CHAPTER 3
The heavy steel front door didn't just open; it flew off its hinges with a sickening metallic screech. The deadbolt tore straight through the doorframe, sending splinters flying down the narrow apartment hallway.
Marcus jumped back, reaching instinctively toward his waistband for the cheap revolver he kept hidden there. He never got the chance to touch the cold steel grip of his weapon.
Two men dressed in immaculate tailored black suits flooded the hallway like silent, deadly shadows. Before Marcus could even draw a breath, the taller man slammed him violently against the exposed brick wall.
A thick, gloved hand clamped tightly around Marcus's throat, shutting off his air supply in a fraction of a second. Marcus thrashed wildly, his boots scraping helplessly against the worn hardwood floorboards.
Then, the hallway fell into a total, suffocating silence as a third man stepped through the ruined doorway. He walked with a slow, absolute authority that made the ambient noise of the city completely disappear.
Vincent Moretti stepped over the splintered remains of our front door without dropping his gaze to the floor. His crisp charcoal suit looked fresh off Fifth Avenue, completely untouched by the humid night air.
His silver hair was combed back perfectly, contrasting sharply with the cold, dark eyes that scanned the apartment. When those eyes finally locked onto me cowering in the bathroom, his expression turned into sheer obsidian.
"Lena," he said softly, his deep voice cutting through the heavy tension of the room like a razor.
He didn't rush; he walked into the tiny bathroom with calculated, deliberate steps that commanded complete submission. He dropped down on one knee right in front of me, ignoring the blood pool staining the tile.
His long, calloused fingers gently touched the side of my face, his thumb softly wiping away a tear. The heat of his hand felt like a furnace against my cold, shock-drained skin.
"I’m sorry it took eight minutes," Vincent murmured, his voice laced with a dark, dangerous velvet tone. "The traffic on the FDR Drive was heavier than I anticipated tonight."
"You... you came," I choked out, tears finally breaking free and cutting tracks through the dust on my cheeks.
"I gave you my word on that paper," Vincent replied quietly, his eyes drifting down to my mangled left arm.
The slight twitch in his jaw was the only sign of the absolute fury burning behind his calm exterior. He stood up slowly, turning his back on me to face the man currently choking against the hallway brick.
Marcus was gasping, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple under the bodyguard's crushing grip. His arrogant bravado had completely dissolved, replaced by the instinctual terror of a helpless animal.
Vincent walked over to Marcus, stopping just inches from his face with his hands casually resting in his pockets. He looked Marcus up and down, like examining something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
"Do you know who I am, boy?" Vincent asked, his voice disturbingly calm, almost conversational.
Marcus tried to speak, but the guard's grip only tightened, allowing only a wet, pathetic wheeze to escape his throat. He shook his head frantically, eyes wide with the realization that he was way out of his depth.
"I am Vincent Moretti," the mob boss introduced himself, leaning in close to Marcus's ear. "And the woman you just put your filthy hands on belongs under my personal protection."
Marcus's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as the name registered in his alcohol-clouded brain. Everyone in the five boroughs knew that name; it was synonymous with absolute power and ruthless vengeance.
"You broke her arm," Vincent stated, reaching out to gently touch the lapel of Marcus's cheap jacket. "You made her bleed in her own home while you laughed about it."
Vincent signaled with a slight nod of his head, and the bodyguard instantly released Marcus's throat. Marcus crumpled to the floor, coughing violently and clutching his neck as he scrambled backward toward the window.
"Please!" Marcus sobbed, all his previous toughness vanishing into thin air. "It was just a marital dispute! She’s my wife! You can't interfere in a husband's business!"
Vincent didn't flinch; he simply pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his hands slowly, as if the mere air around Marcus was contaminating his skin.
"As of tonight, she has no husband," Vincent declared softly, his voice echoing off the narrow walls. "She has me."
He looked back at the second bodyguard standing near the entrance, giving a short, decisive hand gesture. The man immediately stepped forward, pulling a heavy black leather bag from over his shoulder.
"Take her to my car," Vincent ordered the first guard, pointing toward me without breaking his cold stare at Marcus. "Have Dr. Mercer waiting at the estate with a full surgical kit ready."
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The guard nodded respectfully, kneeling next to me and lifting me up with incredible, practiced gentleness. Despite his size, he carried me as if I were made of fragile glass, supporting my broken arm carefully.
As I was carried out of the apartment, I caught one last glimpse of Marcus cowering on the floor. Vincent stood over him like an executioner, reaching inside his jacket for something sleek and metallic.
