“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 toobserve 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.
