Page 117 of Beautiful Agony

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.

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