PART 2
The bathroom door crashed inward so violently that a piece of wood skidded across the tile beside my knee.
I screamed and pressed myself against the bathtub, cradling my injured arm against my chest.
My husband, Derek, stood in the doorway breathing heavily.
For a second, he only stared at the phone in my hand.
Then he laughed.
“You actually called someone?”
I said nothing.
He stepped closer.
“Who, Lena? One of your coworkers? That pathetic diner manager?”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
Vincent was still listening.
Derek reached down and ripped it from my hand.
“Hello?” he mocked. “Whoever this is, mind your own business.”
Silence.
Then Vincent’s voice came through the speaker.
“Seven minutes.”
Derek frowned.
“What?”
“You have seven minutes to leave that apartment.”
Derek burst out laughing.
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
Vincent’s voice remained frighteningly calm.
“I’m giving you the only warning you’re going to receive.”
Derek ended the call and threw my phone against the wall.
The screen cracked.
“There,” he said. “Problem solved.”
But something changed less than five minutes later.
The apartment became strangely quiet.
Then headlights swept across the living-room curtains.
One car.
Then another.
Then another.
Derek walked toward the window.
His confidence disappeared.
Black vehicles were stopping along both sides of the street.
Men in dark coats stepped onto the sidewalk.
None of them hurried.
They didn’t need to.
Derek backed away from the glass.
“What the hell?”
Then came three knocks on the apartment door.
Slow.
Heavy.
Certain.
Derek grabbed a kitchen knife and whispered, “Stay here.”
For the first time in five years, I saw fear in his eyes.
He opened the door.
Vincent Moretti stood on the other side.
Perfect suit.
Calm expression.
Five men behind him.
Vincent looked past Derek and saw me sitting on the bathroom floor.
His face went completely still.
“Lena,” he said quietly.
Then he looked at my arm.
Something dark flashed behind his eyes.
Derek lifted the knife.
“You need to leave.”
Vincent glanced at him almost sadly.
“That,” he said, “was your second mistake.”
I thought he meant hurting me.
I was wrong.
Because Vincent reached into his coat, removed an old photograph, and placed it on the table.
My face was in it.
I was six years old.
And standing beside me was Vincent Moretti.
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