Page 25 of Madness & Mercy

I press my forehead to the cool surface of the door, breathing hard.

Okay.

New plan.

I turn slowly, eyes falling to the call button near the bed. The one Nico sograciouslytold me would summon the chef.

Of course.

I straighten, my lips curving.

I press the button, request a sandwich, and sit on the edge of the mattress like I’m behaving. Like I’ve accepted my fate. The perfect little captive.

Ten minutes go by, maybe less.

Then I hear it: the softbeepof the outer lock disengaging. The door swings open, and a man in chef whites walks in carrying a silver tray, head ducked, polite and professional.

He doesn’t see it coming.

The moment he steps into range, I slam the tray out of his hands, grab him by the collar, and drive my knee up into his gut. He wheezes, his eyes wide.

“Sorry, Chef,” I mutter. “Nothing personal.”

I shove him face-first against the wall and deliver one sharp blow to the side of his neck. His body slumps before he can scream.

I catch him mid-fall, lower him to the floor, and yank the key fob from his apron with a tight grip.

Click.

The lock disengages.

My heart slams hard against my chest as I crack open the door just wide enough to slip into the hall.

Carefully, I shut the door behind me and press my back to it, listening.

Muffled voices echo faintly down the corridor. There’s two guards, maybe three. The usual rotation. I clocked their routines on night one of gathering observations, burned it into memory.

I start moving, taking soft steps and careful breaths. I duck past a set of tall windows, their thick curtains spilling angled strips of moonlight onto the marble floor.

There’s a security camera just ahead. I time its rotation, wait for the subtle click as it swivels the opposite way… then move fast, sliding low behind a pedestal holding some grotesque marble statue I’ll never understand.

I glance up at the camera. Red light. Still active.

I need to cut left, toward the west hallway.

The garage is on the other side of the estate, past the gallery, near the armory. If I take the central corridor, I’ll be seen. I cut through the side hall instead—tight, dark, and lined with abstract paintings and motion sensors I pray stay dead.

I freeze when I hear footsteps.

Shit.

I drop to a crouch and slip behind a decorative screen just as someone rounds the corner. Someone with black boots and a familiar presence. I let out a quiet exhale when he speaks, and I realize it isn’t Nico.

It’sLuca.

My lungs go still. He’s maybe ten feet away.

He stops.