He smiles, pleased. "Call me Harry. This way.Bothof you."
He leads us to a side door, down a short hall to what he calls the health suite—a spa-like room with steam shower, sauna, plush robes hanging on hooks, even a mini-fridge stocked with bottled water and face masks. "Take your time," he says, winking. "I'll be in the living room when you're ready. I’ll have my chef prep some food and drink. Only the best for you two babes…"
The door closes behind him and I let out a long breath. Caulfield is gross. Just as anticipated. But I have to get over that, and fast.
Robbie and I wait a beat, then spring into action. "Cameras," he whispers.
We spot them quickly. Small, discreet domes in the corners. Robbie grabs towels from the rack, drapes them over the lenses. I do the same for the one above the mirror. "Done."
"Now we find them," I say, heart pounding. "Viktor and Ivan."
“How long do you think we have before Caulfield gets suspicious?” Robbie asks.
“Not long enough,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “But we’ll make it work.”
We slip out the door—quiet, barefoot for stealth—and start moving. The mansion is a labyrinth: wide corridors with polished floors that echo every step, rooms branching off… library, gym, home theater.
We peek in doors, listen at walls, avoiding the main areas where voices murmur.
Nervous energy buzzes through me—every creak makes me jump, every shadow looks like a guard.
We turn a corner and nearly collide with two thugs in black tactical gear, guns holstered at their hips. Robbie grabs my arm, pulls me back. We duck behind a doorway, hearts slamming.
Footsteps approach.
Closer.
Closer…
"Shit," Robbie breathes.
I spot it—a large pile of bedding stacked near a wall panel, waiting for... laundry? Robbie follows my gaze, nods. We dive behind it, burrowing under sheets just as the thugs round the corner.
Their voices are low, gruff. "Boss wants the Russian broken by morning."
"Stubborn fucker. But he'll crack."
Footsteps fade. We wait, breathless, until silence returns.
Robbie peeks out. "Clear."
I exhale. "Too close. And did you hear that… they must have been talking about Viktor."
Robbie nods, a worried look on his face. But before we can get too deep on what’s happening to Daddy, Robbie notices the panel beside the bedding pile—a laundry shaft, hatch slightly ajar. He opens it carefully. A faint echo of music drifts up, thumping bass, a real dance beat but ominous too.
My gut twists. "That's... not party music."
Robbie listens. "Sounds like... I don’t know what. But nothing good.”
"Viktor's down there,” I say. “I know it."
He nods, grim. "Okay. But careful."
The shaft is narrow, metal, like a slide. We climb in. Me first, feet braced against the sides to control the descent. Robbie follows. We slide down in controlled drops, landing in a heap of linens in the laundry room below—washers humming, dryer heat thick in the air.
"Basement level," Robbie whispers.
We creep out. The room is industrial… concrete floors, pipes snaking overhead. A secondary staircase at the far end—narrow, dimly lit. The music louder now, vibrating through the walls. It’s coming from above us.
