Chapter 3 - The SanctuaryThe Moretti estate sat behind towering iron gates on a secluded bluff overlooking the dark waters of the Long Island Sound.
It was a sprawling stone manor surrounded by high walls, security cameras, and armed guards who stood silently in the downpour. To the outside world, it was a fortress. But when Vincent carried me through the heavy oak front doors into the warm, marble-floored foyer, it felt like the safest place on earth.
A elderly man in a white medical coat was waiting in a brightly lit private clinic wing on the ground floor.
"Dr. Mercer," Vincent said, placing me carefully onto the sterile examination table. "Fix her. Everything she needs."
"Of course, Mr. Moretti," the doctor replied calmly, immediately gloveing up and checking my vitals. "She's in severe shock. Fractured radius and ulna in the left forearm, cracked ribs, severe facial contusions."
Vincent stood near the foot of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, refusing to leave the room. Every time I whimpered during the examination, his jaw tightened, but he remained a silent, steady anchor in my blurred vision.
"We need to set the bone before we put her under for surgery, Mr. Moretti," Dr. Mercer warned gently. "It will be painful."
"Do it," Vincent said, stepping closer and extending his bare hand to me. "Take my hand, Lena."
I gripped his fingers with my right hand as tight as I could. As the doctor manipulated the bone back into alignment, a scream tore through my throat, and I bit down on my lip until it bled. Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't pull his hand away, even when my fingernails dug deep enough into his skin to draw blood.
He leaned down, his voice a low, soothing hum in my ear. "Focus on me, Lena. Look at me. It's over. You're safe."
Shortly after, a heavy sedative entered my IV line, and the blinding pain finally faded into a soft, blissful darkness.
When I awoke, the sun was streaming through high velvet-curtained windows.
I was lying in a massive king-sized bed covered in Egyptian cotton sheets. My left arm was encased in a clean, lightweight white cast, resting on a plush velvet pillow. The throbbing agony in my ribs had been reduced to a dull, manageable ache thanks to the continuous IV medication.
I looked around the luxurious room. A tray of fresh fruit, warm broth, and tea sat on a wooden bedside table. Sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, reading a leather-bound book, was Vincent.
He had removed his jacket, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos that stretched up his wrists.
"You're awake," he said softly, closing his book and setting it aside.
"How long was I out?" I asked, my voice raspy.
"Sixteen hours," Vincent replied, standing up and pouring a glass of fresh water. He walked over, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and helped me lift my head so I could drink through a straw. "Dr. Mercer performed the surgery last night. He placed two titanium pins in your arm. The alignment is perfect. You will make a full recovery."
I swallowed the water, staring at him. "Mark... what happened to Mark?"
Vincent’s eyes turned cold as winter ice. "Your husband woke up in a holding cell in Queens."
I gasped. "You called the police?"
"I didn't need to," Vincent smiled coldly. "When my men left your apartment, they left behind a fully documented evidence folder—including forensic photos of your arm, medical records from your previous ER visits over the past three years that your husband tried to hide, and audio recordings from your phone call to me."
May you like
He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied murmur.
"The District Attorney’s office received the package anonymously this morning. Mark Carter has been charged with aggravated felony assault, attempted murder, and domestic abuse. His bail was set at five million dollars. He won't be getting out, Lena. Ever."
