I push out an exhale. Yes. I might pull it off.
“What do you mean?” His brown eyes sharpen.
“Chicago Memorial…we donated a billion dollars to fund their new research wing last quarter. They gave me an open invite to do a PR tour with them—full escorted behind-the-scenes access, temporary VIP badges with the right clearances. Rex was going to help with this, but as far as I know, nothing’s been done yet.”
Tristan’s lips curve into a slow smile, and he cocks his head.
“Lana Anderson Kent,” he rasps, “wereallyunderestimate you.”
Adrenaline churns, and I grip my mug to stop my nerves from showing.
“Will it work?”
Tristan arches a brow, his smile disappearing when he tosses back his drink. “It just might.”
He leans in, his voice low. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”
Chapter 57: DISHONOR AND ATON?MENT
Sobs reach my ears.Then muffled whispers. Hum of machines…beep…beep…beephammers the air. The stench of antiseptic agents chokes my airway even through the surgical mask I’m wearing, like most folks on the floor.
My gaze connects with Sofia, already merged with the small crowd entering the restricted hallway of the surgical floor. Aleksei should be in the server room, ready to work his magic on the surveillance feeds. Sebastian had a last-minute call from his family to handle Irish mob business, but he assured me the doctors on his payroll would assist with crowd management. He said it’d be better if he weren’t here—his apathetic face would give us away.
Ren is MIA. I frown and check the phone. No texts. Calls go to voicemail. Whatever’s going on with him—it has to be an emergency. But I don’t have time to dwell on that.
Unease coils around my gut, and the air around me crackles.
The calm before a storm hits.
Edon Berisha, the fucking weasel, is hiding somewhere beyond those double doors, thinking he’s only getting his gallbladder removed. Right now, he’s as unprotected as he’ll ever be.
This is our chance.
“An honor walk will begin on Surgical Level 2 in fifteen minutes. Available staff may join outside the OR lobby,” the overhead speaker announces.
Every muscle inside me clenches as I stride to the security guard standing sentry.
“He’s with me,” Rafe murmurs as we pass through the normally closed doors.
I flash my visitor badge to the bald security guard, whose belt strains against his gut. He looks like he couldn’t catch a toddler chasing an ice cream truck.
The man barely spares me a glance.
Inside the hallway, a quiet commotion gathers. Family and friends huddle shoulder-to-shoulder along the wall. Technicians and staff in scrubs hold tissue boxes and comfort the bereaved.
A ten-ton plate presses on my rib cage. There’s something about the heavy atmosphere—the slump of the weary doctors’ shoulders, teary nurses putting on a brave face for families going through the unthinkable—that makes you question the path you’re about to take.
They’re mourning someone kind-hearted, whose last contribution to this world will be the gift of life.
I’m here to take one.
Even if it belongs to the devil incarnate.
The Kian who loved Elise would never do this. He dreamed of saving strays and stitching up the wounded in a tiny, low-cost clinic on the south side, a raven-haired goddess working beside him, her laughter infectious, her warmth spreading like sunlight.
Guilt squeezes my lungs.
The emotion has no place in my life, but that’s the side effect of loving Lana, of stealing whiffs of her roses and bathing in her light—becoming partially human again.
