Chapter 5 - The Shadow of the Past
The confession hung between us like a charged wire throughout the rest of dinner. We ate in a silence that was no longer awkward or fearful, but thick with an electric tension that seemed to shrink the cavernous room down to just the two of us.
When dinner concluded, Vincent walked me back up the grand staircase. He kept a respectful distance, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his slacks, but his presence was an overwhelming shield at my side.
"You should rest tonight," he said as we stopped outside my bedroom door. "Keller wants to take updated X-rays in the morning."
"Vincent?" I said, turning to face him.
"Yes?"
I reached out with my uninjured right hand and touched the fabric of his sleeve. His muscles coiled under my fingertips, tight as wire, but he didn't pull away.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For being honest with me."
Vincent looked down at my hand on his arm, his expression softening into something raw and vulnerable that he surely never showed the outside world. He lifted his hand and brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his rough fingertips lingering against the sensitive skin of my cheek.
"Sleep well, Lena," he murmured.
Before I could answer, the shrill ring of an encrypted sat-phone broke the quiet of the hallway. The moment shattered. Vincent’s jaw tightened as he pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID.
"Talk," he barked, instantly returning to the cold, lethal commander.
I watched his face darken as the voice on the other end spoke rapidly. His hazel eyes turned to flint.
"Where?" Vincent demanded. A pause. "How many?" Another pause. "Lock down the southern gate. I’m on my way down."
He hung up and turned to me, the gentleness completely stripped from his demeanor. "Go inside. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone except me or Keller."
"What's happening?" Panic flared in my chest.
"The Valentis," Vincent said, pulling a sleek black semi-automatic pistol from a hidden holster inside his waistband with chilling calm. "They tracked one of my supply trucks to the outer perimeter. They think this estate is vulnerable while my primary enforcers are in Brooklyn."
"Vincent—"
"Get inside, Lena. Now."
He didn't wait for my response. He turned and sprinted down the hallway toward the stairs, moving with the terrifying speed of an apex predator.
I scrambled into my room, threw the heavy brass deadbolt, and backed away from the door.
For ten agonizing minutes, the house was dead quiet. The only sound was the howling of the November wind against the balcony glass. Then, from the direction of the woods past the lower gardens, came the sharp, unmistakable *pop-pop-pop* of suppressed gunfire.
My breath hitched. The phantom pain in my broken arm flared up as my heart pounded against my ribs like a caged bird.
They were here.
Five years of surviving Greg had taught me that when violence starts, you don't cower in the middle of the room. You find high ground, you find a weapon, and you look for an exit.
I moved to the fireplace, grabbed the solid iron poker with my good right hand, and moved toward the shadows near the adjoining bathroom. If someone came through that door, I wasn't going to be dragged out by my hair again. I would fight with every ounce of breath left in my lungs.
Downstairs, an explosion rattled the foundations of the house—a controlled breach, followed by the rapid-fire staccato of automatic weapons echoing through the lower halls. Shouts in Italian cut through the noise, followed by the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
Then, silence fell over the house again. Heavy, suffocating, and terrifying.
Footsteps approached my bedroom door. Slow. Deliberate.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
I raised the heavy iron poker above my shoulder, bracing my feet against the hardwood, my knuckles turning white.
The brass doorknob jiggled.
A key slid into the lock, turning with a crisp click. The door swung open.
A shadowy silhouette filled the frame, gun held at the low-ready position.
I didn't hesitate. With a feral scream torn from the depths of five years of suppressed terror, I lunged forward, swinging the iron poker down with all my strength.
A hand made of solid steel caught the poker mid-air, inches from the intruder’s skull.
"Lena!"
The voice cut through my hysteria like a blade.
I froze.
Vincent stood before me. His navy shirt was torn at the shoulder, dark blood smearing his collar, and gunpowder burned black across his knuckles. But his eyes were wide with shock as he stared at the iron rod clutched in my trembling hand.
"It's me," he said softly, slowly easing the poker from my grip and tossing it onto the rug. "It's over. It's done."
The adrenaline crashed out of my system all at once. My knees liquefied, and I began to fall.
Vincent caught me before I hit the floor. He pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms around my back, lifting me effortlessly off my feet. I buried my face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the sharp scents of cordite, cedar, and blood, and I wept.
I didn't cry for the danger outside. I cried because, for the first time in my life, when the door opened, the monster on the other side wasn't coming to hurt me.
He was holding me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
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"I told you," Vincent whispered into my hair, his chest heaving against mine as he held me tight in the dark hallway. "No one touches you. Never again."
***
