SHADOWS AND MERCY

His eyes landed on the phone pressed against my ear, and his face twisted into a grotesque, drunken sneer.

"Who the hell are you talking to?!" Marcus barked, lunging forward.

He grabbed my hair with his right hand, yanking my head back so hard my neck popped, and snatched the phone from my grip. He brought the receiver to his ear, laughing arrogantly into the microphone.

"Listen to me, you pathetic joke," Marcus snarled into the phone, glaring down at my bruised, tear-streaked face. "This is my wife! What happens in this house is my business! If you ever call this number again, I'll put a bullet through her—"

Marcus cut himself off mid-sentence.

Through the phone speaker, a voice answered—a voice so quiet, so devoid of human warmth, that even Marcus’s alcohol-fueled bravado faltered for a fraction of a second.

“Marcus Blake,” Vincent Moretti’s voice echoed clearly through the small bathroom. “You have six minutes left to pray.”

The call disconnected with a sharp click.

Marcus stared at the glowing phone screen, a flash of sudden, uncomfortable confusion crossing his features. But the alcohol in his blood quickly drowned out his instinct for survival. He threw my phone against the marble sink, shattering the screen into a hundred tiny pieces.

"You think some fake tough guy is going to scare me?!" Marcus roared, grabbing my uninjured right shoulder and hauling my weak, bleeding body off the floor.

I screamed in pure agony as the motion jarred my broken left arm, which hung limp and useless in its makeshift sling.

"You're going to learn your lesson tonight, Lena," Marcus sneered, dragging me out of the bathroom into the living room, throwing me onto the sofa like a ragdoll. "No one is coming. No one cares about you."

I lay on the sofa, clutching my broken arm against my chest, watching the clock on the microwave in the open kitchen.

7:52 PM. 7:54 PM. 7:56 PM.

Precisely eight minutes after I had whispered my address into the receiver, the entire world outside our apartment went dead silent.

The ambient sounds of street traffic, distant sirens, and city rain suddenly vanished.

Marcus paused near the bar cart, his hand hovering over the bottle of bourbon. He frowned, looking toward the heavy steel front door of our apartment.

Then came the knock.