I expect the car to explode at every intersection. Every time we stop and the car is idling, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the end. When the driver takes a turn too sharply, I yelp, certain he upset the balance of whatever mechanism is strapped to the underside of the vehicle. It isn’t until we pull through a set of wrought iron gates and park in front of the Volkov mansion that I am able to think about anything other than dying a fiery death.
The driver opens the door, and I scramble out of the car quickly, glad to be in the open air. I take a deep breath only to have it catch in my throat. The Volkov mansion is huge. Much bigger than I imagined.
The central part of the house is a red brick rectangle with three clearly-defined floors. Double-hung windows with white shutters dot th
