Chapter 1 - The Eight-Minute CountdownThe bathroom door exploded inward with a deafening splintering of pine and cheap brass.
The upper hinge tore free from the frame, dangling by a single bent screw, while the bottom panel caved in under the weight of my husband’s boot. Dust, paint chips, and sharp wooden splinters rained down across the cold tile floor.
Mark stood in the ruined doorway, his chest heaving, a half-empty glass of whiskey clutched in his right hand. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide with a dark, erratic fury that had haunted my life for five agonizing years.
"Who the hell were you talking to?!" Mark screamed, stepping over the shattered threshold.
He didn't notice the phone slipping from my blood-slicked right hand into the narrow gap between the sink vanity and the wall. The screen went black, but three miles away, in a sleek black sedan cutting through the Manhattan rain, a line remained open.
I pressed my back as hard as I could against the cold porcelain of the bathtub. Every microscopic movement sent jagged, blinding white lightning through my left shoulder down to my fingertips. My left arm hung uselessly, twisted outward at a grotesque, unnatural angle below the elbow.
"Nobody, Mark," I choked out, tears burning my eyes as I tried to keep my voice flat, neutral, and unthreatening—the survival language I had perfected over half a decade. "Please... I just need to go to the hospital. It hurts so bad."
Mark scoffed, taking a long swig from his glass. He set the tumbler down on the edge of the sink with a heavy clink and stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me completely.
"The hospital?" He laughed, a dry, bitter sound that chilled my blood. "You think I’m letting you walk into an ER with a broken arm? What are you going to tell the doctors, Lena? That you tripped on the rug? They aren't stupid. They call the cops, the cops ask questions, and suddenly my promotion at the firm is gone because my wife couldn't keep her mouth shut."
He bent down, grabbing my collar with his left hand and yanking me upward.
A shriek tore from my throat as the motion rattled my broken bone. My vision flickered black at the edges, my body instinctually going limp to fight the agony.
"Look at me!" Mark snarled, shaking me until my head struck the bathroom tile. "You are nothing without me! A high-school dropout waiting tables for pocket change! I gave you a roof over your head! I gave you a life! And you locked the door on me?!"
"Mark... please..." I whimpered, my right fingers clutching at his sleeve. "Please... eight minutes... just give me eight minutes..."
He paused, his brow furrowing in dark confusion. "Eight minutes? What the hell are you talking about?"
He raised his right hand, pulling his fist back.
I closed my eyes, curled my good arm over my face, and counted.
One minute.
Mark’s fist struck my cheekbone. The world spun in a blur of red and metallic taste as blood filled my mouth.
Two minutes.
He dragged me out of the bathroom by my hair, dumping me onto the living room carpet. The cheap coffee table shattered under my hip. He stood over me, kicking my ribs until I couldn't draw a full breath, his slurred curses blending into a low, terrifying roar.
Four minutes.
"You're going to clean this mess up," Mark panted, stepping back to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Then you're going to sit on that couch and tell me who you called on that damn phone, or I swear to God, Lena, I’ll break the other one."
Six minutes.
I lay on the floor, gasping through cracked ribs, staring at the digital clock on the microwave in our open kitchen.
11:42 PM.
The apartment building was dead silent. The neighbors had heard the crash, the screams, and the thuds, but in this cheap Queens complex, people turned off their lights and turned up their TVs when trouble started. Nobody was coming.
Except for a promise made by a man I barely knew.
Seven minutes.
Mark walked over to the kitchen island, picking up his bottle of whiskey to pour another drink. "You always were useless, Lena. Weak. Soft. I should have left you at that diner."
11:43 PM.
Eight minutes.
There was no knocking. There was no warning.
The heavy steel front door of our apartment didn't just open—it blew off its frame with a thundering crash that shattered the drywall around the casing.
The shockwave rattled the glass framed prints on the hallway walls.
Mark dropped his glass. It shattered against the hardwood floor.
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Four men stepped through the pulverized entryway, moving with absolute, terrifying precision. They were dressed in dark tailored suits, perfectly calm, entirely devoid of emotion.
And at the front of them stood Vincent Moretti.
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