Page 29 of Fallen Saint
I gasp in horror. “How long until your father’s debt is paid off?”
“I am enslaved to Alek for the rest of my life.”
I don’t know what to say because I want to say so much. “That must be some debt your father owes.”
She doesn’t reply.
I don’t press because Sara may be my only ally in this place. We walk, or I hobble, toward the door as I know she will be my shadow from here on out.
When we step out into the long hallway, I stop in my tracks to take it all in. Countless doors branch off the corridor. The carpet has a Persian design, and the same wallpaper as in my room covers the walls.
This doesn’t appear to be a simple house but, rather, a mansion or a palace. As we continue our journey, I gape at my surroundings. When we walk out into the foyer, I extend my neck as far as I can to study the domed ceilings. They are painted with artwork like something you’d see in the Sistine Chapel.
Sara gently coaxes me along as she clearly worries Alek will return soon.
We venture into the living rooms, dining rooms, ballrooms, and kitchens, and each one is more elaborate than the one before it. Artwork complements the gold décor, and it seems no expense is spared. But Alek can afford it. He enslaves people and profits from their exploitation.
“Who is Alek?” I ask, more to myself. Saint said he’s the most powerful man in Russia, but what does he do to obtain his wealth?
“He’s a drug lord,” Sara explains, filling in the blanks. “But to the unsuspecting, he’s just a businessman with connections all over the world. Not much happens in this country without Alek’s consent. The government are corrupt, and together, they have unrivaled power. He’s untouchable.”
A shiver passes over me because this is a lot worse than I thought.
“Who are The Circle?” I ask, remembering Saint mention this ambiguous group.
Sara slams her hand over my mouth, eyes wide as she shakes her head. “Neversay that name.”
But I don’t listen. “Why not?” I shrug from her hold, refusing to be silenced.
Sara backs up, appearing as though she’s seen a ghost. “Becausetheydon’t exist.”
It’s futile to ask whotheyare because it would go against her entire claim. “Where’s the front door?”
Sara looks at me as if I’ve just asked her to give me her right arm. “You can’t just walk out.”
“Watch me,” I challenge, deciding to find it myself. I don’t care that I’m barefoot and traipsing around in a nightgown. I want to draw attention. Hopefully, my disheveled appearance will alert law enforcement so I can tell them all about the vile monster named Aleksei Popov.
“Willow, please.” Sara runs after me, yanking on my arm. I understand her fear because if I leave, she will suffer because of my actions. However, if I…
Without a second thought, I turn around and slap her cheek—hard. She staggers back, cupping her cheek in horror.
I flinch but don’t regret my actions. “Now you can tell him I knocked you out and escaped while you were unconscious.”
She blinks once—whether admiring my courage or mourning my death, I’m not sure—but I don’t plan on sticking around to find out. I run through the house, intent on finding a way out. Door. Window. I don’t care. I just need an exit, and I need one now.
Remembering the main kitchen was down to the left, I decide to try there first. Surely, there is a back door or even a servant’s entry because I have no doubt Alek has many of them. No one was in there before, so the coast should be clear.
And it is.
My feet skid along the polished tiles as I desperately search for an exit. But there isn’t a door. “Goddammit!” I curse angrily, about to flee, but something from the corner of the room catches my eye. An old red rug looks out of place, so going with my gut, I dive for it and kick the edge away, and what I see has my heart almost bursting from my chest. It’s a trapdoor.
I don’t know where it leads, but it’s better than being stuck in here. Besides, someone like Alek has to have a secret passage, and I bet this is it. Just as I drop to my knees and hurriedly roll the carpet away, I hear a voice that makes my skin crawl.
It’s Alek, and I have mere seconds until he busts me.
The old brass handle has a lock on it. “No!” I cry in a mere whisper when I yank at it, only to find it’s locked. I was hoping by some miracle it would be unlocked.
Wishing I had more time to look for a key, I know if he finds me here, my only escape route will be foiled. Iwillfind that key. Just not now.