Chapter 1 - The Eight-Minute ReignThe door didn’t just break—it exploded inward in a shower of splintered oak and rusted iron.
The violent crash echoed through the tiny apartment, sending sharp debris skittering across the bathroom tile. My husband, Mark, stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, a cruel, drunken sneer twisting his face. He held a heavy brass wrench in his right hand. His eyes locked onto mine, tracking down to my blood-slick fingers clutching the glowing phone, and then to my left arm hanging at that sickening, unnatural angle.
He didn't look horrified by what he’d done. He looked intoxicated by it.
"Who the hell were you talking to?" Mark growled, taking a slow, deliberate step into the cramped room. "You think some fake hero is coming to rescue a worthless waitress? Look at you. You can't even stand up."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every tiny twitch of my shoulder sent white-hot spikes of agony shooting through my nervous system, blinding my vision with stars. But as I looked up into the eyes of the man who had spent five years slowly erasing my soul, the panic didn't paralyze me anymore.
Stay alive for eight minutes.
Vincent’s voice still vibrated in my ear, a cold, unyielding anchor in the middle of a nightmare.
"I asked you a question, Lena!" Mark roared, stepping forward and lunging. He grabbed my hair with his free hand, yanking my head back.
A scream ripped from my throat as the motion jolted my shattered arm. I smashed my good fist into his throat with every ounce of strength I had left. Mark choked, reeling back in shock, letting go of my hair. I scrambled across the slick tiles, using my knees and my right arm to drag myself out of the bathroom and into the narrow hallway.
"You bitch!" Mark spat, coughing violently as he turned to chase me. "You're going to pay for that!"
I couldn't run. The world was tilting, heavy with blood loss and shock. I collapsed against the base of the living room sofa, my chest heaving, staring at the wall clock hanging above the television.
6:12 PM.
Two minutes had passed. Six minutes left.
Mark stomped into the living room, his face flushed red with rage. He raised the brass wrench high above his head. "I'm going to make sure you never walk out of this room, let alone serve another table!"
"Mark, please—" I gasped, tears finally spilling over my lashes, not from fear, but from the unbearable physical pain.
"Too late for tears, Lena!"
He swung the wrench down toward my head. I threw my right arm up to cover my face and closed my eyes, braced for the impact that would end my life.
CRASH.
The sound didn't come from the wrench hitting my skull. It came from the front door of our apartment being blown completely off its hinges.
The deafening explosion rattled the windows. Heavy dust, metal fragments, and shattered wood rained across the living room carpet. Mark froze, mid-swing, whirling around in shock.
Standing in the ruined doorway were four massive men clad in charcoal-grey tactical suits, silence-equipped submachine guns trained precisely on Mark’s chest. The air in the room instantly turned sub-zero.
Then, the men stepped aside.
Out of the dust walked Vincent Moretti.
He wore a tailored black coat that caught the dim light of the hallway. He didn't rush. He walked with the terrifying, absolute authority of a man who owned the very oxygen in the room. His dark eyes scanned the messy apartment, bypassed Mark completely, and landed on me—slumped against the couch, bleeding, holding my ruined arm.
For a fraction of a second, something devastatingly dark flickered in Vincent's eyes.
6:18 PM. Exactly six minutes.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Mark yelled, though his voice shook as he aimed the wrench toward the doorway. "This is private property! Get the hell out before I call the police!"
Vincent didn't answer him. He simply raised his right hand and made a slight gesture with two fingers.
Before Mark could even blink, one of the tactical guards moved like a shadow. A heavy, gloved hand seized Mark’s wrist—the same wrist Mark had used to break my arm—and twisted it backward with effortless, terrifying precision.
SNAP.
Mark screamed—a high, shrill sound of pure agony—as his arm was snapped instantly at the elbow. The wrench clattered uselessly to the floor. Mark fell to his knees, sobbing, clutching his broken limb against his chest, experiencing for the first time the very torture he had inflicted on me.
Vincent walked past Mark as if he were nothing more than trash on the sidewalk. He knelt down beside me, lowering his tall frame until his dark, intense eyes were level with mine. The harsh smell of gunpowder was immediately replaced by his scent—expensive cedarwood, rain, and cold leather.
"Lena," he said, his voice quiet, steady, and dangerously calm. "Can you stand?"
"I... I don't think so," I choked out, a sob escaping my lips.
Without a word of hesitation, Vincent slipped one hand behind my neck and the other under my knees, scooping me into his arms with absolute care, avoiding my broken limb as if I were made of precious glass. He held me tightly against his broad chest.
"It's over," Vincent whispered near my ear. "No one touches you again."
As he turned to walk out, Mark sobbed from the floor, "You can't take her! She's my wife! I'll report you to the cops!"
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Vincent stopped in the doorway. He didn't turn around.
"Dispose of the apartment," Vincent said quietly to his men. "And bring him to the Docks. Let him see what happens to men who break things that don't belong to them."
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