10. Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
T iffany, Russia
“You might have been the last one to see him alive!” Lavania cried over the speaker phone. “And I picked you up from his house! This is not good!”
Lord, the whole neighborhood was in an uproar over the death of a Bratva soldier. People needed to chill.
“It will be fine,” I assured her, as I approached my wardrobe to get ready for the next job of the day. “Take deep breaths. You sound like you’re about to hyperventilate.”
“The Bratva are as thorough as they are cruel,” she countered. “Expect a visit. And when they come, be extra polite, answer honestly, and if you can, cry for the dead man. Tell them that he was alive and very satisfied when you left his house. If they ask why you didn’t stay the night, say you had to work in the morning.”
“Sure,” I replied, my brows drawing together in a frown. My new favorite penis was on the floor, the glass jar shattered.
Odd.
“How can you be so calm about this!? The guy who took you home last night was found dead this morning!”
I took the poor organ to the kitchen to quickly rebottle it. “People die all the time,” I said. “My parents died recently. I’m kind of numb to it.”
“I’m sorry to hear this,” Lavania offered. “I guess Americans grieve differently.”
I returned it to the wardrobe and threw a towel over the mess on the floor. “Are you sure you don’t want to work tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Yes!” She released a long exhale. “I know the money is good, but that’s not my scene. Plus, you had to be vetted. You be careful,” she cautioned. “Don’t trust these rich fucks. Probably vetting to look for people to abduct. Also, be careful who you interact with, as where there is wealth, there is Bratva, and we are already on their radar.”
“Okay, I’ll call you when I get home,” I promised, rolling my eyes and repeating Bratva-Bratva-Bratva in my head, like I was Jan from The Brady Bunch complaining about Marcia. “I’m gonna get dressed. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Khorosho. Poka.”
When she hung up, I looked over at Hero on my bed. “I’ll have to clean this up later,” I warned my taxidermized furbaby. “Make sure you don’t step on it.”
I liked to imagine he was still alive.
“Was someone in here while I was at work?” I asked, turning back to pull out some clothing. “You would have scared them off, surely.”
As I dressed, the sense of foreboding intensified, gnawing at my gut. Something ominous loomed on the horizon. Shaking my head, I made a mental note to add an additional lock.
After returning my jar to the wardrobe, I locked up and made my way to the Moscow Railway Station, and boarded the train without stopping for coffee. Though I had extra money now, I had to be mindful. Plus, I was running a little late, having lingered on the phone.
Stepping off the train at my destination, I hailed a cab for the rest of the journey. The train station was at the base of a substantial hill, and the directions to the event said it was located behind it, nestled by the lake and shrouded in a dense forest. Hopefully, a fellow staff member would provide a ride back home. I had no intention of attempting the train journey in the late hours.
As the cab climbed the hill, I kept my amazement in check, trying not to gawk at the grandeur before me. It made every mansion back in the US look cheap and gaudy. Apparently, this was old-world money. This place felt like a castle.
When the cab dropped me out front, I quickly paid the man, then reread the directions again. The map showed a back door of sorts.
I finally located a side entrance, after what felt like an eternity of circling the sprawling architecture. Sweat trickled down my neck and I cast a wistful glance at the tranquil lake. No one in their right mind would swim in it this time of year, yet there was movement marring the surface.
Curiosity piqued, I approached swiftly but with caution, mindful of the shoreline. I did not want to slip in. I would offer assistance if I could, but it would be a fool’s errand to jump in for a rescue.
I was shocked that a man swam toward me. This guy should be drowning in these frigid waters, his muscles seized up, making it painful if not impossible to move. Yet I watched, transfixed, as the swimmer’s arms sliced gracefully through the water.
With each stroke, more details emerged; the glimpse of a handsome face, the sun catching in their light hair. The bustling preparations for the party behind me faded into obscurity the moment our gazes locked, and my breath hitched in my throat.
Though it lasted only a heartbeat, it felt as though time itself had frozen. A distant voice shattered the spell. I didn’t understand it, but the sentiment was clear. I needed to be where I was supposed to be.
Shaking off the enchantment that had held me captive, I headed back toward the mansion. I had a job to do, and whoever that mysterious swimmer was, they were not part of my immediate concerns. I was here for the promised paycheck, not to meet new friends.
A woman with a clipboard awaited my arrival, her voice tinged with boredom. She asked me my name in Russian.
“Tiffany Garcia,” I replied, my voice slightly croaky.
“Oh good. The American,” she replied in English. “We’ve been wondering when you were going to show up. My name is Emily. I will assign you your section. All you have to do is walk around it with trays, and make sure that the guests are eating or drinking whatever you offer.”
I nodded in agreement. “That sounds easy enough.”
Emily sighed. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”
I giggled. “Are the guests already causing trouble?”
She nodded. “Yes, but more so the house staff. It all has to be perfect, but they don’t want us in their space. You know how the Bratva are.”
My brows lifted. “Bratva?”
“It’s hard to get servers to work their events.”
I thought about Lavania’s reluctance to come, and her warnings. Maybe I would end up trafficked after all.
I followed Emily, as she vented about various challenges that made her job more difficult. Politely nodding, I scanned the mansion and kept my eyes on every exit I could see, silently praying that my section had one.
???
Hours passed, and the party was in full swing. I grabbed a tray of drinks, whispering silent prayers for balance and composure. As I circulated through the crowd, mostly trying to press through throngs of old, leering men, I smiled politely, and ignored any ‘accidental’ groping. Though I smiled and graciously, if not demurely, accepted the many apologies, I covertly assessed potential opportunities to score myself a temporary Sugar Daddy. I didn’t expect to add to my collection so soon, but these handsy men were my type, so to speak.
My sixth sense tingled, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on edge, as if someone was watching me once again. The unsettling feeling rattled me, causing me to accidentally bump into a nearby patron. Startled, the person shoved me away, and I tumbled to the floor, landing on my ass and spilling champagne all over myself.
I was soaked, and frustration and humiliation gnawed at me. I glared at the asshole, and memorized his features. At least I now knew who my next victim would be.
Climbing onto my hands and knees, I scrambled around to gather all the glass shards I could, to dump onto the tray. I didn’t even care that my hands were being sliced open, and blood was spilling in red rivulets. My anxiety and irritation was making me careless, but it was something to worry about at a later time. I hated feeling vulnerable and on display. People watched, but none moved to help. I didn’t like the attention.
“Stop,” came a softly spoken command from above me.
I didn’t even bother to look up. “I’m okay. I’m almost done.” I absently waved a bloody hand to indicate the floor. “See?” I then reached for more glass.
“I said stop.” A gentleman with a faint, yet fresh, scent of the outdoors crouched before me. He clasped my injured hands with his own, halting my fingers from lifting a larger shard.
I looked up into shocking blue eyes and drowned.
“Do not ever again make me repeat myself,” he warned quietly in flawless English. “Do you understand?”
I nodded, still enthralled. “Sorry,” I mumbled even as my pussy pulsed with interest. “I am usually much more obedient,” I replied.
He smirked at that, then looked over his shoulder. He growled at someone behind him in Russian. Suddenly, men roughly grabbed the patron who had shoved me and took him away.
I had a gut feeling we would never see that man alive again. I was okay with that.
“I’m so sorry for spilling the drinks everywhere,” I offered, remembering that these were dangerous men. “I know I should be more careful.”
“It wasn’t your fault, milyy ,” the man reassured me, then scooped me up in his powerful arms and stood up. So weird.
“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to look flustered as the crowd parted like the red sea to let us through. He didn’t appear to struggle with my weight as we went. I was not a small woman. I was full-figured, with curves for days.
“To my room,” he replied.
I remained silent, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the moment. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was the protagonist of a movie, swept off my feet by a mysterious stranger.
His men moved around us, opening doors and clearing the path. We moved upstairs, and the enigmatic man carrying me wasn’t even winded. We went down an opulent hallway, and the last door was opened for us.
Upon entering a dim room, he set me on the bed, and a sudden jolt of pain brought my attention to a piece of glass embedded in my palm. “Oh no, I’ll mess up your sheets,” I fretted, attempting to rise.
“I would love for you to make a mess on my sheets,” he replied with a straight face.
Flustered, I stammered, “t-that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want to get them all bloody.”
“I wouldn’t mind your blood staining my sheets.”
A wave of heat surged through me at the thought, and my face flushed. My mom once told me the old tradition of hanging stained sheets on a laundry line the day after the wedding, to show the neighborhood that the bride went to the marriage bed a virgin.
Our gazes remained locked, and I licked my suddenly dry lips, watching his eyes darken as they followed the path of my tongue.
Just as the tension between us reached its peak, a throat cleared behind us, and the enigmatic stranger stepped away, creating a polite distance. His heated gaze still lingered on me, but he maintained a fa?ade of neutrality.
The man at the door spoke in Russian, but my host interrupted him. “Speak in English, so your patient can understand you.”
“Yes, as you wish, sir.” An elderly man entered the room with a black satchel in his hand. “I am told she has injured her hands, and you would like me to clean her wounds and apply sutures, if required. Did she hit her head?”
“She is right here,” I replied pointedly, yet politely, with a fake smile, “and no, I didn’t. Thank you very much for asking me about my injuries. But I’m okay and don’t need a doctor. I’ll be fine. I will go home and tend to myself.”
Faint amusement gleamed in the mystery man’s eyes, even though his expression remained unchanged. “No need to be offended. He speaks to me because he answers to me. And he will be examining your wounds.”
“But–”
“I am being patient because you do not know our ways, but if you contradict me one more time, there will be…” he paused, as if searching for the correct word, “ regrettable consequences. I am not a man to naysay.”
I looked at the doctor, whose wide eyes seemed to confirm that the warning was, indeed, a real one. He shook his head ever so lightly, as if to caution me to not press the issue.
“Do you understand, Tiffany?” my host asked, ever so quietly.
My eyes flicked back to the obviously wealthy and powerful man before me. The way he said my name made me feel warm and tingly. I smiled and blushed. “Of course. My apologies.”
“Accepted, but there will be no more warnings.”
“Okay. I’m… you know my name.”
Again, there was the small tilt of his lips, an ever-quick glimpse that showed he found me humorous.
So enthralled was I with my host, and our environment, that I paid little attention to the doctor tending me. The room exuded a sense of gothic opulence, a sanctuary that radiated both power and sophistication. It fit the man before me.
I realized that my host must be high in the Bratva organization, because his veiled threats seemed unsurprising to the doctor, and my host seemingly had men to do his bidding, including removing my assaulter from the party without protest.
While the doctor went about cleaning my wounds, I studied my environment and its atmosphere of mystery and grandeur.
The color scheme was a symphony of blacks and deep charcoals, creating an ambiance that was both darkly seductive and regal. Intricate wallpaper adorned the walls, featuring delicate patterns of swirling vines with hints of silver, and metallic accents. Tall, ebony candle holders stood in every corner, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows.
The California king-size bed I sat upon was a masterpiece of black velvet and satin, adorned with plush pillows and silken sheets. The headboard was a work of art in itself, depicting intricate carvings of ancient legends and dark romanticism. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in heavy, flowing curtains made from rich, velvety fabric that pooled dramatically on the floor.
Someone meticulously chose the art pieces to match the gothic aesthetic. Dark, vintage paintings of enigmatic figures adorned the walls, their eyes following anyone who moved around the room.
Everything was as mysterious as it was dangerous; vibrations of both hidden behind a mask of indulgence. As haunting as the powerful man who had essentially captured me.