CHAPTER 5
I woke up to the soft, rhythmic sound of rain tapping against a massive glass window across the room. The room was bathed in the warm, gentle glow of a single brass floor lamp standing near a leather armchair.
I tried to move, but my left arm felt heavy, completely encased in a crisp white fiberglass cast hanging from a sling. The sharp, agonizing pain was gone, replaced by a dull, manageable ache that throbbed to my heartbeat.
I looked around the room, taking in the high ceilings, ornate crown molding, and heavy velvet drapes covering the windows. This wasn't a hospital; it was a master bedroom in a house that looked like a European castle.
Sitting in the leather chair near the window, Vincent was reading through a stack of thick legal documents under the light. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling his crisp white sleeves up to reveal dark, intricate tattoos along his forearms.
"You're awake," he said quietly, setting the papers down on a small side table without making a sound.
He stood up and walked toward the bed, carrying a glass of water with a bendable straw already placed inside. He held it to my lips gently, letting me take small, slow sips until my dry throat felt normal again.
"What time is it?" I rasped, looking at the dark sky visible through the sheer curtains across the room.
"It’s three in the afternoon on Saturday," Vincent replied, pulling a wooden chair closer so he could sit beside the bed. "You’ve been asleep for nearly sixteen hours, thanks to Dr. Mercer's heavy pain medication."
"Sixteen hours..." I murmured, trying to process the fact that an entire day had slipped away while I slept.
"Your arm is set," he explained, pointing to the cast resting on my chest. "The surgery went well. Three pins were required to stabilize the bone, but the doctor assures me you will make a full recovery."
I stared down at the cast, feeling a strange mixture of immense relief and overwhelming exhaustion washing over me. For the first time in five years, I was safe, resting in a warm bed without watching the door.
"Thank you," I said, my voice trembling as tears fought to surface once again. "You didn't have to do any of this for me. I was just a waitress who dropped a cup of coffee at your table."
Vincent let out a short, low breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though his dark eyes remained intensely serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked down into my face.
"Do you really think I give my personal number to every waitress who spills coffee on my shoes, Lena?" he asked softly.
I blinked, caught off guard by the question, searching his face for any sign of a joke, but found none.
"I gave you that card because I saw the way you hid your eyes when that customer yelled at you," Vincent continued. "I recognized the fear in your posture, and I recognized the bruised wrist you tried to cover with your sleeve."
My heart skipped a beat as I remembered that afternoon six months ago, realization hitting me like a cold breeze. He hadn't just been a powerful man eating lunch; he had been observing every tiny detail of my broken life.
"I have spent my entire life around violent men," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark low tone. "I know the difference between an accident and a woman living under a slow death sentence."
Before I could reply, a soft knock echoed at the heavy oak bedroom door, cutting off the quiet conversation. A tall man with a scar running down his left cheek stepped inside, holding a thick black folder under his arm.
"Boss," the man said, casting a brief, respectful glance in my direction before addressing Vincent directly. "We ran the background checks on the husband's financial accounts like you requested last night."
Vincent stood up smoothly, his relaxed posture instantly transforming back into the intimidating leader of a crime syndicate.
"What did you find, Frank?" Vincent demanded, extending his hand for the folder without turning his back on me.
"Marcus wasn't just a drunk with a gambling problem," Frank reported, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion. "He owed two hundred thousand dollars to the Russian syndicate operating out of Brighton Beach."
I gasped, sitting up slightly as shock hit me, causing a dull throb to pulse through my casted arm.
"And?" Vincent asked, opening the folder to scan the first page of printed bank statements and text transcripts.
"And," Frank continued, leaning in slightly, "he offered to sell them something to settle his debt completely."
Vincent stopped reading, his dark eyes snapping up to look directly at Frank with a terrifying, predatory intensity.
"What did he offer them?" Vincent asked, his voice dropping so low the air in the room felt freezing cold.
May you like
Frank hesitated for a single second, looking at me with a mix of pity and discomfort before speaking the final truth.
"He offered them Lena."
