Chapter 1 - The Eight Minutes
Can you... please save me?
The words came out of my mouth as if they'd been ripped out with pliers. Barely a whisper. Barely air. But as soon as I said them, I understood there was no going back.
The phone trembled in my blood-stained hand as I pressed it to my ear. The bathroom smelled of copper, cheap soap, and old fear. Every breath set my ribs on fire, and my left arm hung at such a horrible angle that the pain had stopped feeling real.
My body was no longer trying to comprehend what had just happened.
Minutes earlier, my husband had grabbed my wrist during another one of those arguments that started with a glass of liquor and ended with my voice disappearing.
First he squeezed until my eyes filled with tears. Then he twisted.
The crack echoed off the apartment walls.
He didn't even blink.
He smiled.
Then he walked to the kitchen as if nothing had happened, poured himself another drink, and acted as if breaking my arm had been a normal way to vent his frustrations for the day.
For five years I learned to survive him. I knew when to stay silent, when to avoid eye contact, when to move slowly so as not to provoke him, and when to make myself invisible before his anger found a place to land. There are houses where silence isn't peace. It's training.
And that night, something inside me finally broke.
Not another bone.
My fear.
I locked myself in the bathroom at 11:47 p.m. and slumped against the icy tile. With my good hand, I rummaged through my purse until my fingers found the black card I'd hidden for months between a restaurant receipt and an old shift slip.
It was thick. Heavy. Too elegant to be in my life.
In gold lettering, it bore only a name and a number.
Vincent Moretti.
The Mafia boss everyone in New York feared.
People didn't joke about that name. They lowered their voices. They stared at the door. Some acted as if they'd never heard of him, because there are men whose reputation enters a room before their shoes.
I'd met him months before, during a night shift at the downtown diner where I worked. He arrived with three silent men, and the entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath. I was so nervous I almost spilled coffee on the table.
I expected a shout. A threat. Something cruel.
But he just looked up and said calmly,
"Okay."
When he left, I found the black card under the bill. On the back were four words handwritten.
If you ever need help.
I read them hundreds of times. On the train. In the locker room at work. On nights when my husband slammed the kitchen drawers shut.
I never imagined I'd actually use it.
A violent bang rattled the bathroom door.
"Lena!" my husband yelled from the hallway, his voice thick with alcohol and rage. "Open this damn door!"
The doorknob rattled as if it wanted to rip from the wood.
"Who are you calling?" he roared. "Do you really think someone's going to come and save you?"
I dialed the number with my blood-covered thumb.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then someone answered.
"Speak."
His voice was calm, steady, and somehow more terrifying than a scream.
My throat tightened.
"I... I don't know if you remember me," I whispered. "I'm the waitress at the diner."
There was a brief pause.
Then he said my name.
"Lena."
The fact that he remembered me almost made me collapse.
Before I could answer, my husband slammed his shoulder against the door again. The wood splintered around the lock, and Vincent heard every second.
"Who's there?" he asked, and his voice changed. It wasn't calm anymore. It was ice.
"My husband."
"What did he do to you?"
I looked at my twisted arm, the swollen skin, my fingers that were already starting to go numb.
"He... he broke it."
The silence that followed wasn't hesitation.
It was fury held in both hands.
"Give me your address."
I whispered it as another bang rattled the frame. Somewhere in the hallway, my husband let out a laugh, convinced that the door, my body, and my life belonged to him.
"How long will it take?" I asked, almost breathless.
Vincent didn't hesitate.
"Stay alive for eight minutes."
And at that exact moment, the bathroom door exploded inward.
Wood splinters showered over me like deadly rain.
My husband stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, a twisted grin on his face.
"Found you," he slurred.
He lunged.
I screamed, dropping the phone as his heavy hands grabbed my hair, dragging me out of the bathroom.
The pain in my broken arm was blinding. I kicked. I scratched.
"Who were you talking to?!" he spat, striking my cheek.
The taste of copper filled my mouth.
I looked at the clock on the wall.
11:51 p.m.
Four minutes left.
He threw me against the living room wall. My head cracked against the plaster.
The room spun. Darkness gnawed at the edges of my vision.
He stood over me, unbuckling his belt.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson, Lena. One you'll never forget."
11:53 p.m.
Two minutes.
He raised his hand.
I closed my eyes.
But the strike never came.
Instead, a sound tore through the apartment.
Not a knock.
A detonation.
The front door didn't just open; it was ripped from its hinges, crashing violently onto the living room floor.
My husband froze, turning around.
Heavy footsteps filled the hallway.
Three men in tailored suits stepped into the dim light of our living room.
And behind them, adjusting his cufflinks with terrifying precision, was Vincent Moretti.
His dark eyes swept the room. They bypassed the cheap furniture, the spilled liquor, and locked onto me.
He saw the blood on my face.
He saw my arm.
Then, his gaze shifted to the man standing over me.
"Who the hell are you?!" my husband shouted, trying to sound brave, though his voice trembled.
Vincent didn't answer him.
He looked at one of his men and nodded once.
In a fraction of a second, the man stepped forward, swinging a heavy iron baton directly into my husband’s knees.
A sickening crunch filled the room.
My husband collapsed, screaming in agony.
Vincent walked slowly across the room, his expensive leather shoes stepping over the shattered door.
He crouched down beside me, ignoring the screaming man on the floor.
He reached out, his large, warm hand gently touching my uninjured shoulder.
May you like
"I said eight minutes," Vincent murmured, his voice softening in a way I didn't think was possible for a monster. "I'm sorry I took seven."
Then, the darkness finally swallowed me whole.
