Chapter 2 - The Sound of the Iron GateMarcus hurled me against the living room wall, the plaster cracking behind my spine. My breath hitched, and black spots danced across my vision. He stood over me, unzipping his belt with a sickening smirk, his chest heaving with exertion.
"Five years, Lena," Marcus muttered, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Five years I’ve put a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me? Calling people behind my back? Acting like you're better than me?"
I kept my good hand clutched tightly against my ribs, watching him like a trapped animal cornered by a wolf. My phone was still clutched in my palm, the screen glowing faintly. The call was active. The line was open. Vincent was still there, listening to every degrading word, every threat, every second of my terror.
"You're a monster, Marcus," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
His face contorted into pure rage. "What did you say?"
He raised his heavy hand, bringing it down toward my face. I flinched, closing my eyes, waiting for the blow that would shatter my nose or split my cheek open.
Vroooom.
A sudden, deafening roar of high-performance engines cut through the quiet night air outside our building. It wasn't the sound of a standard car or a police cruiser. It sounded like a convoy of heavy-duty tactical vehicles tearing down our quiet, residential street with reckless disregard for speed limits or law enforcement.
Marcus froze, his hand hovering mid-air. He blinked, glancing toward the living room window that overlooked the cracked asphalt street below.
Another engine roared—deeper, heavier, the unmistakable rumble of customized twin-turbo V8s idling with lethal precision right outside the building’s front entrance.
"What the hell is that?" Marcus muttered, lowering his hand and stepping away from me toward the window.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Four minutes elapsed.
Marcus shoved the frayed lace curtains aside and peered down into the street. The color instantly drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, pasty gray. His jaw dropped slack.
Parked directly beneath our building were three matte-black, armored SUVs with tinted glass and specialized tactical plates. The doors opened in perfect synchronization. Eight men stepped out into the misty New York night. They weren't cops. They wore tailored black suits beneath heavy wool overcoats, moving with the cold, silent efficiency of military operatives. They didn't look around or hesitate. They fecundly secured the perimeter, blocking off the street at both ends.
Then, the rear door of the middle vehicle opened.
A tall man with iron-gray hair, a sharp, unyielding jawline, and eyes like chips of dark obsidian stepped out onto the pavement. Vincent Moretti.
"No," Marcus whimpered, pressing his palms flat against the window glass as if trying to push the sight away. "No, no, no... that's impossible. That's Moretti. That's the Moretti syndicate..."
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He turned around slowly, his eyes wide with a terror far deeper and more paralyzing than any fear he had ever inflicted upon me. He looked down at me, his voice trembling violently.
"Who... who did you call?"
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