Chapter 1 - Eight Minutes of ThunderThe heavy oak bathroom door shattered into a hundred flying splinters.
Ethan stood framing the broken entryway, a twisted, cruel smirk plastered across his handsome face. Behind him, standing near the kitchen island with a half-empty glass of vintage scotch, was his mistress, Vanessa, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement.
"Did you really think locking a bathroom door would save you, Lena?" Ethan sneered, flexing his knuckles as he took a heavy step over the broken wood. "Look at you. Filthy, broken, crying on the floor. Nobody is coming for you. Nobody has ever cared about you."
I pressed my back against the cold bathroom tiles, my left arm dangling limply, radiating white-hot, agonizing flares of pain with every heartbeat. My right hand was cupped firmly over my swollen, eight-month pregnant belly, which was tightening in terrifying, jagged spasms.
"Ethan... please," I choked out, tears of agony and terror blurring my vision. "The baby... something is wrong with the baby..."
Vanessa let out a sharp, mocking laugh, taking a slow sip of her scotch. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Lena! A broken arm isn't going to hurt the brat. Just sign the divorce papers and crawl out to the street where you belong."
Ethan grabbed me by my hair, dragging me upward onto my knees. The sheer, excruciating pain in my broken arm nearly made me black out.
"You're signing over your share of this apartment tonight," Ethan whispered into my ear, his breath reeking of bourbon. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure you never walk out of here."
T-minus four minutes.
I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath, counting the agonizing seconds in my head. Three minutes and forty seconds.
"Speak to me, you pathetic bitch!" Ethan roared, raising his open hand to strike my face.
BOOM!
The violent, deafening explosion from the living room shook the entire apartment building like an earthquake!
The heavy steel front entrance door was blown completely off its hinges, flying thirty feet across the foyer and embedding itself deep into the far drywall with a sickening crunch. Glass shattered. The crystal chandelier plunged from the ceiling, crashing onto the hardwood.
Vanessa shrieked, dropping her scotch glass, which shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Ethan froze, his hand suspended in mid-air, his face draining of color as dark smoke rolled into the hallway.
Before either of them could move, twelve heavy tactical boots thundered across the ruined living room floor.
Eight armed operators from Vance Security, dressed in charcoal tactical gear, wearing night-vision visors and carrying automatic suppressed sidearms, breached the corridor in flawless, terrifying military precision.
Standing at the front of the assault squad was Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Vance, his draw hand resting on the grip of his weapon, his cold steel eyes scanning the room.
And stepping through the black smoke behind him, wearing an immaculate bespoke charcoal suit beneath an unbuttoned black cashmere overcoat, was my father: Don Vincent Moretti.
At fifty-four, Vincent Moretti was the undisputed Don of the East Coast Syndicate—a billionaire titan whose name made federal prosecutors, supreme court justices, and rival crime families tremble in absolute terror. He was six-foot-three, built like a wall of solid granite, with dark hair silvering at the temples, a razor-sharp jawline, and piercing storm-gray eyes that burned with an apocalyptic, murderous fire.
Ethan gasped, stumbling backward against the sink, his hands shaking frantically. "W-Who the hell are you people?! This is private property! I'll call the police!"
Vincent Moretti didn't glance at Ethan. He didn't look at Vanessa, who had fallen flat onto her knees behind the kitchen island, weeping in catatonic horror.
My father walked directly into the shattered bathroom, his heavy leather shoes stepping over the splinters. He dropped flat onto one knee right beside me on the cold tile floor.
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His massive, broad, warm hands—hands that held total command over New York's shadow empire—gently cupped my pale, sweat-streaked face.
"I'm here, Lena," my father whispered softly, his deep, gravelly baritone cracking with a profound, terrifying tenderness that I had never heard in my entire life. "Your eight minutes are up, sweetheart. Nobody touches my daughter ever again."
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