Mabel Shot Part 2

My eyes observe the flames of the fireplace in the room, burning the wood until it turns to embers. I take a deep breath and inhale slowly, my fingers digging into my knees, pressing them firmly against my dress. The large sofa I'm sitting on faces the rustic fireplace. I sigh and divert my gaze from the flames when a large hand reaches close to my face, extending a glass of vodka to me.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the large man, taking the glass in my hands, bringing it to my mouth, and taking a sip of the drink.
I study him silently, my eyes attentive, following his steps over the rim of the glass. He turns his back to me and walks to the small bar in the corner, pouring a drink for himself. The black jeans cling to his body, making him look even taller. A leather motorcycle jacket covers his broad shoulders, complementing the military boots he wears. I quietly lower the glass and rest it on my lap, my hands holding it tightly. He turns and moves authoritatively through the room, his dominant presence filling the space. He lazily walks to an armchair, grabs it by the back, drags it to the center of the room, and positions it in front of me. I watch him sit, relaxing his back against the chair, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
“Why are you here, Miss Shot?” His brown eyes remain intense, studying me closely as he takes a sip of his drink. “I remember asking you this in our last encounter, but I didn’t receive my answer. I hope you have it now.”
I bring the glass to my lips and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing quickly, my chest rising and falling with anguish, trying to calm myself without any idea of what to say. I wasn’t even sure I would find him; I hadn’t prepared any speech or imagined any dialogue between us, let alone being alone with him in a locked room.
“I imagine you must have liked my house,” he speaks seriously, causing me to open my eyes and see him tilt his head to the side, staring at my trembling hand holding the glass.
“Your house?” I lower the drink and rest it on my lap again, looking lost at him. “You live here, you own this, Sodoma?”
“Sodoma has no owner, Miss Shot.” He straightens his head, raising his eyes from my fingers to my face. “Sodoma has advisors, and I am the one from Moscow.”
“I...” I smile, embarrassed, and divert my eyes from his, feeling strange about how affected I am by his gaze, as if all the air in my lungs has vanished. “I thought you were the owner. Sorry, I think I misunderstood when you said house...”
“But here is my house. Not where I live, but where I care for and protect the members of Sodoma who live in Moscow, or anyone who enters through the doors,” he responds politely, using simple words as if explaining to a child. “Like a host when receiving guests in his home; he accommodates them, takes care of them, and ensures their stay is good and safe.”
“You are in charge here; I understand.” I turn my face to the side and see the peculiar decorations in the room: small sculptures of naked women in various positions on a counter. “The people who frequent your establishment are your guests.”
“Exactly.” His voice remains calm as he drinks his glass of vodka. “Do you have my answer now, little bird?”
My eyes return to his face, and I see him serious, studying me as he lowers the glass from his lips, showing no emotion on his stoic face.
“What do your guests do, exactly, in your house, sir?” I ask him instead of answering his question, which I still don’t know how to respond to.
The dark Russian lowers his glass and places it on the floor next to his chair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he intertwines his fingers, his chin resting atop them.
“Do you know what Sodoma is, Mabel?” Again, a question, as if we were playing a game of cat and mouse, trying to figure out who will catch whom first. And he knows in this game, I will lose.
I recall the first day I entered and thought of many theories: a butcher shop, an exhibition of depraved paintings, a religious cult of a man half-goat, and finally, the only thing that seemed logical was that this place was a secret swing club.
“A raunchy version of the Illuminati,” I joke, trying to use my ironic humor to hide my nervousness.
“Far from it, little bird,” he replies seriously, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. “Sodoma is the union of influential people with a broad idea of seeking sublime pleasure. We merely have common and somewhat limited interests and objectives.”
“It still sounds like a sex brotherhood, just with powerful people who enjoy debauchery and perversion,” I murmur, sinking into the sofa, looking lost at my glass.
Shit, what am I getting myself into?!
I mentally scold myself, trying to think of the best moment to make my exit politely, getting out of this room as quickly as I can.
“It’s not a brotherhood but rather a legacy that has crossed history, so to speak, that can be found well before Christianity, during the Roman Empire.”
“The pagan cults,” I say, lifting my face to him, watching him nod in agreement.
I remember Macro telling me about that Pan and the whole scene they made that day. I did a little research as homework and found out that the Romans enjoyed a lot of debauchery and depravity; that was quite clear. “As the cults gained more space, the Roman monarchs felt threatened by the notoriety being created around it. And fearing it would affect their power and law, they chose to condemn the practitioners, silencing forever those who refused to abandon the practice.”
I remain silent, listening to his voice, which remains low and calm, making me feel again like a quiet girl listening to the dissertations of Alekessandra, my adoptive mother, when she taught me at home. The difference is that it’s not her who has my attention, yelling angrily at me, but rather those dangerous brown eyes, with a hypnotic voice that captivates me.
“Many powerful people of the Roman Empire participated in the cults, so fearing the monarchy, they found it better to hide in the shadows, making their practices less conspicuous,” he explains seriously, turning his eyes back to my hands.
“I think I got lost in this conversation.” I shake my head and slowly sway it from side to side. “Are we talking about sex or the Roman corporate monarchy?”