Chapter 5 - The Midnight Intruder
The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 AM. The grand Westchester estate was buried in absolute, eerie silence, save for the faint, rhythmic hum of the air filtration system and the steady beep of my bedside monitor.
The heavy dose of painkillers had dragged me into a restless, feverish sleep filled with fragmented nightmares—shattered glass, falling champagne flutes, dark hallways, and the cold, metallic taste of blood.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the quiet room.
My eyes snapped open. I didn't move my head, keeping my breathing shallow and even as I scanned the darkened bedroom.
The heavy oak door leading to the private hallway was slowly pushing inward, inch by silent inch. A thin sliver of pale moonlight spilled across the dark hardwood floor, cutting through the shadows.
A tall, dark silhouette slipped through the opening, moving with the practiced, silent grace of a ghost.
Panic seized my chest, squeezing my lungs so tight I thought I would suffocate. I wanted to scream for Dominic, to hit the emergency call button wired to the security desk, but my hand was too far away, resting under the heavy wool blanket.
The intruder moved toward the bed, stepping past the medical equipment with frightening familiarity. In his right hand, a long, slender blade caught the faint moonlight, gleaming with a cold, wicked edge.
He wasn't here to monitor my health or check my IV. He was here to finish what the gunmen had started at the Aster Crown Hotel.
As the figure reached the edge of the mattress, raising the blade high above his chest for a downward strike, I gathered every ounce of strength left in my battered body, yanked my right arm free from the blanket, and swung a heavy glass water pitcher straight at his face.
The pitcher shattered against his shoulder with a sharp crash, throwing him off balance just enough to deflect the knife downward. The blade sank deep into the mattress right beside my hip, missing my thigh by inches.
“ENZO! DOMINIC!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice tearing through my raw throat in a desperate shriek of survival.
The intruder cursed under his breath, wrenching the knife free from the mattress and turning his masked face toward me with murderous intent. But before he could strike again, the bedroom door flew off its hinges with a tremendous bang.
Dominic stood in the doorway, stripped to a black undershirt and dark trousers, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. In his right hand, a heavy Glock 19 was already leveled squarely at the intruder's chest.
“Drop the knife,” Dominic snarled, his voice echoing through the suite like the crack of thunder. “Or I swear to God I’ll put three hollow-points through your skull before you hit the floor.”
The intruder froze, the blade hovering in the air for a fraction of a second before clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
Dominic didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward with lethal speed, grabbed the man by the collar of his tactical vest, and slammed him against the stone wall so hard the entire room shook, pressing the barrel of his gun directly under the man's chin.
“Who sent you?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping into a terrifying, icy whisper. “Was it Costa?”
The intruder let out a raspy, distorted chuckle beneath his black balaclava, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor.
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“Costa says hello, Rossi,” the man wheezed, his eyes darting toward me with a chilling smirk. “And he says your new little bride... is about to find out her real daddy was the man who killed your sister.”
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