Chapter 4 - The Sound of Broken Glass
A dull, heavy thud echoed through the clinic reception room, followed by the sickening crunch of bone and a sharp cry of agony.
The grip on Hannah's collar vanished instantly.
She stumbled backward, catching herself against the filing cabinets, gasping for air. When she opened her eyes, the scarred enforcer was already crumpled on the floor, unconscious, blood pooling slowly from his nose onto the linoleum tiles.
Standing over him was Marco Bell, Damen Moretti’s driver, his knuckles bruised, his expression completely blank as if he had just stepped on a stray twig.
The other two thugs drew small-caliber handguns from their jackets, shouting in panic and turning toward the doorway.
"Drop the hardware," a cold, deep voice commanded from the entrance.
Damen Moretti stood in the doorway of the clinic, framed by the pouring rain outside. He wasn't holding a gun. He didn't need to. Behind him, four men in tailored dark suits filled the narrow street, blocking every possible exit.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the thugs yelled, his hand shaking as he aimed his pistol at Damen's chest. "This is Vance Syndicate territory! You're stepping on turf you don't own!"
Damen took two slow steps forward. His gray eyes were entirely devoid of human warmth.
"I don't own turf," Damen said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet clinic like a razor blade. "I own consequences."
Before the thug could pull the trigger, Marco moved with terrifying speed, sweeping the man's legs out from under him and driving the butt of a heavy tactical flashlight down onto his shoulder. The second thug didn't even try to shoot; he dropped his weapon, raised his hands, and bolted for the back exit toward the alley, only to be met by two of Damen's guards who shoved him back inside with brutal efficiency.
Within thirty seconds, it was over.
The clinic was silent again, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the breakroom and the ragged breathing of the terrified thugs kneeling on the floor.
Damen walked past them without a glance, stopping directly in front of the reception desk where Hannah was still pressing herself against the metal cabinets, trembling from head to foot.
"Are you hurt?" Damen asked, his voice softening just enough for only her to hear.
Hannah shook her head, tears of shock and anger spilling over her lashes. "Why are you here? How did you know they would come?"
"Because men like Marcus Vance don't let their financial leverage walk away," Damen said. He reached out, gently taking her hand—avoiding the bruised wrist with careful precision—and pulled her away from the desk. "And because I told you to call my number if he came near you."
"I didn't call you," Hannah whispered fiercely.
May you like
"No," Damen agreed, his gray eyes locking onto hers. "You didn't have to. I had a car parked outside your apartment from the moment you left the hospital."
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