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ALINA
The sight of my father in the hallway stopped my heart dead in my chest. Then his command for Mishka to follow him brings it back to life as it breaks into a full-on sprint.
I could see it in Mishka’s eyes too. Just a flicker of dread that contradicts his soft smile and calm voice telling me he’ll find me later. What if he can’t keep that promise?
I’m terrified that I might have just sent Mishka to his death.
I follow him slowly down the hall, passing by the cigar room where Mishka vanishes inside. He closes the door behind him with a soft click. And I pause. I can’t just go up to my room and hide. Every fiber of my being screams that Mishka’s in danger, that he might need my help now if he’s going to survive.
And after everything that just happened, I refuse to let him die.
So, rather than continuing on to my room, I press my ear to the door and wait for someone to speak on the other side. The silence stretches until I start to wonder whether my father intends to kill Mishka without talking to him at all.
My heart plummets as I picture my father’s hands wrapped around his throat, strangling the life out of him while I stand out here attempting to listen.
Goosebumps rising at the nape of my neck, I wrench the door open.
And find no one inside.
What the hell?
A deep sense of unease settles over me as I give the room a cursory sweep.
My eyes land on the corner of my father’s authentic Persian rug sent to us all the way from the Middle East. It’s folded back, the heavy floor covering curled on top of itself. And beneath where it normally lies is the outline of a trap door set into the wood floor.
I’ve never noticed it before.
My unease continues to grow as I creep forward on silent feet. Why would my father take Mishka down there? What’s down there, anyway, and why has no one ever told me we have a cellar? I can think of a few instances in which that might be useful knowledge.
Holding my breath, I get on my hands and knees and lean forward to try and pick up on any noise below. I listen for a conversation, an argument, any sign that Mishka’s in trouble. But I can’t hear a thing.
Biting my lip in apprehension, I debate what my next move should be.
I’m torn over taking the chance of revealing my presence and worried I might be standing aside while the man I love is murdered.
Pull yourself together, Alina. If this were Mishka in your shoes, he wouldn’t hesitate to come save you.
Finding my nerve, I search for the trap door’s handle and find a small silver latch off to the side. The door is monstrously heavy. It takes all my strength and leaves me panting to haul it open at the awkward angle it requires for a person my size.
I cringe as the wood groans when it strains against its hinges, but after a momentary pause, it doesn’t seem like anyone noticed. Instead, I can hear low voices coming from below—voices other than my father’s or Mishka’s.
Peering into the dark opening, I find a narrow stairway. My stomach flutters, and I carefully creep down the cold wood steps. Each tiny creak makes my heart stop. But I keep going, my fear for Mishka outweighing my fear of getting caught.
What is this place?
On the bottom step of the stairs leading down, I find a dimly lit passageway. It’s not even a proper cellar with cement—or floors, or even a real ceiling. It’s all been carved out of the dirt of the foundation, with rebar crisscrossing above my head and what look like load-bearing walls of the original foundation left untouched.
Crude electrical wiring has been run along the corner of the ceiling, and every now and again, a bare lightbulb casts an eerie yellow glow on the reddish-brown clay of the tunnel.
Papachka, what have you done?
Creepy shivers race up and down my spine, warning me that this is not a safe place. It’s not somewhere I belong.
But the voices down the hall are growing in intensity, and if one of them is Mishka, it sounds like he might actually be in trouble.
My feet are frozen within a few yards of walking, and I glance around several corners, confused by the odd layout of hallways that seem to lead to nowhere. It’s a labyrinthian floorplan beneath the house I’ve lived in my entire life. And I never even knew it was down here.
That, more than the creepy abandoned mining tunnel vibes or the strangely illogical layout, makes me feel like this is a bad place—one my father never wanted me to find out about. Why? Likely because it has to do with the family business.
