Chapter 2 - The Sound of Retribution**
Ten minutes felt like ten lifetimes.
Marcus had stopped trying to break the door down with his body. Instead, the heavy thud of a blunt object—likely the iron fireplace poker—began striking the wood with calculated, malicious rhythm. CRACK. SPLINTER. A jagged hole punched through the upper panel of the door, and Marcus’s bloodshot, manic eye peered through the dark opening.
“Got you now, you little bitch,” Marcus hissed, slipping his fingers through the hole to fumble for the interior privacy lock.
Lena scrambled backward, pressing herself hard against the porcelain bathtub, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She watched the lock turn with a sickening click.
Before Marcus could shove the shattered door wide open, a distant, muffled sound echoed from the front of the apartment.
It wasn't a knock. It was the heavy, synchronized thud of multiple heavy boots marching up the exterior stairwell, followed by the sound of the front deadbolt being blown clean off its frame with a suppressed, muffled ballistic charge.
*PFFT.*
Marcus froze, his hand still gripping the broken bathroom door. He blinked, turning his head toward the hallway. “What the hell...?”
Heavy, unhurried footsteps strode across the living room rug. These weren't the stumbling, drunken steps of a neighborhood friend or a local cop. These were the measured, military-grade footsteps of apex predators moving in absolute synchronization.
“Who’s out there?!” Marcus yelled, stumbling away from the bathroom door and grabbing a heavy glass decanter from the kitchen counter. “I’ve got a gun! I’ll blow your heads off!”
Silence answered him. A heavy, suffocating silence that made the air in the apartment drop twenty degrees.
Then, a voice cut through the quiet. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It possessed the terrifying weight of a falling anvil.
“Drop the glass.”
Marcus spun around, his face twisting into an ugly snarl as he faced the hallway. Standing in the entrance of the living room was a tall, impeccably tailored man in a charcoal three-piece suit. His dark hair was silvering slightly at the temples, and his eyes were like chips of black flint. Behind him stood four massive men in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind dark visors, holding submachine guns pointed firmly at the floor.
The man in the suit—the one Lena had served coffee to months ago—didn't even blink at the heavy glass decanter in Marcus’s hand. His name was Dante Vance. And to anyone living in this city, seeing Dante Vance walk into your living room meant your life was already over.
“Who the hell are you?!” Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with sudden, hysterical panic as he realized the sheer magnitude of the men standing before him. “Get out of my house! This is private property!”
Dante didn't raise his voice. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, his polished leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor.
“It was private property,” Dante corrected smoothly, his gaze locking onto Marcus with lethal intensity. “About thirty seconds ago. Now, it’s a crime scene.”
“I’ll call the cops!” Marcus bluffed, raising the decanter.
Dante gave a cold, humorless smile. “Go ahead. Dial them. Tell them Dante Vance is standing in your living room. Let’s see who answers your call first.”
The color drained entirely from Marcus’s face. The glass decanter slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces against the floorboards. He took a stumbling step backward, his hands raised defensively. “I... I didn't know. She’s... she’s my wife. We were just having a disagreement—”
Dante raised a single gloved hand. The two tactical guards behind him moved with terrifying speed. Before Marcus could blink, he was slammed face-first against the kitchen wall, his arms wrenched behind his back with bone-crunching force as heavy plastic zip-ties locked around his wrists.
“You had a disagreement,” Dante murmured, walking slowly toward the bathroom door. He stepped over the splintered wood, his dark eyes scanning the cramped room until they landed on Lena, huddled shivering against the bathtub, clutching her visibly deformed, swollen arm.
Dante’s expression didn't soften—it hardened into something ancient and feral.
He knelt down beside her, ignoring the broken glass and blood staining the tile. His gaze swept over her battered face, the torn clothes, and the horrific angle of her forearm.
“Can you stand?” Dante asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its icy menace and turning strangely, intensely gentle.
Lena looked up into those dark, bottomless eyes, tears spilling over her lashes, and nodded weakly. “Yes.”
May you like
Dante reached out, his large, warm hand securely gripping her good shoulder, lifting her effortlessly to her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.
“It’s over, Lena,” Dante whispered, guiding her away from the bathroom and past her thrashing, weeping husband. “Nobody will ever touch you like that again. I promise you.”
