Chapter 2 - Eight Minutes of Hell
The splintering crash of the bathroom door exploding inward sounded like a gunshot in the confined space. Shards of white-painted wood and drywall rained down over my head, stinging my skin. I instinctively curled my body tighter into a protective ball, pressing my good arm hard against my eight-month-pregnant belly, shielding my baby from the debris.
Through the haze of dust, Ethan stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of drunken, adrenaline-fueled rage. The heavy silver watch on his wrist caught the harsh overhead light. In the background, leaning against the doorframe with an air of smug amusement, Vanessa crossed her arms, wearing my bathrobe like she owned the apartment.
“Who were you talking to, you little rat?” Ethan snarled, taking a massive stride forward. He towered over me where I cowered against the tiled wall. “Are you calling your friends? The police? Let them come. Nobody is going to save a broke waitress from her own husband.”
My phone was still clutched tightly in my right hand. The screen glowed faintly. The call was still active. Seven minutes left. Seven minutes until Vincent Moretti—the man who controlled the docks, the unions, and half the financial district of New York—arrived to collect a debt written in blood.
“I didn't call the police,” I whispered, gritting my teeth against the shooting agony in my left arm, which hung at a sickening, unnatural angle. Every breath felt like inhaling glass, and a dull, persistent cramp was beginning to twist low in my abdomen. Panic fluttered in my throat. Not now. Stay strong for the baby. Just stay strong.
“Give me the phone!” Ethan lunged forward, grabbing my wrist—the uninjured one—and wrenching it upward.
I cried out, the pain blinding me, but I refused to let go. I squeezed my fingers around the device until my knuckles turned white.
“Ethan, stop!” Vanessa called out from the doorway, though she didn't sound alarmed; she sounded bored, like she was watching a bad movie. “Just rip it out of her hand. God, she’s such a pathetic drama queen. Look at her—she’s acting like she’s dying over a little shove.”
“She’s hiding something,” Ethan growled, his face inches from mine. His breath reeked of scotch and cheap cologne. “She thinks she has a secret weapon. Look at her eyes. She’s not even shaking anymore.”
He was right. The moment Vincent’s calm, terrifying voice had spoken my name over the phone, the shaking had stopped. Deep inside my chest, something ancient and cold had awakened. The blood of the Moretti dynasty ran in my veins, dormant for twenty-five years, suppressed by a mother who tried to keep me safe from monsters. But tonight, surrounded by monsters of a different breed, the blood was waking up.
“You have no idea who you just messed with, Ethan,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, steady register that even startled me.
Ethan stared at me, blinking through his alcohol haze, before throwing his head back in a harsh, barking laugh. “Oh, listen to her! The waitress thinks she’s a mob boss! What are you going to do, Lena? Call your manager at the diner? Threaten to spill lukewarm coffee on me?”
Vanessa giggled, stepping closer. “Let’s search her pockets, babe. She’s probably hiding receipts from her secret boyfriend. We all know nobody else would touch her.”
Before Ethan could wrench my hand open again, a sharp, rolling contraction gripped my lower stomach. I gasped, doubling over. A hot wave of nausea washed over me, and warm fluid suddenly leaked down my thighs.
My breath caught in my throat. The world tilted sideways. Water broke. I was only eight months along. The stress, the trauma, the violence—it had thrown me into premature labor.
“Ethan…” I choked out, clutching my stomach as fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. “My water… something’s wrong with the baby.”
Ethan froze, his hand hovering over mine. For a split second, a flicker of genuine human panic crossed his eyes. He wasn't a killer; he was just a weak, insecure corporate climber who liked playing the big man at home. The reality of what he had done—what he was doing—threatened to pierce his delusion.
“Don’t fake it,” Ethan muttered, though his voice lacked its previous conviction. He took a half-step back, wiping his palms on his trousers. “You’re just trying to get out of trouble. You always pull this manipulation crap.”
“She’s faking, Ethan,” Vanessa snapped, stepping into the bathroom and kicking a piece of broken wood aside with her pedicure-finished toe. She glared down at me with pure venom. “Look at her. She’s milking it because she knows she lost you. Don't fall for it. Make her clean up this mess in the hallway, and then throw her out.”
“I’m not faking,” I whimpered, a second contraction hitting harder, tearing a ragged scream from my lips. I pressed my back against the wall, sliding down until I sat in a pool of dust and water. “The baby… Ethan, call an ambulance.”
Ethan looked down at me, hesitation warring with his fragile ego. He looked at Vanessa, seeking validation. And in that fatal hesitation, the front door of our apartment block—heavy, reinforced steel—didn't just open.
It vanished.
A deafening explosion echoed through the hallway. The entire building shook, rattling the light fixtures and showering us with a second wave of plaster. Shouts, heavy boots, and the unmistakable sound of silenced automatic weapons cycling echoed from the living room.
Ethan’s face drained of all color. He spun around, staring toward the apartment entrance. “What the hell was that?”
Vanessa let out a piercing shriek, dropping her glass of wine as it shattered against the hardwood floor. “Police?! Is that the police?!”
“No,” I whispered, a dark, victorious smile breaking through my tears as I looked down at the phone screen.
Time elapsed: Seven minutes and forty seconds.
Heavy, measured footsteps marched into our apartment. Dozens of them. Boots hitting the floor with terrifying, synchronized discipline. No shouting. No sirens outside. Just the cold, absolute silence of an elite death squad moving through a target zone.
A deep, gravelly voice echoed from the living room, cutting through the silence like a butcher’s knife.
“Clear the perimeter. Nobody leaves alive.”
Ethan stumbled backward out of the bathroom, his hands raised instinctively, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “H-hello? Who is there? You can’t be here, this is private property—!”
A towering man in a tailored black suit stepped into the doorway of the master bedroom, blocking Ethan’s escape. A silver suppressor gleamed on the barrel of the weapon held casually at his side. He didn't look at Ethan. He looked past him, straight into the master bathroom.
And behind him, walking with the slow, terrifying grace of a king inspecting his conquered territory, came Vincent Moretti.
He wore a charcoal overcoat, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, his cold gray eyes scanning the destruction of my apartment. When his gaze landed on me—bleeding, clutching my broken arm, sitting in a pool of water with a torn dress—the temperature in the room dropped below freezing.
Vincent didn't look at Ethan. He didn't look at Vanessa, who had frozen into a statue of pure terror against the wall.
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He walked past them as if they were ghosts, dropped to his knees on the dusty tile beside me, and gently, with hands that had signed death warrants for half the underworld, cupped my face.
“You stayed alive, my girl,” Vincent murmured, his voice thick with a suppressed fury that promised the destruction of everyone in the building. “Now, let’s see who is going to pay for this.”
