Page 37 of Bratva Sacrifice

As if even looking at me is forbidden to them.

Except for Anatoli. Midway through the afternoon he happens upon me struggling to unscrew the doorknob of an exterior door with the edge of a file in a pair of nail clippers I found in a drawer of one of the myriad bathrooms. Every exterior door I’ve come across has a fingerprint lock. The staff navigate them easily, without thought. Of course they deny me, so prying off the doorknob itself is my only option.

With an irritated roll of his eyes and a muttered Russian curse, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps away. Texting Alexei, if I had to make a guess, to tattle on me for attempting to escape.

I ignore him. Pretend he’s not there, like I do with everyone else. Pry at the resisting screws until the metal of the file begins to bend and distort.

Behind me I hear the ping of an incoming text. Anatoli sighs his annoyance. “Fucking Christ,” he says, and I think it must have been for my benefit because it was English. His footsteps approach; I fist the nail clippers in my hand in case he’s been instructed to take them from me.

He says, “You want to go outside? Give me your hand.” He holds out his expectantly.

He’s still utterly exasperated. Probably he expected Alexei to chase me away from the door, enact some new restraint upon me. I think he might’ve been ordered to loosen my leash instead. He thinks it’s stupid. But it’s not his decision to make.

I tuck the nail clippers into the back pocket of my jeans. Anatoli grabs my hand before I can extend it. He presses my thumb to his phone, taps a few buttons. Grunts his displeasure again as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Go outside, then,” he says as he turns to stalk away.

I wait until he’s gone. And then I press my thumb to the fingerprint lock.

There’s a shrill beep. A light turns green. The lock retracts.

And the door opens.

∞∞∞

This isn’t a house. It’s not even an estate. It’s a compound, buried deep back from the nearest road, hidden behind a sturdy iron gate with an intercom.

It’s not long before I understand why I’m allowed to wander. I’m permitted to walk the grounds because there is no escape from them. There’s no fingerprint sensor upon the only gate I come across, no risk I’ll manage to open it or even squeeze through the bars. I can hear cars zooming by on a road far in the distance, but the bend in the hedge-lined driveway prevents anyone on the road from seeing me. I could scream, but the cars pass too quickly. The chances of being heard are slim. More likely than not, I’d be mistaken for some manner of wildlife. A fox, probably. I’ve heard their eerie screams before, which sound strangely human.

No one follows me as I walk the perimeter of the fence. No one needs to; there are dozens upon dozens of cameras. Some shift their positions as I pass, and I know there must be someone monitoring them, tracking my movements.

The fence reaches too far above my head to climb. The thick nest of razor wire that lines the top means I wouldn’t make it unscathed even if I could manage to get up that high.

I thought my dad’s house was fancy—at least, what little I managed to see of it before I ran—but this is on another level entirely. This is the sort of opulence reserved for movie stars and royalty.

Or for mafia bosses, I guess.

There’s tennis courts, which look unused. A huge garden with blooming flowers and an array of stone fountains. A separate building that I think must function as a pool house for the massive, sprawling pool complete with a giant waterslide and what looks like a swim-up bar. Do mobsters entertain? Throw pool parties for their underlings?

The water is crystal clear and sparkling. There’s a camera tucked beneath the eaves of the shaded pavilion behind me. I hear the faint whirr as it turns from its previous position to focus in on me. The afternoon sun is hot on the back of my neck, but the mechanical eyes that watch me feel hotter still.

And annoying.

I stomp around the pool and descend the steps of the sunken bar. There’s half a dozen refrigerators devoted to various juices, cans of beer and soft drinks, champagne, and prepared wedges of fruit and other accoutrements. Two blenders sit atop the counter. An automatic ice machine is built into the counter, next to the sink. Glasses fill shelves, all perfectly clean. Tiny cocktail umbrellas sit in a small container next to an unopened glass jar of maraschino cherries. A Bartender’s Guide lies open on the counter.

The back wall holds a vast selection of liquors and liqueurs, and all—except for the vodka—look unopened.

I wonder if there’s someone in this house whose job it is just to keep the bar stocked and permanently ready, just in case Alexei decides to go for a swim and make himself a cosmo.

Fuck it. I have nothing better to do, anyway. I flip through the guidebook until I find something that looks suitably fun—a mojito—and I set about compiling the ingredients. I’m lackadaisical about the measurements of the top-shelf white rum I selected from high on the wall, but that doesn’t matter either.

It’s not like I’m going to be driving any time soon.

I don’t know what a muddler is, so instead I crush the fresh mint leaves I found in one of the fridges in my fingers and tear them into my glass. I tip in a generous amount of simple syrup and rum, squeeze in a few lime wedges, fill the glass with ice, and top it all off with club soda.

It’s good. Sweet and bright, with a fresh minty flavor I like.

I sit by the edge of the pool, roll up the legs of my tattered old blue jeans, and dip my toes in the pool. My tiny apartment complex in Chicago doesn’t have a pool, and I never really had time to use the pool on campus when I was in college, so I don’t own a swimsuit.

And then I realize—that doesn’t matter, either.