Chapter 3: Mafia Interview
The Galleria’s central atrium soared five stories above them, a cage of glass and polished steel filled with the sterile scent of chilled air and expensive perfume. Sunlight streamed in, glinting off the marble floors, a world away from the velvet-draped darkness of the mayor’s study. Julia adjusted the strap of her shopping bag, the weight of a new silk blouse inside feeling absurdly light compared to the leaden secret she now carried.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of sitting at the news desk, her body subtly aching in remembered places, a phantom fullness between her legs when she shifted in her chair. Two weeks of smiling for the cameras, her voice steady as she reported on city budget approvals, all while feeling Sergeyev’s ghostly release trickle down her inner thigh. The shame had mutated. It had melded with the adrenaline, the filthy thrill, into a constant, low-grade hunger. A hunger for that brutal validation, for the obliterating force of it.
“Does this make me look like I’m trying too hard?” Olga asked, emerging from a fitting room in a cocktail dress so short it was basically a long shirt.
“Yes,” Julia said, sipping her iced coffee. “That’s the point.”
Olga grinned, a flash of their old dynamic, but her eyes held a new, restless knowledge. They were co-conspirators now. They had not spoken of it directly, not beyond terse, coded text messages. You okay? Surviving. You? Same. The silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.
Olga bought the dress. “For a day when I feel like causing a car accident,” she said, handing over her black credit card.
They were walking past the food court, the smell of greasy fries and cinnamon rolls clashing with their chic, mall-walker outfits—Olga in tight white jeans and a blush-pink camisole, Julia in a simple but unforgiving navy wrap dress that clung to every curve—when a voice called out.
“Julia! Over here!”
She turned. It was Lera, her neighbor from three doors down. Lera was perched on a stool at a high-top table, surrounded by three men. Not her husband. These were different. They had the relaxed, vaguely predatory posture of men on a casual prowl. Two were in their late forties, dressed in expensive casual wear—dark sweaters, designer jeans. One was younger, maybe late thirties, with a gym-built physique visible even under his jacket.
“Lera, hi,” Julia said, forcing her polished news-anchor smile. Olga hovered just behind her, a blonde echo.
“We’re taking a break from pretending to care about furniture,” Lera laughed, waving a hand. “My brother, Ilya.” She pointed to the older, darker-haired man with watchful eyes. “And his friends, Misha and Kostya.” Misha was the other older one, bald with a sharp goatee. Kostya was the younger, muscular one. “Boys, this is Julia, the famous face from Channel Seven. And her friend…”
“Olga,” Olga supplied, her voice slipping automatically into its flirty, melodic register. She leaned a hip against the table, her posture opening.
“Of course! The weather dream,” Ilya said, his voice a smooth baritone. His gaze swept over them, appreciative and calculating, lingering a beat too long on Julia’s dress where it wrapped across her chest. “My wife watches you every evening. She says you explain cold fronts better than her own mother.”
“High praise,” Julia said, her smile stiff.
Kostya, the younger one, hadn’t taken his eyes off Olga’s camisole. “Shopping for trouble?” he asked her directly, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Trouble finds us,” Olga replied, tilting her head. “We’re just providing the appropriate wardrobe.”
Misha laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “I bet it does.” He looked at Julia. “You two take a walk, heads turn. It must be exhausting.”
There was a thickness to the air now. It wasn’t the brutal, transactional hunger of the mayor’s office. This was different. Social. Flirtatious. A game. But Julia felt her pulse quicken anyway. Their attention was a spotlight, and after the secret darkness of the last few weeks, she craved the heat of it. These were normal men. Her neighbor’s brother. Husband’s friends. The kind of men who lived in her world.
And she was starving.
“It’s a living,” Julia said, letting her gaze meet Ilya’s for a moment before looking away, a practiced, coy move.
“Join us,” Lera insisted, gesturing to empty stools. “These cretins were about to buy us overpriced cocktails at the bar upstairs. Save us from their boring company.”
Olga was already sliding onto a stool next to Kostya. “I never say no to a cocktail before five. It’s a meteorologist’s prerogative.”
Julia followed, the navy silk of her dress tightening across her thighs as she sat. Kostya’s eyes dropped to the movement. She felt it like a touch.
Ilya signaled a waiter. “Champagne? Or something stronger?”
“Stronger,” Julia heard herself say. “Whiskey. Neat.”
Olga raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Same. Make it two.”
Misha whistled softly. “Serious drinkers. I like it.”
The drinks came. The conversation flowed—safe, banal topics at first. The traffic, a new restaurant, the absurdity of municipal politics. Julia took a sip of the whiskey, letting its fire cut through the mall’s artificial chill. She felt the men’s attention like a physical warmth. Ilya asked her about a recent investigative piece she’d done, his questions intelligent, his eyes never leaving hers. Misha teased Olga about a botched forecast, his hand briefly brushing her arm as he laughed.
But beneath the banter, the current was unmistakable. It was in the way Kostya leaned closer to Olga to point at something on her phone, his shoulder pressing into hers. It was in the way Ilya’s foot, under the small table, accidentally-on-purpose brushed against Julia’s heel and didn’t move it away.
Lera, after a third cocktail, became cheerfully oblivious, chatting about her kids’ school drama.
“You know,” Ilya said, his voice dropping slightly, speaking just to Julia. “You look… tense. All that serious news reporting. It must knot you up.”
Julia felt a flush creep up her neck. You have no idea. “It has its moments,” she said, taking another sip.
“My brother’s a masseur,” Misha chuckled, nudging Ilya. “A real one. Not that happy-ending nonsense. Fixes bad backs for a living.”
“Is that so?” Julia asked.
“I have very skilled hands,” Ilya said, his tone light, but his meaning was a stone dropped into a still pool. He held her gaze. “I can tell just by looking at someone where they hold their stress.” His eyes drifted from her eyes, down to her neck, to the subtle rise and fall of her chest under the silk. “The shoulders. The jaw. The lower back.”
Olga, hearing this, laughed—a bright, knowing sound. “Julia does an hour of yoga every morning. She’s all about… release.”
Kostya’s hand was now on the back of Olga’s stool, his fingers inches from the bare skin of her shoulder. “Yoga’s good. But sometimes you need a more direct approach. External forces.”
The memory of Sergeyev’s hands on her hips, driving into her, flashed behind Julia’s eyes. She shifted on the stool, a soft ache echoing from deep within her. The whiskey was loosening something, a valve on the pressure cooker of her need.
“This is fun,” Lera slurred happily, “but my feet are killing me. Ilya, you boys escort these lovely ladies wherever they need to go. I’m calling a car.”
There was a beat of silence after Lera wandered off. The dynamic shifted, electricity crackling in the space she left behind.
Ilya swirled the ice in his glass. “So. Escort duty. Where to?”
Olga looked at Julia, a silent question flashing between them. It was a look that said, We can walk away. We should walk away. It was also a look that said, I don’t want to.
Julia held Olga’s gaze across the table. The hum of the mall faded into a distant buzz. Her skin felt too tight, her dress suddenly a thin barrier against the weight of the men’s stares. Ilya’s foot was still pressed against her heel. She didn’t pull away.
“Our place is just around the corner,” Olga said, her voice smooth as honey. She wasn’t looking at Julia anymore. She was looking at Kostya’s mouth. “We could have a nightcap. Better whiskey than this mall swill.”
Kostya’s smile widened. “A private tasting. I like your style.”
“A massage sounds… incredible, actually,” Julia heard herself say. The words tasted like betrayal and gasoline. “My lower back is a disaster.” She rotated a shoulder, a deliberate, slow movement that made the silk strain across her chest.
Ilya’s watchful eyes tracked the motion. “I can see that. The way you hold yourself. All that perfect posture on TV. It’s a wall.” He finished his drink. “Let’s go fix that wall.”
No one asked for addresses. No one discussed logistics. It was settled. Misha threw a wad of cash on the table, far too much, a casual display of power. They stood in a loose group, the energy shifting from social to purposeful. Julia gathered her shopping bag, her fingers numb on the handle.
They walked through the Galleria’s gleaming corridors, a strange procession. Ilya and Julia slightly ahead, Misha and Olga close behind, Kostya trailing like a pleased guard dog. Their reflections shimmered in the shop windows—beautiful women, sharp-dressed men, a picture of normalcy. Julia’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“Nervous?” Ilya asked, his voice low.
“Curious,” she lied.
Outside, the evening air was cool. Ilya led them to a black SUV, sleek and expensive. He opened the back passenger door for Julia, his hand lingering on the small of her back as she slid in. The touch was proprietary. Olga slid in beside her, their hips and thighs pressed together in the dark leather cavern.
Misha took the front passenger seat. Kostya got in the driver’s side. The doors thunked shut, sealing them in. The interior smelled of new leather and cedar.
“So, a real massage,” Olga said, breaking the quiet as the SUV pulled into traffic. She was playing her part, the playful tease. “No happy endings, you said?”
Misha turned in his seat, his grin visible in the dashboard lights. “We never promised that. We said not that kind of massage parlor. Different thing entirely.”
Kostya chuckled, glancing at them in the rearview. His eyes glittered. “The ending depends on you.”
Ilya, sitting in the back row directly behind Julia, leaned forward. His breath was warm near her ear. “The body holds onto everything, Julia. Stress. Anger.” He paused. “Guilt. My job is to find those knots and undo them.”
His words were a key turning in a lock deep inside her. She stared out the window at the blurring city lights. She thought of Sergeyev’s hands, not undoing knots, but creating new, deeper ones. She stayed silent.
The drive was short. They entered an opulent, modern apartment building near the river. The lobby was silent marble. The elevator ride was wordless, thick with anticipation. Ilya’s apartment was all clean lines and muted tones, a stark contrast to the mayor’s decadent study. It felt sterile, almost clinical.
“Shoes off,” Ilya instructed, his voice assuming a soft command. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Olga kicked off her heels with a relieved sigh, padding barefoot onto the thick cream carpet. Julia slowly bent to unstrap her sandals, aware of every eye on the curve of her back. When she straightened, Ilya was holding out two glasses of amber liquid.
“For the muscles. To help them… unclench.”
Julia took the glass, her fingers brushing his. The whiskey was smoother, older than the bar’s. She drank it down in two burning swallows.
Misha had dimmed the lights and was rolling out two thick, black mats onto the floor of the spacious living room. He produced bottles of oil from a cabinet, the citrus and sandalwood scent immediately cutting through the apartment’s blank odor.
“Who’s first?” Kostya asked, pulling his fitted sweater over his head. His torso was a map of disciplined muscle.
Olga didn’t hesitate. “Me.” She stepped out of her white jeans, leaving her in just the blush camisole and a tiny lace thong. She lay down on her stomach on the mat, turning her head to look at Kostya. “Show me your direct approach.”
Kostya knelt beside her, pouring oil into his palms. He rubbed them together, warming it. His hands, when they first made contact with the skin of her back, were surprisingly gentle. He started at her shoulders, working his thumbs in deep, deliberate circles.
A soft moan escaped Olga’s lips. She buried her face in her crossed arms. “God, that’s… yeah. Right there.”
Julia watched, her own whiskey-fueled nerves singing. Ilya gestured to the other mat. “Your turn. On your back. I need to see your face to read the tension.”
The command was unnervingly intimate. Julia lowered herself onto the cool mat. She lay on her back, the navy wrap dress the only thing between her skin and the room’s gaze. Ilya knelt at her head, his silhouette blocking the soft light from the floor lamp.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured.
She did. The world shrank to sound and touch. She could hear Olga’s escalating, pleasured sighs, the slick sound of oil, Kostya’s low murmurs of “good?” and Olga’s breathy “don’t stop.” She felt the warmth of Ilya’s hands hovering near her temples.
His fingers settled into her hairline, his thumbs pressing into the hollows at the base of her skull. The pressure was instant, profound, a shock of pure sensation that blurred the line between pain and relief. A choked sound, part gasp, part sob, caught in her throat.
“There it is,” Ilya whispered. His voice was a clinical caress. “The anchor point. Where you hold the world.” He worked the spot, his movements rhythmic and inexorable. Pleasure, sharp and unexpected, radiated from his touch, unspooling down her spine.
On the adjacent mat, Olga’s massage had evolved. Kostya’s hands were on her legs now, sliding up her calves to her thighs, the heels of his palms digging into the taut muscle. His thumbs strayed dangerously close to the edge of her lace thong. Olga shifted, spreading her legs just a fraction.
“Easy,” Kostya whispered, but his hands didn’t retreat. They slid higher, his fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
“I’m not made of glass,” Olga breathed into the mat, her voice muffled but clear.
Ilya’s hands moved from Julia’s skull, down the column of her throat. His thumbs stroked either side of her windpipe, a frighteningly vulnerable touch. Then his oil-slick palms slid under her shoulders, lifting her slightly from the mat. His strong fingers found the knots along her shoulder blades, the ones she’d carried for years.
A tear, hot and sudden, leaked from the corner of her eye and trailed into her hairline. It wasn’t sadness. It was a sudden, violent release of a pressure she hadn’t fully named. His hands moved down her sides, tracing her ribs, skimming the outer swell of her breasts through the silk.
“The dress is in the way,” he said, his voice still that soft, infuriating calm. “It’s restricting the work.”
Across the room, Olga rolled onto her back. Kostya was kneeling between her legs, his hands on her bare stomach, just below her camisole. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted. She watched Julia.
Julia opened her eyes. She looked at Ilya’s focused, unreadable face above her. She looked at Olga, who gave a barely perceptible nod. A silent scream echoed in the space between them, a scream of complicity and unspent desire.
Julia reached for the tie of her wrap dress. She pulled the loose end, and the whole thing fell open.
The navy silk parted like a curtain, revealing the taut, tanned plane of her stomach and the black lace cups of her bra. The air in the sterile room, once cool, now felt charged and thick. Ilya’s clinical focus shattered. A raw, hungry sound escaped his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word dropping like a stone.
His hands, which had been instruments of precise pressure, became possessive. He didn’t ask. He hooked his fingers into the sides of her bra and pulled it down, freeing her breasts. They were fuller than the lace had suggested, tipped with dark, stiffened nipples. His gaze drank her in, his earlier calm utterly incinerated.
“Every night on television,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “That sharp suit. That serious face.” His oil-slick palm swept over her nipple, making her back arch off the mat. “And under it… this.”
Across from them, Kostya had pushed Olga’s camisole up to her chin. His mouth was on her breast, sucking deeply, his hand kneading the other. Olga’s fingers were tangled in his short hair, her hips rolling against the empty air. “Yes, just like that,” she hissed, her professional cheer stripped away to bare, desperate need.
Misha watched from the edge of the room, a silent curator of the debauchery. He unbuttoned his own shirt slowly, his eyes fixed on the two women unraveling under his friends’ hands. He poured more oil into his palm, the sound obscenely liquid in the quiet.
Ilya’s touch turned purposeful, less about therapy and more about conquest. He smoothed oil over Julia’s ribs, down the dip of her waist, spreading it across her hip bones. His thumbs dug into the crease where thigh met torso, a shock of intimate pressure. “You’re all locked up here,” he growled, his fingers inching under the waistband of her thong. “Holding onto everything. All that tight, perfect control.”
Julia gasped. His touch was an accusation and a release. The memory of Sergeyev using her, the sterile humiliation of it, was overwritten by this focused, voracious attention. This felt personal. She was melting under it. “Ilya…” she whispered, a warning that held no force.
“Quiet,” he said, his voice softening into a dangerous velvet. “Let me work.”
He peeled her thong down her legs, his movements deliberate, unveiling her completely. She was exposed, splayed on the black mat under the low light, a feast presented. He positioned himself between her legs, his hands running back up her inner thighs, spreading her. The cool air kissed her wetness, a humiliation that made her clench.
“Look at this,” Ilya said, not to her, but to the room. “So ready. And you haven’t even been touched here yet.”
He didn’t touch her there. Not directly. He leaned down, his mouth hovering over her breast, his breath hot. “You think about this, don’t you? In your perfect living room. Watching your boring husband fall asleep.” He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking with a rough, rhythmic pull that shot straight to her core.
She cried out, her hands flying to his head. She didn’t push him away. She held him there.
On the other mat, Kostya had entered Olga. There was no preamble, no gentle stretching. He’d positioned her on her hands and knees, pulled her thong aside, and driven his thick cock into her with one relentless thrust. Olga’s shriek was pure, ragged triumph. “FUCK! God, yes!”
“Tight little dream,” Kostya grunted, his hands gripping her hips, setting a brutal, slapping pace. “All that teasing on TV. This is what you wanted.”
Misha finally approached Julia’s mat. He knelt by her head, his own cock out, thick and heavy in his hand. He stroked it slowly, his eyes on Ilya’s mouth working her breast, on the glistening proof of her arousal between her legs. “He’s right,” Misha said to Julia, his voice conversational. “You’re dripping. Begging for it without saying a word.”
Ilya released her breast with a wet pop. He looked up, his lips glistening, his eyes wild. “I can’t wait anymore,” he snarled, the last vestige of his therapist persona gone. He clawed his palms down her tanned body, from her breasts, over her stomach, leaving faint red trails on her oiled skin. He gripped her hips, his fingers biting into the flesh.
He positioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing against her.