Chapter 2 - The Enforcer's Arrival
Splintered wood rained down like heavy confetti. My husband loomed over the threshold, his silhouette casting a long, terrifying shadow across the bathroom floor. His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles bruised from previous nights, and a twisted grin stretched across his face.
“Who were you talking to, you ungrateful little bitch?” he sneered, lunging forward with horrifying speed.
Before I could scream, his heavy hand grabbed my hair, yanking me upward. Fire erupted through my scalp, mixing with the white-hot agony radiating from my broken arm. I dropped the phone—it clattered against the tiles, the faint sound of a deep, calm voice still echoing from the speaker before the battery casing popped loose.
“Get up!” he roared, dragging me out of the bathroom by my hair.
The digital clock on the microwave in the kitchen blinked across the living room. Seven minutes remaining.
Seven minutes to stay alive.
My husband threw me toward the coffee table. My ribs slammed against the sharp wooden edge, knocking the remaining breath from my lungs. I gasped, coughing violently as a metallic taste flooded my mouth. He stepped over me, unbuckling his leather belt with slow, deliberate movements.
“You think you can call people behind my back?” he muttered, raising the heavy brass buckle high into the air. “I am going to teach you a lesson you will never forget.”
I curled into a tight ball, shielding my face with my uninjured right arm. I closed my eyes, waiting for the first brutal blow to land.
Tick-tock. Six minutes.
Suddenly, a dull, heavy thud echoed from the hallway outside our apartment door. It wasn't the sound of a neighbor walking past. It sounded like something immense and unstoppable striking the heavy oak frame.
My husband paused, the belt hovering in mid-air. He frowned, turning his head toward the front door.
“What the hell?”
Bang.
The second impact was catastrophic. The deadbolt didn't just break; the entire iron-reinforced doorframe buckled inward as heavy steel battering equipment met industrial wood. The door flew off its hinges, crashing violently onto the living room floor and kicking up a thick cloud of dust.
My husband dropped the belt, his jaw slack with sudden, blind panic. “Who's there? Police! Get the fuck out—!”
He didn't even get to finish the sentence.
Three men in immaculate charcoal suits poured into the apartment with terrifying, synchronized precision. They didn't shout warnings. They moved like shadows wrapped in armor, weapons drawn and locked onto targets with chilling professionalism. They cleared the corners in seconds, neutralizing the space before anyone could blink.
And then, stepping casually over the splintered remains of our front door, came Victor Romano.
He wore a tailored black overcoat that swept past his knees, untouched by the chaotic dust around him. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his sharp, dark eyes surveyed the room with absolute disdain. He looked less like a mob boss and more like an executioner attending a funeral he had personally scheduled.
My husband backed up against the kitchen counter, his face turning pale as paper. “Look, man, whatever you want—take it! Just take whatever you want!”
Victor didn't look at him. His gaze locked instantly onto me, huddled on the floor beside the coffee table, bruised, bleeding, and clutching my ruined arm.
May you like
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Victor raised his right hand, and the lead enforcer stepped forward, grabbing my husband by the collar of his shirt and lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing at all.
“You have seven minutes on the clock,” Victor said softly, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “You used six of them to hurt her. Now, I have all the time in the world.”
