36. Chapter 36

thirty-six

Clara

T he hallway stretches before me.

Empty. Silent.

Too silent.

I creep forward, bare feet sticking to the cold floor. My heart’s pounding so hard I swear it’ll burst out of my chest any second.

Another door looms ahead. Leonid’s room.

My fists clench and unclench, itching to tear Leonid’s throat out, but my guts are flipping like a row of dominos. Is this opportunity falling into my lap a stroke of luck, or am I waltzing right into another trap?

I grit my teeth and clench my jaw, trying to drown out the warning bells in my head.

Focus, Clara. One step at a time.

I inch past Leonid’s door, holding my breath. The dress clings to me like a second skin, making every movement feel restricted. Sweat trickles down my back.

At the end of the hall, I spot the elevator. Next to it, a door marked “Stairs.”

My eyes dart between them.

With a choice to make and no time to spare, I size up the options. Elevator’s faster, but a giant “Come Murder Me” sign. Stairs are safer but slower than a snail in quicksand.

Fuck it. Stairs it is.

I ease open the door, cringing at the soft creak that echoes through the hallway. Are you kidding me? A goddamn fingerprint scanner at the emergency exit? What kind of anal-retentive paranoid lunatic…

Leonid, you fuckface.

As I curse Leonid’s name with enough vitriol to make a nun blush, the unmistakable roar of an engine pierces the silence. Someone’s flooring it in the basement. My heart slams into overdrive as I frantically search for another escape route. And there, like a glimmer of hope in a sea of shit, is a tiny window at the end of the hall. Not ideal, but at this point, I’d crawl through a sewer grate to get the hell out of here.

I’m up and sprinting before I can even form a plan. The dress rides up, flashing my ass at the goddamn world, but I don’t give a fuck. Pressing my face against the window, I’m met with a shitload of guards and a sinking feeling in my stomach. Fuck.

I drop down, gritting my teeth as the fabric bites into my thighs.

Think, Clara. Don’t panic, for fuck’s sake. There’s gotta be a way out. No cameras in sight. Good. Now, use that criminal mastermind of yours, and figure this shit out.

With my options dwindling faster than a burning fuse, taking a deep breath, I make a decision .

The elevator it is.

I hit the call button. The elevator chimes like a goddamn merry-go-round, but I stay plastered against the wall, breath caught in my throat. Seconds drag on like hours, the elevator taking its sweet goddamn time.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” I whisper, my fingers curling into fists. Fuck, I could use a weapon right about now. But I’m here in nothing but a goddamn gown and my bare hands.

The elevator dings, signaling its arrival. My heart skips a beat.

The doors hiss open like a serpent, but the compartment’s empty. Fuck yes. I step in, the dress clinging to me like a needy lover. My eyes dart to the panel, searching for an escape route. No lobby, no ground floor, but there, like a goddamn beacon in the darkness, is “B.” Basement. My ticket outta here.

As the elevator descends, so does my heart. I tense up, muscles tensing like a loaded spring. One wrong move, and I’m fucked. But I’m not going down without a fight.

The doors slide open with a low hum, revealing a dim, sterile corridor. Concrete floors stretch into the shadows, the air heavy with the scent of must and decay. I step out, every sense on high alert. No footsteps. No voices. Where the fuck are the guards? My skin prickles with unease.

This has “trap” written all over it.

A door beckons, its crimson EXIT sign a beacon of hope. Too fucking easy , my mind screams. But with no other options, I inch closer, the handle slick with sweat beneath my clammy palm. It turns.

Cold air rushes in, caressing my skin like a ghost’s breath. Before me, a sea of shining cars, an empty parking garage in the heart of the beast. I scan the area, eyes darting from one car to the next.

Keys. I need keys.

I weave between the cars, keeping low, like a predator on the hunt. The dress chafes against my thighs, the friction hot and uncomfortable, but I grit my teeth and press on. My feet slap against the cold concrete, the sound echoing in the silence like a goddamn alarm.

Just as I think I’m in the clear, the silence is shattered by voices—men, their laughter a thorny barb of panic in my gut. They’re getting closer. Without a second thought, I dive behind a black SUV, curling into a tight ball, every muscle tense and coiled. My breath catches in my chest as two suited goons saunter by, oblivious to the escaped prisoner hidden mere inches away.

The guards shift like meaty fucking puppets, their fingers punching the control panel like they’ve got something to prove. The basement door grinds open, a barrage of light and noise exploding in my face like a goddamn flashbang. Freedom’s staring me down like a fucking dare.

No keys , but I’m not giving up yet. I slither along the cars like a venomous snake, scanning the area. That’s when I spot them— A row of five Ducati Panigale V4 bikes scream for attention.

They sit there like tempting, wheeled stallions, waiting for me to mount up and ride into the sunset.

I slink along the ground like a cat stalking its prey, my eyes fixed on the bikes ahead. But just as I’m about to make my move, my cursed gown betrays me, the fabric catching on the tire of a nearby Ducati like a goddamn anchor.

“Fuck this shit,” I whisper a curse, wriggling like a contortionist to adjust the dress and tear the hem off, the rip of the fabric ringing in my ears.

That was too goddamn loud.

One of the guards calls out, his heavy footsteps drawing closer.

The adrenaline surges, making my heart thrum like a fucking jackhammer. The gate starts to close.

Fuck. No!

I’m out of time. With a burst of speed, I launch myself toward the Ducati; the key glistens in the lock.

Hell, yes!

The engine roars to life beneath me, a primal scream that matches the rush in my veins. I slam the helmet on, the visor fogging with my heavy breath.

“Hey! Stop right there!” a goon’s voice booms behind me.

Fat fucking chance.

I gun it. The Ducati leaps forward like a caged beast finally set free. Wind whips against my nearly naked body, but I couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

The gate’s almost closed. A sliver of daylight taunts me.

Come on, baby.

I lean low, becoming one with the bike. We shoot through the narrowing gap, my elbow scraping the metal. Pain flares, but it’s nothing compared to the euphoria of freedom.

I’m out. Holy shit, I’m actually out.

But it ain’t over yet. In my mirrors, two black SUVs burst from the garage like angry bulls.

“Catch me if you can, fuckers,” I snarl, twisting the throttle.

The bike responds instantly, rocketing forward. Buildings blur past, the world becoming a smear of color and sound. Horns blare as I weave through traffic, my heart pounding in sync with the engine’s roar.

A quick glance back. They’re still on me but falling behind. These assholes don’t know these streets like I do.

I take a sharp right, tires screeching. Then left. Another right. I’m in my element now, the city a playground I know by heart.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy. This, this right here, is what being alive feels like.

The wind screams past me, carrying the stench of exhaust and the sweet perfume of freedom. My bare skin tingles, every nerve ending alive and singing.

I spot an alley up ahead. Narrow. Too tight for those hulking SUVs.

Perfect.

I dive in, scraping past dumpsters and startled cats. The pursuers’ engine roars fade, replaced by the echo of my own bike in this urban canyon.

When I emerge on the other side, the streets are clear. No sign of my captors.

I’m near.

The last bit of grimy alley blurs behind me as I kick the bike into higher gear, adrenaline pumping raw and hot through my veins.

I need to ditch this beast .

It’s a glaring beacon for anyone looking to haul me back to that hell. My mind races as I scan the street— There. A rusted door between two crumbling apartment buildings, just ajar. It’s a gamble, but it’s my best shot.

With a sharp turn, I maneuver the bike down the narrow path, the handlebars nearly scraping the brick walls. The door leads to a neglected courtyard, overgrown and littered with forgotten junk. Perfect. I kill the engine, the sudden silence pounding in my ears like freedom’s heartbeat.

Dragging the bike behind a heap of decaying furniture and trash, I cover it with an old, moldy tarp I rip from the ground. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. My chest heaves as I pause, letting the stillness wash over me.

No roars of engines, no shouts. Just the distant hum of the city and my own breath. The taste of escape is gritty and sweet on my tongue.

“Alright, beast,” I whisper to the lump under the tarp, “stay hidden.” With one last glance, ensuring it’s as invisible as it can get, I slip through the shadows, making my way back to the street.

I’ve done it. I’m free.

I’m coming home, baby.