I came back for some confidential documents and found my 8-month pregnant wife kneeling, crying while washing my mother's feet. "This house belongs to my children, not to you," she said. I held my breath, gathered two suitcases, and showed her bank statements revealing who had been stealing from us for months.

I dropped the burner phone onto the carpet and bolted out of the therapist's office as fast as my legs could carry me.

David's mercenaries had infiltrated the hospital, and Emma was completely unprotected in her critical condition.

I stole a running delivery motorcycle left idling outside the clinic, caring only about reaching my wife in time.

I navigated the wet, treacherous city streets at terrifying speeds, weaving violently through heavy traffic and running red lights.

I ditched the motorcycle near the emergency room entrance and pulled my baseball cap low over my face to avoid the police.

I sniped a white lab coat from an unattended laundry cart in the hallway and threw it on to blend in with the medical staff.

I sprinted up the stairwell to the fourth-floor maternity ward, praying I was not entirely too late.

When I pushed the heavy stairwell doors open, the long, sterile hallway was completely deserted.

The two armed police officers who had been stationed outside Emma's private room were nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the manual fire alarm on the wall, hoping the deafening sirens would create enough chaos to deter the assassins.

The emergency lights flashed a brilliant, blinding red as I kicked the heavy wooden door to Emma's room completely open.

A man dressed in blue nursing scrubs was standing over my sleeping wife, holding a large, lethal-looking syringe over her IV line.

I lunged forward with a primal scream, tackling the fake nurse violently away from Emma's hospital bed.

We crashed through a tray of medical instruments, sending glass and metal scattering across the linoleum floor.

The assassin tried to stab me with the syringe, but I grabbed his wrist and smashed it repeatedly against the metal bed frame.

He dropped the needle with a groan of pain, and I delivered a brutal punch to his jaw, instantly knocking him unconscious.

I grabbed the assassin's cell phone from his pocket, hoping to find David's exact location.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

I opened the screen and read a chilling, incoming text message from my brother.

The message read: "Plan B is now fully active, the explosive charges at the house are primed and ready."

Chapter 7 - The Hospital Breach