Chapter 1 - The Eight Minutes of Purgatory
The wood screamed as it splintered,
releasing a shower of white dust that settled on my hair.
Mark stood in the doorway,
his chest heaving with a rhythmic,
animalistic fury.
He looked at the phone in my hand,
then at the blood dripping from my fingertips,
and he laughed.
It was a dry,
hollow sound that echoed off the bathroom tiles.
"Who were you talking to,
Lena?"
He stepped over the threshold,
his heavy boots crunching on the broken wood.
I tried to pull myself back,
but my back was already pressed against the cold porcelain of the tub.
My broken arm gave a sickening jolt,
sending a white-hot spike of agony through my nervous system.
I let out a ragged gasp,
my vision blurring with tears.
"It doesn't matter,"
I whispered,
my voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Mark lunged forward,
grabbing me by my hair and dragging me upward.
I shrieked,
the world spinning as he threw me against the sink.
"You think someone is coming?"
he hissed,
leaning in so close I could smell the stale alcohol on his breath.
"You are nothing,
Lena."
"You are a waitress with no family,"
"no friends,"
"and no hope."
He raised his hand,
the same hand that had shattered my bone only minutes ago.
I closed my eyes,
waiting for the impact,
waiting for the darkness to finally take me.
But the blow never came.
Instead,
a low,
rumbling vibration shook the floorboards.
Then came a sound I will never forget.
It wasn't a knock.
It wasn't a shout.
It was the heavy,
metallic thud of the front door being kicked off its hinges.
The sound of the apartment’s security chain snapping was like a gunshot.
Mark froze,
his hand still suspended in the air.
"What the hell was that?"
he muttered,
turning his head toward the hallway.
The apartment,
which had been filled with his shouting,
suddenly became deathly quiet.
A heavy,
measured footfall began to approach.
One step.
Two steps.
Each one sounded like a drumbeat of impending doom.
Mark let go of my hair and reached for a glass bottle on the counter.
"Stay here,"
he growled,
though I could see the sudden flicker of fear in his eyes.
He stepped out into the small hallway,
brandishing the bottle like a weapon.
"Who's there?"
he yelled,
his voice cracking.
"I’ve got a gun!"
He was lying,
and we both knew it.
Silence was the only response,
until a shadow stretched across the bathroom floor.
It was long,
imposing,
and dark.
Then,
a man appeared in the frame of the broken bathroom door.
He wasn't wearing a mask.
He wasn't rushing.
Vincent Moretti stood there in a charcoal-grey suit that cost more than this entire building.
His coat was open,
revealing the holster at his side,
but he didn't reach for it.
He didn't need to.
His presence alone seemed to drain the oxygen from the room.
Behind him,
two men in black stood like statues,
their faces devoid of any emotion.
Vincent’s eyes ignored Mark entirely.
They moved past the trembling man with the bottle and landed on me.
He saw my arm.
He saw the bruises forming on my neck.
He saw the blood on the floor.
His expression didn't change,
but the air in the room turned ice-cold.
"You're late,"
I choked out,
the tears finally spilling over.
Vincent checked his watch,
a slight glint of gold catching the dim light.
"Seven minutes and forty seconds,"
he said,
his voice a calm,
May you like
deadly velvet.
"I believe I am right on time."
