Chapter 7
Nell
“Everything will be fine,” Sabina whispers as she stops the van in front of the house.
I nod without saying anything. Right now I prefer not to think about it.
I just grip the folding massage table until my knuckles turn white from the tension.
Through the window, Voronov's mansion rises before me like a medieval fortress in modern times: white stone, reinforced glass, and a security system that, according to Sylara, would cost more than everything I've stolen in my entire life.
“If you feel you're in danger, you just have to call us through the intercom,” she reminds me.
“Yeah, the mountain of muscles told me that, but I prefer not to think about it, honestly. I don't doubt your abilities, though I'll remind you that Althea and the elf are kind of far to come to the rescue.”
Crossing the long driveway, I'm too aware of the cameras following my every movement. I guess it's force of habit. Too many years stealing.
I focus on carrying the massage table like I'm used to doing it. The bag with oils and towels hangs from my shoulder, and the white uniform with the company logo gives me a professional look.
The expression of the security guards at the main entrance is stony. One is tall and blond, with an unfriendly face, and the other shorter, but with shoulders so wide and a neck so short it looks like the suit doesn't fit him.
“Good morning,” I greet, putting on my best fake smile. “I'm Amanda, from the massage service. I have an appointment with Mr. Voronov at eleven.”
The taller one looks me up and down while the other says something in Russian through an almost invisible earpiece. I hold my breath. This is the moment when everything could go to shit.
“Identification.”
I hand him the fake documentation Sylara prepared. He studies it carefully, then runs it through a scanner and nods.
“Leave the table here. It needs to be checked,” he orders, making a rough gesture with his chin.
I try to look relaxed while the second guard examines it with a metal detector. Then he checks my bag, taking out each bottle of oil and each of the towels.
“Raise your arms.”
They pat me down so professionally I barely feel their hands. The metal detector emits a soft beep when it passes near my ear and I feel my heart stop.
“The earrings,” he grunts.
“They're a gift from my grandmother,” I lie with a shy smile.
For some reason I don't understand, he nods and moves on.
I wonder if the device is protected by some kind of magic.
The idea still seems absurd to me, but after seeing Sabina change color and Sylara grow flowers from nothing, I'm starting to accept that magic is as real as the fear that now grips my chest.
“You can pass. Petrov will take you to Mr. Voronov,” the shorter one finally announces.
A third guard, younger than the others, appears and gestures with his head for me to follow him.
We travel endless hallways, surprised to find in them works of art that have come from some of the most famous heists of the last decade.
I acknowledge that, at least, Voronov has good taste.
I try to memorize the route, but the house is a labyrinth of opulence.
Italian marble floors, ceilings with gilded moldings, Roman and Greek antiquities displayed as if we were in a museum.
We arrive at a carved wooden door at the end of a hallway. Petrov knocks twice.
“The masseuse is here, sir,” he announces in Russian.
“Have her come in,” a deep voice responds from inside.
The guard opens the door and indicates I should enter. The room is a mix between bedroom and living room, with a huge bed where an entire family could sleep. Though, thinking about it, judging by what they say about this man, it's possible that after some of his parties that size falls short.
And there he is: Grigore Voronov. Tall, strongly built, with a face that could be considered attractive if not for the hardness of his eyes.
He has a lifeless gaze, as if nothing matters to him anymore.
Despite being around fifty, he keeps in shape.
He wears a black silk robe and holds a glass of something that looks very expensive.
“You're new,” he observes, evaluating me as if I were merchandise. “Wasn't Svetlana supposed to come?”
“She's sick, sir,” I respond, keeping my voice firm. “The agency sent me as a replacement. I'm Amanda.”
“Amanda,” he repeats, as if savoring my fake name. “I hope you're as good as Svetlana. I have a lot of accumulated tension. My work is very stressful.”
The way he says it sends a chill through me, but I maintain my professional smile.
“Where do you want me to set up the table?”
“Over there is fine,” he responds, drinking a long sip from his glass. “I'm going to take a quick shower. Get ready in the meantime.”
He disappears through a door I assume is the bathroom. I hear the water running as I set up the table, spreading a sheet over it and take advantage to examine the room discreetly.
The camera I'm wearing captures images as I turn my head slowly. On the opposite wall, just as Sylara had predicted, there's a slight unevenness almost imperceptible. It must be the entrance to the safe.
The sound of water stops, so I hurry to prepare the oils, placing the small vial Althea gave me among them. I just need Voronov to drink something so I can add a few drops.
When the bathroom door opens, Voronov emerges wrapped in steam, now only with a towel around his waist that I hope he doesn't remove in front of me. His torso is covered with tattoos: symbols that look religious mixed with images of double-headed eagles and others I don't recognize.
“Shall we start?” he asks, sitting on the massage table. “Pour me a vodka,” he adds, pointing with his finger at a drink cart by the window.
My heart races. It's the perfect opportunity. As I serve the vodka, taking advantage of having my back to him, I add three drops from the vial. The liquid bubbles slightly before returning to normal.
“Here you are,” I say, offering him the glass and hoping it doesn't change the taste.
Voronov takes it and drinks a long sip. Then he lies face down and removes the towel, glancing sideways to observe my reaction. I swallow and try to ignore the disgust his naked body provokes in me.
“You have good hands,” he murmurs as I start working his shoulders. “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” I lie, following the story we prepared.
“Hmm. I've never been to Boston, but I know New York well. I have properties there.”
I keep massaging his shoulder blades, mentally counting the seconds. The sedative should take effect any moment. But Voronov keeps talking.
“I like pretty masseuses,” he comments, turning toward me and revealing a more than evident hard-on. “I pay very well if I receive... additional services.”
I practically gag. He strokes his cock, as if trying to convince me by its size or something, though it turns my stomach.
“I'm afraid I only give massages, Mr. Voronov,” I respond firmly.
To my surprise, he leans in and grabs my wrist hard.
“Come here,” he insists, trying to guide my hand toward his cock. “Are you scared? What are you going to do? Scream?” he mocks, his eyes growing heavier from the effect of the sedative already running through his veins. “My guards won't come. They know they can't interrupt me.”
I pull free with a jerk and back up to the corner of the room. Panic floods through me as I see Voronov get up and advance toward where I am, completely naked and aroused.
He places his huge hands on both sides of my face, pressed against the wall, pushing his hard-on between my legs.
“Now, you're going to be a good girl and pull down your pants,” he murmurs, slightly drawing out the syllables from the sedative.
Instinctively, I close my eyes and hold my breath. I feel the air stir around us and when I open them again, I watch as he brings a hand to his throat. He looks at me with surprise and begins to gasp.
Then he falls to his knees, his face reddening by the moment. For an instant, I feel powerful, invincible. I think I could kill him right now if I wanted. A little more and he'd stop breathing forever.
But that's not the plan, and I'm not a killer. I release the air from my lungs and focus on calming down. Soon, he begins to breathe again, though he seems completely dazed. He tries to stay awake, but the sedative and lack of oxygen are taking effect. Within seconds, he's unconscious.
And as soon as Voronov falls, my legs give out.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, trembling. My heart beats so hard I'm sure the guards can hear it from the hallway. I feel nauseous. I can still feel the sensation of his body pressing against mine, his breath on my face, his hands trapping me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I breathe deeply once. Twice. Three times. The air around me stirs, responding to my panic, and I have to focus on calming it before it knocks something to the floor.
I can't fall apart now. I'm still in his house. I still have to get out of here. That's the priority. I'm not safe.
I force myself to stand up, though my legs shake like they're made of jello. A sudden dizziness makes me lean on the wall. I don't know if it's from using magic or from shock. Maybe both, the only thing I know is I have to wait a few seconds until the world stops spinning.
“Focus, Nell. Finish the job. Fall apart later,” I mutter through my teeth.
I head toward the wall with the unevenness, hurriedly wiping away the tears I didn't know were falling.
I feel the surface and find a small imperfection. I press and, with a soft click, a panel slides to the left, revealing a safe built into the wall.
It's exactly as the elf described.
By my calculations, I've been in the room about fifteen minutes. I can't risk Voronov waking up or someone coming in to check.
I close the wall panel with another soft click and return to the massage table. Voronov starts to wake up, looks at me confused. For an instant, I'm sure he's going to attack me, but he signals for me to help him lie on the massage table, where he falls asleep again.
“What... what happened?” he asks several minutes later, when I'm about to leave.
“You fell asleep, sir,” I respond with all the calm I can muster. “It's normal, the massage sometimes has that effect. We're done now.”
He blinks several times, trying to orient himself. By his expression, he doesn't remember what happened. Maybe it's the temporary lack of oxygen.
“I think I'll call you again,” he murmurs.
“It will be a pleasure, Mr. Voronov,” I respond as I gather my things as fast as I can. “If you'll excuse me, I have a client on the other side of town.”
In the hallway, Petrov waits to escort me to the exit. I'm almost out when another guard appears and asks him to stop.
“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my blood turn to ice.
“You forgot the tip,” he announces, extending his hand to give me some bills I don't even bother to count.
Already outside the house, I have to force myself not to run to Sabina's van.
“You did it!” she exclaims, getting out to open the door for me.
“Let's get out of here as soon as possible,” I order in a broken voice.
“Are you okay?”
I open my eyes and look at her. I don't even know where to start.
“Voronov tried to...” I begin, but my voice gives out.
My hands are shaking. Now that I'm outside, now that the adrenaline is starting to drop, everything hits me at once.
His naked body. His erection pressing between my legs.
His hands trapping me against the wall. The disgust. The fear.
The absolute certainty that he was going to rape me and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
“Nell,” Sabina's voice sounds different now, soft, worried. “What happened?”
“He cornered me,” I whisper. “The sedative wasn't working, and he... I thought that...” I can't finish the sentence. The tears fall before I can stop them.
Sabina stops the van abruptly. For a moment, she seems to struggle with herself, and then she does something I didn't expect: she hugs me. Her body is cool against mine.
“You're safe now,” she murmurs against my hair. “It's over. You're safe,” she repeats.
I cling to her like she's a lifeline. For a few seconds, I allow myself to be weak. I allow myself to shake and cry and let someone hold me.
When I finally pull away, Sabina has a strange expression. As if the hug had cost her something.
“I don't know how I got out,” I confess, wiping my face. “I used the magic. I took the air from his lungs until he fell. I did it without thinking, Sabina. It just... happened.”
“You controlled air? Without training?”
I nod.
“I thought I was going to kill him. And the worst part is a part of me wanted to do it.”
Sabina looks at me with something that seems like admiration mixed with concern.
“But you didn't.”
“No,” I confirm. “Though he deserved it.”
“Nell, do you know what this means?”
“That I was scared shitless?”
“That you're much more powerful than we thought. Even than what Kaelisar believed. Fear, like any strong emotion, channels magic,” she explains, hugging me again to kiss my head.