He chuckled under his breath, low and amused, like my resistance entertained him.
His hand shifted.
The sound of his zipper followed.
Cold dread slammed into my chest.
No.
No—
His other hand tightened on the scalpel as he worked his pants open, preparing himself with disturbing ease, like this was something he had done before—something routine.
Something he believed he was entitled to.
My breathing turned shallow.
Panic surged, wild and suffocating.
I twisted again, straining every muscle in my body—trying to move.
Trying to fight.
Then—the door exploded inward.
The sound was deafening.
Metal slammed against metal with enough force to crack the frame, the impact echoing through the room like a gunshot.
Everything froze.
The man above me jerked backward instinctively, his grip faltering.
The scalpel slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
For a split second—he stood there.
Frozen.
Exposed.
My head snapped toward the doorway.
Hope—sharp and fragile—cut through the terror.
Vincenzo stood in the entrance.
His suit was torn at one shoulder.
Blood streaked down his face, dried and fresh mixing across his skin, his broken nose still slightly swollen.
But it was his eyes—that made everything stop.
Dark. Cold.
Deadly.
There was something in them that I had never seen before.
