Chapter 2 - THE TRAITOR’S SMILE
The muffled pop of a suppressed gun cracked through the hospital room before the door even swung fully open.
Silenced rounds chewed through the foot of my bed, spraying white stuffing and shattered plastic across the floor. I screamed, pulling the blood-stained blanket over my head, but Vincent was already moving.
He didn't act like a man caught by surprise. He acted like a predator that had been waiting in the dark.
In one fluid motion, Vincent kicked the heavy bedside table into the doorway, jamming the first assassin against the frame. He drew his matte-black pistol from under his leather coat, racked the slide, and fired three point-blank shots through the solid wood door.
Groans echoed in the hallway. A heavy body hit the floor with a dull thud.
Outside, shouting erupted, followed by the deafening roar of automatic gunfire as Vincent’s perimeter guards responded. But inside my room, the violence was surgical, brutal, and horrifyingly close.
Vincent caught the second intruder by the throat, slamming him against the wall so hard the glass framed picture of a landscape shattered behind his head. The assassin reached for a combat knife tucked into his tactical vest, but Vincent twisted the man's wrist until the bone snapped with a sound like a dry branch breaking.
The knife clattered to the floor. Vincent swept the man’s legs out from under him, pinned him to the linoleum with his boot on the man's throat, and raised his gun.
"Who gave you the clearance codes for the VIP elevator?" Vincent asked. His voice was deathly quiet. It was far scarier than if he had been screaming.
The assassin choked, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't speak. He reached for a pill capsule hidden in his jacket collar, but Vincent fired a single bullet into the man’s shoulder, shattering his collarbone and breaking his focus.
"I asked a question," Vincent growled, leaning down. "My guards don't let strangers onto this floor. Who opened the door?"
The dying man raised a trembling, blood-soaked hand and pointed toward the hallway.
Vincent didn't wait for a verbal answer. He put one final round into the man’s chest, killing the noise instantly. Then he turned toward the door, his dark eyes locked onto the open corridor.
I was shivering uncontrollably, clutching my side as the stitches pulled painfully against my skin. "Vincent..."
"Stay down, Clara," he commanded softly, his tone shifting just enough to reveal a sliver of warmth meant only for me. "Do not move from that bed."
He stepped over the bodies into the hallway. I dragged myself toward the edge of the mattress, my vision swimming, and looked through the doorway.
Standing against the far wall, flanked by four loyal Rossi soldiers with drawn weapons, was Mateo—the same guard who had smiled outside my door two hours ago.
His jacket was torn, his hands were zip-tied behind his back, and his face was pale under the fluorescent lights.
"Mateo," Vincent said, stepping into the corridor. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out by betrayal. "You've been at my right hand since we were nineteen."
Mateo spat blood onto the polished floor, letting out a dry, raspy laugh. "And for ten years, I watched you give everything to the old ways, Vincent! Your mother's soft heart was going to get us all killed eventually. The Valenti family offered us a real future. Real territory!"
"You put four bullets into a civilian woman because she protected my mother," Vincent said, walking slowly toward his former captain. "And then you sold out my hospital wing."
"She’s a nobody!" Mateo shouted, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "A waitress! You married a nobody to save face!"
Vincent stopped inches from Mateo’s face. He didn't raise his voice. He reached out, grabbed Mateo’s chin with one hand, and forced him to look straight at him.
"She took four bullets for Maria Rossi," Vincent whispered, his voice slicing through the heavy silence. "That makes her more of a Rossi than you ever were. And in my house, we execute traitors."
"Vincent, wait—" Mateo panicked, realizing his bravado meant nothing. "I have information! The Valentis have a contact inside your inner house—"
BANG.
Vincent pulled the trigger without blinking. Mateo collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
The hallway went dead silent. The remaining soldiers bowed their heads in grim respect, stepping back as Vincent turned his gaze back toward my room.
He walked in, re-holstered his gun, and dropped to his knees beside my bed. His hands, still hot from gunpowder, gently framed my pale face.
"Are you hit?" he asked urgently, his eyes scanning my body for fresh blood.
"No," I choked out, tears finally breaking past my lashes. "I'm... I'm okay. But Vincent... he said there's someone else."
Vincent wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. "I know. Which means this hospital isn't safe anymore."
He reached down, wrapped his arms around me with incredible gentleness despite his size, and lifted me out of the bed, blankets and all.
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"Where are we going?" I asked, burying my face into his neck as the pain in my shoulder flared up.
"Home," Vincent murmured into my hair. "To the estate. Where I can burn down anyone who tries to touch my wife."
