My brain showed the knot configuration—the angle, the weave, the slight gap on my left wrist where they'd rushed.
Dislocate your thumb, Alessio's voice echoed.Hurts like hell, but it works.
I braced my left thumb against the bedpost. Positioned it at the angle he'd shown me.
I pushed.
Pain flared from my hand and up my arm. I pushed harder.
Something popped—wet, grinding, nauseating. The thumb bent unnaturally, sliding out of the socket.
Agony exploded up my arm, white-hot and consuming. I bit my lip, swallowing the scream.
Don't scream. Guards outside.
Tears streamed down my face, but I worked through it. Folded my thumb flat. The zip tie bit deeper.
Then pulled.
Slowly. Steadily.
My hand slipped free.
I lay gasping, cradling my damaged hand. The thumb jutted at a wrong angle, already swelling.
I couldn't leave it like this. Couldn't function with a useless hand.
Alessio had shown me this, too. Reset it yourself if you have to. Don't think. Just do it.
I gripped the dislocated thumb with my right hand. Positioned it. Took a breath and then pulled and pushed simultaneously.
The joint popped back into place with a grinding crunch that nearly made me vomit. Fresh agony whited out my vision. I stuffed my fist against my mouth, biting down on my knuckles to muffle the sob.
For a long moment, I just lay there, shaking, waiting for the pain to recede to something manageable.
The thumb was back in place but badly swollen, throbbing with every heartbeat. I could move it—barely. It would have to be enough.
The right hand went faster—using my freed left to work the zip tie despite the agony.
Both hands free.
I sat up slowly, head swimming from lingering drugs. Changed into the clothes they'd left—jeans that fit looser than I remembered, dark sweater, sneakers. Practical and mobile.
His study. Phone. Evidence. Anything useful.
The servants' stairs were narrow, enclosed, and designed to let staff move unseen. They were perfect for what I needed to do.
I slipped into the hallway, moving on silent feet. I found the hidden panel and descended into darkness, my injured hand cradled against my chest, the other trailing the wall for balance.
First floor revealed an empty kitchen—staff likely dismissed.
The study across the main hall was close, only twenty feet of open marble.
I watched and timed the guard patrol.
I ran and made it inside, closing the door softly.
The room held the same mahogany desk and leather chairs. Books lining the walls. The scent of old paper and whiskey.
