Chapter 8 - The Ghost from the PastTime froze.
The roaring sounds of the ballroom music behind the heavy steel door muffled away into a distant hum. My heart slammed against my ribs—not with the gentle flutter of anxiety, but with the violent, primal shock of an old nightmare coming back to life.
Marcus stepped closer, the streetlight catching the cruel, twisted smirk on his face. He looked thinner, his cheeks hollow, his eyes wild and bloodshot with the desperation of a hunted animal.
"Surprised to see me, sweetheart?" Marcus hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You thought throwing me in some county jail three states away was going to keep me locked up forever? Corrupt guards are cheap, Lena. Just like you used to be."
I didn't scream. I didn't run.
My body instinctively flooded with adrenaline, but my mind—honed by months of surviving in Vincent Moretti’s world—remained ice-cold.
I slid my right hand slowly down the side of my silk gown, my fingers brushing against the cold, comforting steel of the micro-Beretta 9mm holster strapped securely to my thigh.
"You look different," Marcus sneered, taking another step forward, blocking my only exit back toward the ballroom door. He reached into his jumpsuit pocket, pulling out a heavy, rusted steel wrench. "Got a fancy dress, expensive diamonds. Look at you playing queen of the underworld. But underneath all that silk, you're still just that pathetic little waitress crying in the bathroom, waiting for someone to save you."
He took a lunging step toward me, raising the wrench.
"This time," Marcus snarled, his eyes wide with unhinged fury, "there's no phone call to save your life."
I didn't flinch. I didn't scream.
Instead, a slow, terrifyingly calm smile spread across my lips.
"Marcus," I said softly, my voice carrying a lethal sweetness that made him pause mid-stride. "You really didn't learn anything in prison, did you?"
Before he could process my words, the heavy steel door behind him was blown violently off its hinges.
The metal door crashed onto the concrete floor with a deafening bang.
Stepping through the wrecked frame was Vincent Moretti.
His suit jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and angry veins. His dark eyes were burning with a rage so absolute, so primal, that it looked as though he had stepped straight out of the deepest pits of hell.
"Drop it," Vincent whispered.
Marcus spun around, panic instantly hijacking his features as he saw the mafia boss towering over him. Marcus raised the wrench defensively, trembling violently. "Stay back! I'll kill her! I swear to God I'll—"
Vincent didn't give him a chance to finish the threat.
In a single, lightning-fast motion, Vincent drew a polished silver Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster and fired.
Bang.
The bullet didn't hit Marcus’s chest. It struck the rusted steel wrench square in the middle, shattering the tool into a dozen jagged pieces and sending a violent shockwave up Marcus’s arm that shattered his wrist with a sickening crunch.
Marcus shrieked, dropping to his knees, clutching his mangled hand, blood pouring freely onto the metal grating.
Vincent closed the distance between them in three long strides, grabbed Marcus by the throat, and hoisted him off his knees with one hand, slamming his spine against the iron railing of the balcony.
Below them, the dark waters of the East River churned silently.
"You," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, shaking with suppressed atomic fury. "You had the audacity to breathe the same air as her?"
"Please... please don't kill me!" Marcus sobbed, his legs dangling over the drop, his face turning purple as Vincent’s grip tightened around his windpipe. "She—she's a monster! You don't know what she—"
"I know exactly who she is," Vincent interrupted, his eyes flashing with lethal possessiveness. "She is my world. And you are standing in her light."
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Vincent looked back at me, his gaze softening just an inch.
"Lena," Vincent said quietly. "Do you want to finish this?"
