeping in my room. And on the back of each one was always a single word: choose."

I take hold of her hands. They're as cold as ice. She offers me a wan smile of acknowledgement, but her eyes are staring far away.

She's not looking at anything here, but at the memories of a horrific past that she could never escape.

"Daddy went to the police." Her voice was nothing but a strained whisper now. "Well, that was when we learned the police were already on Pyotr's payroll. Those monstersplannedfor us to look for help."

I gasp.

"They took us to Pankration, and Pyotr threatened to sell me unless Daddy agreed to work for them. With no other choice, Daddy agreed. But Pyotr was a devious monster. He never once got his own hands dirty."

"What do you mean?"

"He forced Daddy to makeVorobyov Ensemblethe face of the trafficking operation." She shakes her head slowly, tears streaming down her face. "He put blood on Daddy's hands and kept his clean."

All I can do is I squeeze back at her icy fingers, wishing desperately that I can pour a shred—any shred—of warmth into them.

"For a while," she says. "He held true to his promise, and I was treated like a guest in Pankration. That was when I met Vadim.

"Vadim was the only good thing in my life at that point. He became the big brother I never had, and I taught him everything he needed to know about fashion."

"For two years, we dared to think that we could live like we were normal kids." She swallows. "Until Pyotr sold me anyways."

Horror slams through me like a physical blow at Irina's words.

---