Kay, this is my first lwd fanfic, so let me know if you guys like it and want to read more!
Disclaimer: I do not own lwd or any of its characters.
Chapter One
God, what the hell am I doing here? I thought as the gates opened to let me in. Screwing myself over, that's what I'm doing.
Still as royally screwed as I may be, ten million dollars was a hell of a reason to go through with this. So I pulled my sunglasses back to my eyes and took in the scenery.
The clean cut bushes, and huge green grass lawns. Sure I had seen many homes just like this, minus the guys hiding behind the bushes with machine guns. Again, what was I thinking agreeing to this?
The long driveway ended and I was greeted by a small crew of literal thugs standing on the stairs waiting for me. Okay, now I was scared.
"Mr. Venturi, you are late." The tallest, and possibly greasiest of the men asked when I stepped out of my car. His thick Russian accent warped the words as he moved to the front of the group. He reminded me more of a giant slab of meat than a man.
I smirked and shrugged my shoulders. "What can I say? I like to make a fashionable entrance."
He stepped forward, reaching out his hand… or was that a bear claw. Who's hands were really that big?! "The suitcase?"
Not wanting to upset I handed the metal case over. He nodded and motioned the two men behind him over to me. "Look him over."
Now, if you have never been felt up by Russian mobsters, I have to say I don't recommend it. These guys probably don't have the word gentle in their vocabulary. They roughly grabbed me, feeling up my pant and under my shirt. I am positive that it left bruises.
"Hey guys, watch the shirt… its designer." I said as I was finally being released.
They ignored me as they exchanged words in Russian before turning to me.
"Serge is waiting." Meat man himself informed me, turning into the house.
The house was something. Now I'm not some girl who cares about design or art, but even I could appreciate that house. The entryway was more like a gallery, belonging to a stuffy museum.
"Nice place." I said to meat man. He stopped at the end of the hallway. "Through the doors."
He handed me the suitcase he had inspected back over, and waited for me to enter.
Pulling open the heavy mahogany doors open revealed a black dark room. On the opposite wall were bright white curtains billowing into the room. They covered doors lining the wall, that let out to what looked like a patio behind the house. There was loud classical music playing, and at first I thought I was alone in the room. Then the wind shifted and the curtain pulled to the left revealing a man with his back to me.
His dark hair was slicked back, and he wore black from head to toe. It was something out of a movie. Again I couldn't help wondering who I had ended up there.
Not sure what to do I approached the man, and stopped dead in my tracks when he spoke to me without turning. "Of all the paintings, the sculptures, the masterpieces, none compare to the beauty of this."
His accent was a lot less noticeable than the others.
He sighed heavily and motioned me towards him, his back still facing me. "Derek, come."
I pinched myself to make sure I was awake before I moved. The man was clearly nuts, talking about what exactly?
Then when I stepped aside him in the doorway, I saw.
There was in fact a large patio, covered in arches and roses. Sun was coming down through the vines over the white stones, moving in strange patterns with the wind. She seemed to be dancing more to the beat of that, rather than the music.
Her lean body was covered in a plain, small black leotard, (a term I unwillingly learned years ago from my keener stepsister) Her long curly dark hair went nearly to her waist. But then there was her legs…
I took a deep breath as I watched her dark tan legs leaping in the air, the laces of the shoes clinging to them. He was right, she was otherworldly.
"Wow." I mumbled.
Serge laughed. "Yes."
His hand made its way to my shoulder as he turned me around and back towards the desk in the room. He held his hand out towards a chair in front of it as he rounded the desk to sit.
"Who was that?" I couldn't keep myself from asking.
"That was my fiancé Charlotte. She dances for the Miami City Ballet. You shall meet her later, but first business. Are the accounts all set up?" He asked as he settled back into a large black leather chair.
I unbuckled the case and reached for the papers. "The investments have been completed and the money all transferred to the decided international accounts. The account numbers and passwords are all listed on page six of that packet."
I slid the packet across the desk for him to inspect. After a few uncomfortable minutes he looked up suddenly. "Good, it's done. Now we eat."
With a click of a remote the music stopped, and the beauty from the patio named Charlotte walked into the shadow of the curtain. And then as the wind blew, the curtain moved away, and I began choking on the suddenly too thin air.
Without glancing towards my struggle, the familiar face, and slightly upturned nose walked over to the desk towards Serge. She was about seven years older since we last met, but un-aged. Her skin and hair darker, her looks more polished, the movements more fluid, but I knew her, I knew her well.
"Casey?!"