Chapter 1 - The Ten-Minute WindowThe sudden silence from behind the hollow-core bedroom door felt heavier than the agony grinding against my lungs.
I lay curled on the worn, stain-darkened carpet, my forehead pressed flat against the rough fibers. Every shallow inhalation sliced through my chest like jagged steel, flooding my mouth with the metallic, salty taste of my own blood.
The dark-tinted bedroom door creaked open.
Trent stepped into the dim living room, barefoot, wearing a gray undershirt and sweatpants. His face was swollen from sleep, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he adjusted to the flickering red-and-black glare of the liquor store neon sign outside the curtainless window.
His eyes fell on me, taking in my bloodied fingers, the cracked black screen of my dead phone lying an inch from my palm, and the thin trail of dark crimson smudged across the carpet where I had dragged my body.
"What the hell are you doing down there, Clara?" Trent growled, his voice thick with the volatile irritation that always preceded his rages. "I thought I told you to clean up the glass before you laid down."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. A wet cough scraped up my throat, forcing a small spray of red against the floorboards.
Trent took two slow, heavy steps toward me, his heavy boots crunching softly on a shard of the shattered coffee table. He reached out his foot, kicking my shoulder just hard enough to flip me onto my back. A ragged shriek tore from my throat as my fractured ribs shifted against each other.
"You're making a mess," Trent sneered, leaning over me, his hand reaching down to grab a handful of my tangled dark hair. "Who were you trying to call on that stupid phone?"
"Nobody..." I wheezed, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the refrigerator.
"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, twisting his grip on my hair, lifting my upper body an inch off the carpet. "You think some fake-ass friend is gonna come help you? Nobody cares about you, Clara. Your own brother threw you in the trash."
I closed my eyes, counting the seconds in my head.
Four minutes.
Four minutes since the stranger had sent those four final words: Stay on the floor. Ten minutes.
"I'm talking to you!" Trent roared, raising his open right hand to strike my face.
BOOM!
The reinforced oak front door of the apartment didn't just open; it exploded off its hinges with an apocalyptic, deafening crack, the deadbolt tearing through the doorframe in a shower of splinters and iron.
Trent gasped, stumbling backward, dropping my hair as three tall men dressed in charcoal wool coats stepped through the drifting dust.
Standing in the center of the doorway, his broad frame completely blocking out the hallway light, was a man in his early thirties. He wore an immaculate black suit, a gray silk tie, and a dark overcoat draped over his shoulders. His face was carved from dark marble, his jawline sharp as a razor, and his storm-gray eyes swept over the room with a cold, absolute, terrifying stillness.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Trent shrieked, reaching behind his back for the kitchen knife resting on the counter.
The stranger didn't speak. He didn't raise his hands.
The two men flanking him moved with terrifying, fluid, military precision. The larger enforcer stepped forward, caught Trent's reaching arm before he could touch the knife, and snapped his wrist with a clean, sickening CRACK.
Trent let out a high-pitched, pathetic shriek, collapsing onto his knees flat on the carpet.
The stranger stepped over Trent’s groveling frame as if he were nothing more than a pile of garbage, walking straight to where I lay bleeding on the floor.
He dropped onto one knee before me, reaching out a broad, warm, calloused hand to gently, reverently adjust the collar of my torn sweater, keeping my head supported.
"Your ten minutes are up, Clara," he spoke softly. His baritone voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a quiet, sovereign authority that cut through the terror in my head.
"Who... who are you...?" I rasped, tears spilling over my lashes.
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His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze with an unshakeable, heat-filled intensity.
"My name is Damon Vance," he whispered, sweeping his broad arm beneath my knees and around my spine, effortlessly lifting my broken body into his chest. "And you sent a text to the man who owns this city."
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