Chapter 1 - The Longest Eight Minutes Of My Life
The bathroom door burst inward,
sending a terrifying shower of jagged wood splinters across the damp tile floor.
My husband stood perfectly still in the ruined doorway,
his chest heaving with heavy,
labored breaths,
his eyes completely dark with a rage I had never seen before.
He looked down at me,
a cruel and twisted smile slowly stretching across his red face.
"Did you really think a phone call would save you,"
he sneered,
taking a slow,
heavy step into the cramped room.
I pressed my back hard against the cold ceramic tiles,
cradling my shattered left arm tightly against my chest,
praying for the seconds to tick by faster.
The pain radiating from my twisted bone was blinding,
but the raw fear gripping my pounding heart was infinitely worse.
Every single breath burned my lungs,
every beat of my heart felt like a countdown,
a desperate plea for the eight minutes to end.
He reached down,
his large,
rough hand grabbing a fistful of my tangled hair,
yanking my head back with a brutal force.
A choked gasp escaped my bleeding lips,
but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a scream,
staring up at the monster I had married five years ago.
"Who did you call,"
he demanded,
his foul breath hot against my trembling cheek,
his grip tightening until my scalp burned with agony.
"Nobody,"
I whispered faintly,
tasting the metallic tang of blood in my dry mouth.
He laughed,
a hollow,
terrifying sound that echoed loudly against the bathroom walls,
before he suddenly raised his hand to strike me again.
I squeezed my eyes shut,
bracing for the inevitable impact,
waiting for the darkness to finally consume my shattered world.
But the blow never came,
because exactly at that moment,
a deafening crash shattered the silence of our apartment.
It was not a knock,
nor a polite demand for entry,
but the explosive sound of our heavy front door being kicked completely off its metal hinges.
My husband froze,
his hand still raised in the air,
his arrogant expression instantly replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.
Heavy,
rhythmic footsteps echoed violently through the narrow hallway,
the sound of several men moving with deadly,
calculated precision.
"What the hell is that,"
my husband muttered under his breath,
dropping my hair as he turned his back to me,
stepping cautiously out of the bathroom to investigate.
I stayed on the floor,
my entire body trembling uncontrollably,
staring desperately at the empty doorway.
Then,
I heard it.
A voice that was dangerously calm,
incredibly smooth,
and cold enough to freeze the blood running through my veins.
"You have exactly one chance to step away from the hallway,"
Vincent Moretti said,
his tone completely devoid of any emotion,
yet carrying the heavy weight of an absolute death sentence.
My husband let out an arrogant,
drunken laugh,
clearly unaware of the terrifying monster standing inside his living room.
"Who the fuck are you,"
my husband shouted,
taking a threatening step forward,
"Get out of my house before I kill you."
There was no verbal response,
no dramatic warning,
only the sudden, sickening sound of bone crushing against bone.
A wet,
heavy thud followed,
accompanied by a pathetic,
gurgling scream that I barely recognized as my husband's voice.
I dragged my broken body forward,
peeking nervously around the splintered doorframe,
and the sight before me made my breath catch completely in my throat.
My husband was on his knees,
clutching his face as dark blood poured rapidly between his trembling fingers,
sobbing uncontrollably on our cheap living room rug.
Standing above him,
dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light,
was Vincent.
His dark eyes were fixed solely on the pathetic man bleeding at his expensive leather shoes,
his posture entirely relaxed,
as if he were merely taking a casual midnight stroll.
Three massive,
heavily armed men stood silently behind him,
their faces completely hidden in the shadows,
waiting patiently for their boss's next violent command.
Vincent slowly pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his suit pocket,
wiping a single drop of blood from his silver rings,
before his gaze finally shifted toward the bathroom.
When his cold,
calculating eyes met my terrified,
tear-stained face,
the dangerous aura surrounding him seemed to shift,
softening for a mere fraction of a second.
He stepped gracefully over my husband's shaking body,
ignoring the pathetic whimpers echoing through the room,
and walked directly toward me.
"I told you to stay alive for eight minutes,"
Vincent murmured softly,
kneeling down carefully on the bloody tile floor,
his massive frame completely shielding me from the horror outside.
"You were early,"
I managed to whisper,
a weak,
May you like
painful smile touching my cracked lips,
before the overwhelming exhaustion finally dragged me down into the heavy darkness.
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