Page 36 of Forced By the Bratva

In no time, I knew where the blind spots were in the mansion. Outside was a different ball game altogether. Six cameras covered the front gate and the main drive, but the side entrance near the kitchen had only one, mounted high on the wall and angled down toward the door itself.

It missed the stretch of hedges just past it entirely. I’d noticed that the first week, watching the red light blink from my window, tracing the angle until I found where it stopped seeing anything.

Five guards patrolled the front. Three more covered the tree line along the east wall, moving in slow loops that kept them out of sight of the house for almost ten minutes at a time.

Nobody watched the garden gate directly. It wasn’t an exit anyone used, old and half-rusted, more decorative than functional.

Shift change happened near the main gate every evening, a few minutes where the men converged there at once, radios crackling, headcounts passing between them.

That left the side of the property quiet, no one covering the kitchen door. No one near the hedges.

Three exits in total, as far as I could tell. The front gate, heavily guarded, with cameras everywhere. A service entrance near the garages, always manned. And the garden gate, forgotten, barely used, sitting just outside the one blind spot in the perimeter.

That was where I’d go.

On the night of my escape, rain gave me the rest of the cover.

It came down hard that night, hard enough that the guards pulled their jackets tight and hurried toward the gatehouse instead of walking their usual loop.

Dressed in a black outfit with my hoodie on, I grabbed a box from the kitchen storage, punched holes in the side, and got the Whiskers settled inside.

I slipped out the side door near the kitchen, not the main drive, but the old garden gate. I’d already mapped out my exit plan, which halls to take, where to turn, and when to turn.

I counted the seconds as I moved through the mansion like a ghost, my heart hammering in my chest. Whiskers was silent the whole time, as if he knew this mission required absolute stealth.

By the time I reached the hedges, I was already drenched in the rain. I ran like hell toward the garden gate, the box pressed to my chest.

Lightning streaked the sky, accompanied by rolls of thunder. I kept running as fast as I could until I reached the gate.

It was locked.

But I didn’t panic.

I picked up a hard rock and hammered the rusted padlock a few times, and it gave way. It opened with a low creak, revealing the path that led away from the estate.

Without hesitation, I made a run for it.

There was no time to celebrate my freedom; I still had a long way to go.

I was barely ten minutes away from the estate boundaries when a car’s headlights cut across the trees behind me.

My heart skipped a beat, and my breath hitched in my throat. I quickened my pace as though I could outrun a car.

Instead of running on a straight path, I veered off the road and into the woods. I heard the vehicle’s tires screech to a halt behind me.

“Iris!” Ilya barked, his voice louder than I’d ever heard.

I ran like my life depended on it, my breath ragged.

The ground had turned to mud. My shoes slipped with every step. Rain came down hard enough that I could barely see past my own hands. Thunder rolled somewhere close. I kept running anyway.

Leaves whipped against my face as I sprinted through the woods, jumping over fallen branches. Every now and then, I’d steal nervous glances over my shoulder, the box still pressed to my chest.

“Iris, stop!” he shouted behind me.

I refused. I continued running.

His footsteps grew louder behind me, faster than mine, gaining ground with every second.