Page 57 of Koroleva

With hands on the Russian

I asked Nikita to lie down on the massage table, saying that I need to change my pants.

It was a half-truth. I also wanted to call Aleksa.

I entered the room and put the speakerphone on so I could change at the same time.

He sounded a bit rushed when he answered.

"Yes, boss?"

"Am I interrupting? Were you sleeping?"

"No, no, not at all, I just had the phone charging. Is something up?"

"I was calling to check on the progress of Nikita's report."

"It's moving slowly; Andrey is a damn vault."

"Did you expect less from him?"

"No, but... he's worse than me, barely talks."

"Then we'll have to loosen his tongue. Take him to the bar, tell him you need to talk about Dante, make sure you've got your story straight with him, I don’t care what you come up with, but get him to go along. Get him to drink, to do drugs, or if necessary inject him with sodium pentothal, I have some in the office. Whatever it takes, but make him talk. I want to know what my wife is hiding and I want that information today. Is that clear?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good. I expect you for breakfast tomorrow, and you better bring the answers I need."

"Don’t worry."

I changed my pants and underwear. The wine had soaked through both. I should have talked about Adriano earlier, or in a different way. Sometimes I struggle to find the right moment. The important thing was that I had said it and she couldn't accuse me of having hidden it from her for too long. She didn’t take it too badly, considering how things ended up with Irene at La Marca. That neck spasm saved me from possibly having a limb amputated.

There was still something about her that threw me off, kept me on my toes, yet drew me in like a moth to a flame.

I had a serious problem with my wife, and it was that I didn't want to be burned. There are matchstick women and bonfire women, Nikita was a goddamn post-apocalyptic fire, and laying my hands on her body would turn me to ashes.

When I entered the spa, the first thing I saw was her sculpted body. She hadn’t bothered to put a towel on her bottom. Why would she? After all, I had seen her naked more than once and she seemed to enjoy showing off her nudity. I would never forget the image of her stepping out onto the balcony topless to say good morning.

Her arms were positioned so that her forehead rested on the back of her hands and her face was nestled in the hole.

I went to the speaker and asked it to play a song that reminded me of my wife. "I Feel Like I'm Drowning" by Two Feet.

I took the bottle of oil from the cabinet that I used when I called my masseuse, and the first chords started to flow.

I reached the side of the massage table and turned on the infrared lamp, focusing on the area. I made sure to turn off the rest and turn on the micro LED lights on the ceiling that emulated a starry night sky.

"Relax," I murmured, moving close to her ear. "If I hurt you, let me know," I said, earning a feminine "uh-huh."

I poured a stream of oil between my hands to warm it up. My eyes lingered on the vision of her clear nape and undulating spine.

You keep dreaming and scheming in the dark.

Yes, you do.

The male voice filled the room. The oil was greasy and spiced. A family recipe provided by Ana María, made from herbs, plants, and natural essences.

You're a poison and I know it's the truth.

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