27. Via
VIA
I stop in front of the smart-home control tablet mounted next to the bathroom door.
The screen is dark, but when I tap the glass, the interface asks for a diagnostic pin to access the master security settings.
I lean my head against the cool plaster wall, a dry, angry smile spreading across my lips.
For the first month in this place, I was a model prisoner.
Not because I wanted to be, but because he had me completely locked down, isolated from any network, and stripped of everything but my own thoughts.
I couldn't have hacked a toaster in those first weeks.
But then he started giving me liberties.
He took me to the shooting range, let me attend the gala, and handed me back a phone under a supposedly secure, monitored profile.
He thought he was being a generous captor. I thought he was giving me a Trojan horse.
I didn't just sit pretty and play games on that device.
Every single hour I spent unsupervised in this room, I was quietly mapping out the house's IP routing tables, tracing his administrative defaults, and studying the municipal safe-room fire escape codes.
I spent weeks building a digital blueprint of my cage, waiting for the one slip-up that would let me bypass his physical locks.
And today, he gave it to me. He secures the perimeter but leaves the inside running on default local administrative protocols because he assumes no one inside is smart enough to look at the subnet.
I pull the phone from the pocket of my cardigan, my fingers moving fast across the screen as I bridge into the local subnet. I type in the same password I used for his laptop yesterday, Ekaterina18112008.
The phone screen flickers, a neat list of the estate’s automated utilities filling the display. I scroll past the climate control, past the heated pool settings, straight to the master fire-containment protocols.
In a high-end estate like this, the master bedroom is designated as a safe room.
If the fire alarm triggers, the physical iron bolts on the doors are programmed to retract automatically so the residents don't get trapped inside and roasted. It’s a standard safety feature required by the municipal building codes.
I find the override for the third-floor fire-test diagnostic.
I tap the screen.
A loud, metallic clunk echoes through the quiet bedroom as the heavy iron bolt inside the door frame slides back
I slide my phone into the pocket of my cardigan, a small, satisfied breath escaping my lips.
One point for the captive. I push the heavy oak doors open slowly, the hinges silent in the quiet hallway.
The corridor is empty, the low amber lights throwing long shadows across the carpet.
I know there are two guards standing at the far end of the wing near the grand staircase, their heavy boots occasionally shuffling against the marble. I can't go that way.
I turn left, heading toward the narrow utility corridor where the maids keep the clean linens and the laundry chutes.
It’s a tight, carpeted tunnel that bypasses the main hall completely, leading straight to the west wing where Ekaterina’s bedroom is located.
I creep down the passage, my steps silent in my thick wool socks, until I reach the linen closet.
Inside, the metal mouth of the laundry chute descends into the dark, leading straight to the basement washroom three floors below.
I reach into the closet, my hand finding a heavy, old-fashioned steam iron resting on the shelf.
I drop it straight down the metal chute.
The sound is absolutely deafening. A massive, crashing metallic shriek echoes through the walls of the house as the iron tumbles down the steel tunnel, sounding exactly like a door being kicked in or an intruder breaking through the basement windows.
"Intruder! Lower level!"
The shout carries from the main hallway, followed by the sudden, frantic thud of heavy boots running toward the stairs. I peek around the edge of the utility door, watching the two guards scramble down the main corridor, their rifles drawn as they head toward the source of the noise.
I dart across the hall, slipping into the west wing before the dust can even settle.
Ekaterina’s room has a single guard standing outside, a younger enforcer named Pyotr who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
He’s holding his rifle across his chest, his eyes darting toward the staircase where the noise came from, his jaw tight with indecision.
He wants to run down and help, but he has orders to stay on her door.
I step out of the shadows, my face perfectly calm as I walk toward him. "Pyotr. Thank God."
He flinches, his rifle muzzle dropping slightly as he sees me. "Mrs. Kovalevskiia? You’re supposed to be in the master suite."
"Ilya sent me," I say, my voice steady, my tone filled with a fake, breathless panic that I’ve practiced in the mirror. "There’s an alarm in the basement. He wants you to report to the kitchen entry immediately. Dmitri needs every hand on the perimeter."
He hesitates, his eyes looking down the hall toward the staircase, then back at me. "But the Pakhan said—"
"The Pakhan is currently holding a rifle in the courtyard, Pyotr!" I snap, my voice rising in a sharp, authoritative register that matches Ilya's. "Do you want to explain to him why you let a perimeter breach go unanswered because you were standing here holding a door? Go. Now."
The authority in my voice works. He nods once, his face turning pale as he clears his safety and runs down the hall toward the stairs.
I turn the brass handle of Ekaterina’s door and slip inside, closing it quietly behind me.
Ekaterina is sitting on the edge of her four-poster bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands clutching a drawing pad. She looks up, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confusion as she sees me. "Via? What was that noise?"
"That was a steam iron," I say, walking to her wardrobe and throwing the doors open. "We’re leaving, Ekaterina."
She stares at me, her mouth opening slightly. "Leaving? Ilya locked the gates. Lev said we aren't allowed past the corridor."
"Ilya is currently playing soldier in the southern channel," I say, tossing a thick black coat and a pair of boots onto her bed. "And I refuse to spend another hour in this house listening to my own heart beat. We’re going to the city."
"We’ll get caught," she says, her hands shaking slightly as she reaches for the boots. "The guards—"
"The guards are currently investigating a steaming iron," I say, leaning against the bedpost and crossing my arms. "And we’re going to use the greenhouse exit. The old gardener’s path leads straight to the rear garage where they keep the utility trucks.
They don't track the keys for the cargo vans. "
Ekaterina looks at the coat, then at my face, a sudden, wild spark of excitement beginning to clear the fear in her eyes. "You’re completely crazy, Via."
"No. I’m bat-shit crazy," I correct, a small, sassy smile spreading across my lips. "There’s a difference. Now put your shoes on before Pyotr figures out he’s been tricked by a girl."
The greenhouse is silent, the glass panels covered in a thick layer of morning condensation. We move quickly through the rows of terracotta pots, at the far end, the small wooden door that leads to the rear service courtyard is unlocked.
The old gardener’s truck is a rusty, beige Volvo that looks like it hasn't been washed since the previous decade. It’s parked in the shadow of the brick wall, half-hidden by a stack of wooden crates.
I climb into the driver's seat, the old vinyl sticking to my thighs as I reach under the steering column.
"Via, what are you doing?" Ekaterina climbs into the passenger side, her eyes wide as she looks at the exposed wires hanging beneath the dashboard. "You can't drive this."
"Watch me," I say, my fingers sorting through the red and yellow copper strands. "My father's driver, Grisha, used to take me to get ice cream when I was grounded. He thought it was a vital life skill for a girl in our position to know how to start a car without a key."
I strip the insulation from the starter wire with my teeth, a copper taste lingering on my tongue. I spark the two leads together.
The engine lets out a loud, grinding wheeze, coughing a thick cloud of grey exhaust into the courtyard before finally rumbling to life with a steady, clacking rhythm. I slide the gearshift into reverse, the metal grinding loudly as I back out of the space.
"We’re actually doing this," Ekaterina whispers, her hands gripping the dashboard as we rumble toward the rear gate.
"We are," I say, turning the wheel. "And we’re going to have a very expensive afternoon."
The gate guard, a younger enforcer who is usually on the night watch, doesn't even look up from his phone as the rusty Volvo approaches the barrier. He simply hits the remote switch, the heavy iron gates swinging open slowly to let us pass. He assumes we’re just taking the trash to the incinerator down the road.
By the time the barrier clicks shut behind us, the highway is wide open, a grey ribbon of asphalt cutting through the pine forest.
The sun is actually bright today, the heavy storm clouds from yesterday breaking apart to reveal a pale, clean blue sky that makes the concrete buildings of the city in the distance look almost welcoming.
It is a rare, crisp spring morning, the cold wind whipping through the cracked window of the Volvo and carrying the scent of pine and wet stone away from us.
"Where are we going first?" Ekaterina leans forward, her hair blowing across her face, her eyes bright with a freedom she hasn't felt in weeks.
"The Esplanade," I say, stepping on the gas pedal. "I want to go to the high-end boutique near the plaza. I want to buy things that aren't green, and I want to eat lunch without looking at five men with earpieces."