The place is nicer than he thought it would be. He expected something dingier, or maybe more evil. More Gothic, like Dracula's castle. But really, the mansion he drives up to is just as stately and respectable as the one his parents live in.
There's a wrought iron gate, and a man standing in front of it. He walks to the side of the sports car, expressionless behind black sunglasses, like some kind of secret service agent. The accent is unmistakably Russian. "Who are you?"
"Alfred Jones. Here to see your boss."
"Yes. He is expecting you." The guard opens the gate, and Alfred drives up the long lane. When he reaches the front steps, two other guys come to greet him, both in leather jackets stretched tight over their muscular shoulders.
"I will park your car in Mr. Braginski's garage," says the nearest one. "It will not be harmed."
Alfred doesn't care too much about his car being harmed. He hands the guard his keys, then glances at the other big man.
"I will take you to Mr. Braginski. Come."
Alfred follows without a word. The floors are so polished they reflect him and the elegant chandeliers above. He feels dusty in comparison. They go past the main foyer, down a long hallway, and stop at a closed door, the cherrywood so coated in finish it looks glossier than a magazine photograph.
The guard knocks on the door two precise times. "Please wait here." Then he turns and abandons Alfred.
After a few minutes, the door opens, revealing a pale blond man adjusting his glasses. Not shades, but actual spectacles like the ones Alfred would be wearing, if not for his contacts.
"He's ready for you now," the guy says, avoiding Alfred's gaze as he hurries in the same direction the guard did. Alfred wonders at his accent. Not Russian. Estonian? He can't be sure.
Alfred takes a deep breath to steady himself, then steps inside the office. He half-expected the Russian to have his tall-backed chair turned around like a Bond villain, but no, Braginski is facing him, hands folded neatly on the desk, azure gaze unblinking on Alfred.
"Welcome," he says, accent so thick Alfred thinks he must do it on purpose. "You would like to sit?"
"Would comes before you," Alfred corrects, sitting in a leather chair opposite Ivan.
Braginski's lips play at a self-deprecating smile, but his eyes are smirking, narrowed in a cunning sort of delight. He's pleased that Alfred has enough balls to correct Ivan Braginski's English grammar.
"Cigar?" The Russian holds one out to Alfred, who shakes his head politely. "It is too early for an American to drink, da?"
"Yes, I don't do much drinking before noon." Not since university. God, what a haven that campus had been. He misses school days dearly.
"Da. So. I have nothing else to offer you but a chance to speak." Ivan snips the end of the cigar, lights it with a match, and inhales, smoke curling around him like a dragon's breath. "How can I help you?"
Alfred tries to remember the lines he rehearsed earlier. "My husband, Arthur, is missing. I think he ran away, and I think he's going to make a big mistake. One that could really hurt him, and ruin our marriage. I want you to send someone to find him, and bring him back to me. Alive. Please." Manners can't hurt, right?
Braginski shakes his head slowly. "We do not do search and rescue. We do search and destroy." He gives a little shrug; he could be a guard himself with those huge shoulders. "If you want him killed or wounded, I could help then. Alive is not our job. Go to police for that."
Alfred feels his fate slipping away from him. He grips the armrests of his chair. "There must be something I can do. Please, Mr. Braginski. I'll do anything. I need Arthur back."
The Russian leans back in his chair, gaze calculating on Alfred as he sucks the cigar. Then, inexplicably, he says, "I have seen you before."
Alfred blinks. "Yes, you worked with my father years ago."
"Da. I went to his home. Nice place. I saw you, playing out in the front yard. You were a beautiful little boy." His lips curl upward slightly. "And you are a beautiful young man. Take off shirt."
Alfred feels a tiny trickle of fear inside his chest, like his heart is bleeding cold blood. "Mr. Br—"
"If you want help, take off shirt."
The words are firm, the voice so deep and commanding. Alfred's fingers are a little unsteady as he unbuttons his shirt. This is for Arthur, he thinks through the fear. For him, for my husband. The sooner I find him, the sooner he can get therapy and we can go back to normal. We can go on vacation, somewhere warm and pretty.
The shirt falls to the floor. The Russian's eyes trace the shape of Alfred's torso before he makes a minimal gesture with his cigar. "Pants off."
Alfred slowly stands up and unzips his pants. After a moment, they join his shirt on the floor, and he stands shivering in his white boxer briefs and American flag socks. Arthur got those for him, for Independence Day last year. This is for him.
Braginski beckons him closer. There is a hunger in those azure eyes now. Alfred feels dread rising like bile as he steps around the other side of the desk. Ivan pushes his chair back a little, and Alfred can see the erection already straining at the other man's pants. Alfred can't keep his eyes from widening. How big is it?! It looks huge! Oh, god—
For Arthur. For Arthur.
That's what Alfred tells himself as Ivan stands up and bends Alfred over his desk. As he spanks Alfred's skin raw. As he pushes inside without preparation or protection.
For Arthur.
As Ivan sinks his teeth into Alfred's shoulder hard enough to draw blood. As Alfred's body fights against this agonizing intruder. As skin, flesh, tissue rips. As sobs set fire to his throat.
For Arthur.
Eventually, Ivan gives a final thrust and pulls out of Alfred, who stands on shaky legs, a walking crime scene, dripping sweat, semen, blood.
For the briefest of seconds, he lets himself think, I could go to the police.
A bullet to the head would be much, much easier.
Braginski buckles his belt and picks up his cigar again. He taps it gently with a fingertip, and some ash crumbles off, landing impotently on some papers atop his desk. The Russian takes a drag from the cigar and chuckles at Alfred, smoke oozing between his teeth.
"We will find your husband. It is a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Jones." He leaves without another glance at Alfred, trailing smoke in his wake.
Alfred limps over to his clothes, but jumps when he hears a voice. He glances up. It's the blond with the glasses.
"I'll show you where the bathroom is, so you can have a shower." He sounds weary. "Don't worry about covering up. Nobody will look. We've all been there before."
Alfred bleeds for a week.
For Arthur.