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Chapter 3 - The Answer

It wasn't the rapid, frantic knock of the police. It was two heavy, deliberate strikes against the cheap wood of our apartment door.

David frowned, setting his glass down on the counter. "Who the hell is that?"

He marched to the door and yanked it open, his chest puffed out, ready to scream at whatever neighbor dared to interrupt him.

The words never left his throat.

Vincent Moretti stood in the hallway. He wore a flawless, midnight-black overcoat, his expression as cold and still as a frozen lake. Behind him stood three men who looked like they breathed violence for a living.

"Can I help you?" David stammered, his false bravery evaporating instantly.

Vincent didn't look at him. His dark eyes scanned the apartment, bypassing the cheap furniture and the empty bottles, until they landed on me. He saw the blood on my face. He saw the unnatural, horrifying angle of my left arm.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Vincent stepped inside. He didn't ask permission. The sheer, gravitational weight of his power forced David to stumble backward.

"You're in my apartment," David tried to say, his voice cracking with panic.

"Quiet," Vincent commanded. It wasn't a shout. It was a death sentence.

Vincent crossed the room and knelt beside me on the floor. He took off his expensive overcoat and draped it over my trembling shoulders. The scent of cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around me, a sudden, inexplicable shield against the nightmare I was living in.

"I told you eight minutes," Vincent murmured softly, his eyes searching my pale face. "I apologize it took nine."

"Who is this guy, Lena?" David yelled, desperate to reclaim his dominance in a room he had already lost. He took a foolish step toward us.

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Vincent didn't even turn his head. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Two of Vincent's men moved with terrifying, blinding speed. In less than a second, David was slammed brutally against the wall, his feet lifting completely off the ground as a massive hand wrapped around his throat. His whiskey glass shattered on the floor.

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