Chapter 3 - The Men in Black SuitsBefore I could answer, the heavy front door of our apartment building echoed with a sound that chilled the air: the unmistakable metallic screech of a commercial hydraulic breaching tool tearing through reinforced steel locks.
Marcus scrambled backward, tripping over the coffee table and sending ceramic mugs crashing to the floor in a shower of shards. Panic had completely consumed him. The bravado, the cruel smirks, the casual arrogance of a man who beat his wife behind closed doors—it all evaporated in the face of absolute, undeniable power.
"They're coming for you," I said, my voice shaking as I slowly pushed myself up against the wall, cradling my broken arm against my chest. "You said nobody cared. You said no one was coming to save a broke waitress."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Marcus shrieked, crawling frantically toward the kitchen. "I have a knife—I'll tell them it was self-defense, I'll tell them she attacked me—"
He never made it to the kitchen.
Bang.
The apartment’s front door flew entirely off its hinges, crashing face-down onto the entryway floor with a thunderous thud.
Three men in black tactical suits stepped into the apartment in a flash of military precision. Their movements were terrifyingly smooth. In less than two seconds, Marcus was swept off his feet, slammed face-first onto the linoleum floor, and pinned with a steel-toed boot pressed firmly against the back of his neck.
Marcus choked out a gurgled cry, his hands pinned behind his back as industrial-strength zip-ties locked around his wrists with a sharp, plastic snap.
"Clear," one of the operatives barked into a comm-link clipped to his collar.
A moment later, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Vincent Moretti stepped through the shattered doorway.
He didn't run. He didn't look rushed. He walked with the slow, terrifying gravity of a king inspecting a conquered province. His dark overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a crisp charcoal suit and a gold-trimmed silk tie. His piercing dark eyes swept past the broken furniture, past the cowering, zip-tied form of my husband, and locked directly onto me.
For a terrifying second, the world stood entirely still.
My phone was still pressed against my ear. Through the speaker, I could hear the faint echo of my own heavy breathing—and right in front of me, Vincent reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his own burner phone, and slowly ended the call.
The digital click echoed loudly in the quiet room.
Vincent stepped over the debris, stopping just a few feet away from where I sat bleeding against the wall. His gaze dropped to my left arm, hanging at that grotesque, broken angle, and then to the purple fingerprints blooming visibly around my throat.
The dark obsidian of his eyes hardened into something dead, cold, and lethal.
"Get a medic up here now," Vincent commanded without breaking eye contact with me. "And get this piece of garbage out of my sight before I decide his trial should take place at the bottom of the Hudson River."
Two guards hauled a screaming, thrashing Marcus to his feet, dragging him toward the ruined doorway while he begged for mercy like a coward.
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Vincent knelt down on one knee in front of me, ignoring the dust and glass on the floor, and gently—with surprising tenderness for a man who commanded a criminal empire—extended his hand toward my uninjured right arm.
"You called," Vincent said softly. "And you stayed alive for eight minutes."
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