"Ms. Lenkov?"
The doorman questions from behind me. My lashes flutter, breaking myself from my captor's green-eyed stare.
Matteo.
Somehow the name fits him perfectly. It's masculine and undeniably Italian.
After a moment I nod at him grimly and then pull myself from the car.
"One hour." He reminds me.
I nod again and step away allowing the doorman to shut the door. I watch Matteo drive into the darkness away from me, dragging my fortitude through the dirt as he goes.
I grimace turning away from the rounded driveway.
I pull in a steadying breath. I can do this. I square my shoulders and turn toward the preposterous four story mansion. The doorman waves a hand out in front of him in a showy manor beckoning me toward the house.
"Right this way, Ms." He says.
Nervous, I nod at him and follow as he heads us up cement stairs toward the front door. My breathing is shallow, little puffs tumble from my lips frantically as I walk in sky-high heels.
It's freezing. The temperature has dropped even more since running in the chilly rain with Matteo earlier this evening. Between my nerves and the frigid temperatures, I can hardly contain the shivers overtaking my body. I wish I would have never had to step out of the warmth of the hotel shower earlier.
No, I wish I had never met Vladimir in the first place. Never said yes to his offer for dinner.
I glance down at the watch Matteo wrapped around my slender wrist. Eight PM.
With a heady breath I step through the threshold of Mayor Borkov's home.
"Mr. Borkov is right this way," the man says to me leading me through a large, two story foyer that has an elaborate five-tier chandelier hanging above.
I grip the wooden box in my hands as I reluctantly follow behind the doorman. The interior of Borkov's home is as ostentatious as the man himself.
Gaudy marble statues of naked women in different positions line the wide hallway, while a floor-to-ceiling commissioned oil painting of Oleg himself hangs at the far end of the hall. His eyes seem to eat me up with every step I take closer to it.
Chills roll down my spine. This place is creepy.
The man showing me in, pauses in front of a large ornate door. I look at him and his eyes drop to the floor guiltily.
That can't be good. With hesitant steps, I walk past him to find Mayor Borkov sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. There is a large leather couch and other chairs surrounding him, but he is—I assume—purposefully central and facing the door.
His back is straight, his arms are strung along both chair rails, his scrawny legs sit wide, and his belly rests heavily on his thighs. He looks the way Matteo did when I first walked into Vladimir's hotel suite—what feels like ages ago. Only Mayor Borkov is failing miserably at looking deadly. He's trying to appear powerful in ways that come naturally to Matteo. He was threatening whereas Borkov is merely vile.
His eyes light up with delight the moment he sees me. My stomach quivers. The first thing I notice is the hungry set of his lips as he runs his fat tongue across them while gazing at me.
"Alina welcome!" He exclaims as he stands to greet me. He is almost an inch shorter than I am in these heels. Short and stocky. His small, snail eyes take me in, lingering far too long on my breasts and between my legs.
Vomit stirs in my belly as his stubby fingers take hold of both of my shoulders and he pulls me in for a kiss on each cheek. He purposefully kisses the corner of my lips and I do all that I can not to shutter from the wetness that lingers in that spot after he pulls away.
My fingers itch to wipe away at my mouth.
"You have a beautiful home," I say instead, taking a step away from him. The lie is the only thing I can seem to muster at the moment. I hate everything about this place. It's a dungeon on a hill.
"Isn't it marvelous?" He responds with fervor. "Would you like something to drink?" He asks me from over his shoulder as he heads to a cart made from crystal and gold. The cart is brimming with an assortment of glass bottles filled with varying tones of amber liquid.
Borkov will offer you a drink but do not accept it.
I remember Matteo's stern command and shake my head. "No thank you, we don't want a repeat of last night, now do we?" I try to smile hoping he buys my lame excuse.
Mayer Borkov chuckles. "That we don't." He says pouring himself a drink "But, I have to say your clumsiness has paid off for me." He cheers the air between us before bringing the crystal tumbler to his thin lips and taking a swig. "I've had my eye on you for a while now." He confesses as he lowers the glass.
He's had his eye on me? What the hell does that mean? I cringe knowing that whatever it is, I won't like it. He speaks of me as if I am a high-priced cut of meat at Магнит supermarket that he's been wanting to buy solely to devour.
I lift a brow. "Is that so?"
"It is." He says coming closer. My eyes widen as he reaches up to stroke my cheek with the back of his fingers making my skin crawl. "Vladimir doesn't deserve you." He whispers in a way I can only assume is meant to be seductive but he sounds like a groaning possum. His eyes are black and sunken into his face as he gazes at me.
That's one thing we can both agree on.
As subtly as possible I pull away from his touch.
"How do you know Vladimir?" I ask sweetly in an attempt to keep the conversation going. I figure the more I get him talking, the fewer opportunities he'll have to touch me.
He takes another sip of his drink eyeing me eagerly over the rim. I don't like the looks he's giving me and the way he's already touching me without regard. As if he has preconceived notions about how this night will go and he's eager to get started.
What did Matteo promise you?
"We have—" he pauses thoughtfully, "business together."
I frown. What type of business could an elected official have with a man like Vladimir? Nothing good, that's for certain. And where does Matteo come into play with all of this?
Borkov inches closer to me again.
"I have a gift for you," I say lifting the box up between us and opening the lid to show him the cigar inside. He pauses mid-stride.
His face lights up as if me—the one he's had an eye on for a while—bringing him a gift is the best thing to ever happen to him. My heart sinks knowing those are the thoughts going through his mind. I can see it in his beady eyes.
He laughs enthusiastically, "You my dear are making me a very happy man, already!" He says turning to place a hand on my back. "But first I want to show you something."
Shit, shit, shit.
My eyes grow wide. I don't want to see anything or go anywhere. He nudges his hand against my spine forcing me forward. Out of sheer reluctance, I force myself to pick up one foot and then the other.
Borkov leads me out into the bitter cold onto a massive balcony that overlooks sprawling darkness. Way off in the distance you can see lights from the city twinkling like the stars. Beautiful but too far away to escape to.
"Isn't it beautiful?" He asks as his stubby fingers begin to rub circles up and down the bare skin of my back.
I nod my head trying my hardest not to break. I force myself to breathe through the caresses.
"This could all be yours if you wanted it." He sweeps his hand out in front of us.
My head snaps to him. Why in the world would I want that? I don't say anything to him in response, instead I flash him the best smile I can muster. He's too busy eyeing my breasts to notice the insincerity in my smile.
I give him a once over before turning away back out to the view. He has frown lines creasing his forehead and flabby jowls that hang from his jaw. He has to be in his late sixties, early seventies. Putting him forty to fifty years older than me.
I've heard many horrible things about him but the one rumor that circulates the most is that he has a thing for young girls. At twenty-two, I'm on the older side compared to what he typically goes for. It's disturbing. I meant it when I called him a pig.
I feel his hand begin to venture lower to grab my ass. I go stock-still not sure what to do. Matteo didn't tell me what to do if Borkov put his hands on me. He wants me to convince him to smoke the cigar, I doubt he cares how I do it. I shudder as Borkov's fingers scrape along the sheer material, feeling the straps of my thong beneath the dress. His meaty fingers follow their path to the middle where the lingerie disappears between my bottom. His fingers drag their way down.
Unable to handle his groping any longer I turn around sharply causing his hand to fall away completely.
"How about that smoke?" I say in a rush to dissuade him from grabbing me again. Borkov's bushy brows drop into a scowl, not happy with how I've untangled myself from him. I smile sweetly and take a step closer hoping my charade will be convincing enough for him. The last thing I want is to make him angry, especially before I'm able to get him to smoke the cigar.
But I'd also like to keep his hands off of me for as long as possible. Maybe if I'm the one to touch him I can maintain more control over the situation. I lift my hand and graze it along the thin skin of his cheek to his chapped lips. The touch is sensual or as sensuous as I can convoke. His features instantly perk. "I'll help you light it." I say with a wink.
He bobs his head up and down as if he's in a trance. After a moment he blinks out of it with a cough and a smile as he digs in his pocket for a light. I muster a smile back at him, taking the lighter from his hands—being sure to let my fingers graze his—before opening the box out in front of me.
We maintain eye contact as he pulls the cigar from the silk, sniffs it, then puts it to his mouth. I lift the light up and he leans in with the cigar pressed between his lips, to ignite it.
I watch with a thrill as he puffs on the cigar one, two, three times before speaking again.
I'm one step closer to getting out of this nightmare.
His eyes drop to my feet and with agonizing slowness drag their way up to my breasts before fixing back on my face.
His expression is greedy.
"You're just the total package, aren't you?" He mutters around the cigar, licking his lips again before going in for another drag.
My lips lift weakly, "so I've been told." I say as a shiver from the cold overtakes me. I try not to let him see it but it's too late. He turns to find an ashtray on a table and sets the cigar down before coming back to me.
I hide my alarm as he wraps a heavy arm over my shoulder tugging me into his side, fearful he didn't smoke it long enough.
He smells of smoke and mothballs.
"Let's get you inside. I have a few ideas of how to warm us both up."