Chapter 2 - The Eight Minutes
The wood didn't just break; it shattered into jagged splinters as Mark’s heavy boot kicked through the center of the bathroom door.
I screamed, instinctively curling into a ball on the cold tile, trying to shield my broken arm with my knees. The phone slipped from my bloody fingers, skittering across the floor. From the tiny speaker, I could faintly hear the low, rhythmic hum of a powerful car engine roaring to life.
Vincent was coming. But eight minutes felt like an eternity when you were trapped in a cage with a monster.
Mark reached through the jagged hole, his forearm scraping against the broken wood, and unlocked the deadbolt from the inside. The door swung open, hitting the wall with a deafening crack. He stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and bloodshot with the manic energy of a predator who had finally cornered his prey. In his right hand, he held the heavy leather belt he usually wore to work.
"Who were you talking to?" he hissed, stepping into the small bathroom. The smell of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes rolled off him in waves.
"No one," I sobbed, pressing myself so hard against the bathtub I felt the porcelain bite into my spine. "Mark, please. I need a hospital. My arm..."
"You need to learn respect!" he roared, lunging forward.
His large hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing my windpipe until the edges of my vision began to go dark. He dragged me up off the floor by my neck. The sudden movement sent a sickening jolt of white-hot agony through my shattered left arm. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. I clawed at his wrist with my good hand, but it was like trying to pry apart iron bars.
"You think you can call the cops on me?" Mark sneered, his spit hitting my cheek. "You think anyone cares about a pathetic diner waitress? You're nothing, Lena. You belong to me."
He threw me backward into the hallway. I hit the hardwood floor hard, my broken arm taking the brunt of the impact. The pain was so absolute, so blinding, that I vomited bile onto the floorboards. I lay there, gasping for air, the world spinning in dizzying circles. I looked up at the cheap wall clock in the living room.
Three minutes had passed.
"Get up," Mark commanded, unlooping the belt from his hand and snapping it in the air. The sharp crack echoed in the cramped apartment. "I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget, and then I'm going to set your arm myself."
I tried to crawl backward toward the front door, my blood leaving a smeared trail on the floor. Every instinct screamed at me to survive, to hold on just a little bit longer.
"Mark, stop! You're going to kill me!" I pleaded, my voice barely a raspy whisper.
"Maybe I will," he laughed, a cold, dead sound that chilled me to the bone. "And no one will even come to your funeral."
He raised his arm, preparing to bring the heavy brass buckle down across my face. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for the impact, praying that the end would come quickly.
But the blow never landed.
Instead, a sound like a bomb going off shook the entire apartment building.
The heavy steel front door of our apartment didn't just open—it was violently ripped from its hinges by a battering ram, flying across the living room and smashing into the television stand. The walls trembled. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling.
Mark froze, his arm still raised in the air, his eyes darting toward the entryway in sheer disbelief.
Through the cloud of drywall dust stepped a nightmare dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal Italian suit.
Vincent Moretti.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look rushed. He walked into my rundown apartment with the terrifying, unhurried grace of an apex predator stepping into a pen full of sheep. Behind him flowed four massive men in dark coats, carrying silenced submachine guns. They moved with military precision, instantly securing the windows and the kitchen, turning the apartment into a fortress in less than three seconds.
The room went deathly silent. Even the ambient noise of the New York streets outside seemed to vanish.
Mark dropped the belt. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him looking like a sick ghost. He stumbled backward, his knees knocking together as he recognized the man standing in our living room. Everyone in the city knew that face. Everyone knew what happened to people who crossed him.
"Wh... what is this?" Mark stammered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak. "Who are you?"
Vincent didn't look at him. His dark, cold eyes swept the room until they found me lying on the floor, covered in blood, cradling my broken, disfigured arm. For a fraction of a second, I saw something shift behind his eyes—a violent, apocalyptic fury that made the air in the room drop ten degrees.
Then, he finally turned his gaze to Mark.
"You have exactly one chance to explain to me," Vincent said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that somehow carried over the ringing in my ears, "why the woman I told to stay alive is lying in a pool of her own blood."
Mark raised his hands, trembling so violently he looked like he was having a seizure. "Look, man, I don't want any trouble! She's my wife! This is a domestic dispute, okay? It's none of your business! You can't just break into my house!"
Vincent slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. "Your house."
"Yes!" Mark cried, taking another step back. "I'm her husband! I own her!"
Vincent nodded slowly, digesting the words. Then, without looking away from Mark, he snapped his fingers.
Two of the armed men surged forward like shadows. Before Mark could even scream, they grabbed his arms, slammed him face-first onto the glass coffee table, and pinned him down. The glass cracked under his weight. Mark began to sob, pleading for his life, the tough-guy facade instantly melting into pathetic cowardice.
Vincent walked over to me. He knelt on the bloody hardwood floor, completely ignoring the expensive fabric of his suit. He reached out, his large, calloused hands remarkably gentle as he brushed the matted hair away from my sweaty forehead.
"You did good, Lena," he murmured. "You held on."
"You came," I whispered, tears of relief finally spilling over my eyelashes.
"I told you I would," he replied softly. He slipped his arms under my knees and behind my back, lifting me from the floor with effortless strength. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder. I had never felt so safe in my entire life.
Vincent turned his head slightly, looking down at Mark, who was still pinned to the glass, weeping uncontrollably.
"What do you want us to do with him, Boss?" one of the men asked, pressing the barrel of a gun against the back of Mark's head.
Vincent’s eyes were dead and empty. "Take him to the warehouse by the docks. Break every bone in his left arm. Then break his right. Make sure he stays awake for all of it. I’ll deal with the rest of him when I’m finished making sure she's okay."
"No! Please! Lena, tell him no!" Mark screamed, thrashing wildly.
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I closed my eyes and didn't say a word. For the first time in five years, I let someone else fight my monsters. Vincent carried me out of the shattered apartment, into the cold night air, and toward a waiting convoy of black SUVs, leaving my old life—and my abuser—behind in the dust.
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