Chapter 3 - The Surgeon’s LedgerThe air in Room 304 turned instantly glacial.
I didn't reach for a gun. I didn't yell. In my world, the loudest men were usually the dead ones, and right now, every drop of blood in my body was pooling into a cold, lethal focus.
“Step away from the bed, Alan,” I said. The tone was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried the absolute certainty of an executioner's axe.
Alan Vance didn't flinch. He tossed another gauze pad aside, picked up a clipboard from the rolling instrument tray, and flipped a page with maddening nonchalance.
“You really shouldn't be here, Dante. This is a restricted medical facility,” Alan said, his eyes gleaming behind thin wire-rimmed glasses. “And legally speaking, you’re an outsider. Divorce papers were finalized ninety days ago. You signed away your rights to her estate, her medical decisions, and her person. Technically speaking, you’re trespassing.”
I closed the distance between us so fast the air pressure shifted. Before Alan could blink, I had him by the lapels of his white coat, slamming his spine hard against the glass windowpane. The reinforced glass rattled under the impact, and the clipboard slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor.
“Let’s talk about legalities, Alan,” I whispered, my face inches from his. I could smell the sharp, metallic tang of the blood on his hands. “Let’s talk about how an ambulance belonging to District Four ended up dumping my ex-wife in a black-site clinic owned by your brother. Let’s talk about why her IV is pumping contaminated blood instead of medicine.”
Alan didn't look scared. That was the detail that made my blood run cold. He just smiled, his breath catching slightly against my cheek.
“Because she’s dying, Dante,” Alan said softly. “And more importantly... so is the baby.”
The words struck me like a physical blow to the chest. My grip on his coat tightened until my knuckles turned white, the fabric tearing under my fingers.
“Save your theatrics for the boardroom,” I growled. “What did you do to her?”
“We didn't do anything to her. We merely accelerated a process that was already set in motion,” Alan said, his voice smooth, dripping with corporate arrogance. “Do you really think a woman like Elena—naive, fragile, weeping over stray cats and charity work—could survive in your world without paying a toll? The car accident two months ago wasn't a warning meant for her, Dante. It was a blood test.”
My mind raced back to the night of the charity gala. The black sedan. The near miss.
“What are you talking about?”
“Julian wanted to see how fast you would fold,” Alan explained, his eyes locking onto mine with chilling satisfaction. “He wanted to test your emotional vulnerabilities. And oh boy, did you deliver. You panicked. You divorced her, isolated her, and put her in a glass box thinking you were protecting her. But you left the key right where we could find it.”
He gestured vaguely toward the bed where Elena lay motionless.
“She wasn't just pregnant with your child, Dante. She was carrying a biological match. A universal donor line that Julian needs for a very specific, very expensive medical procedure to treat his leukemia. When Elena refused to sign over her medical proxy voluntarily three weeks ago... well, we had to expedite the extraction.”
The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
Extraction. They weren't just monitoring her. They were harvesting her.
“You bastard,” I breathed.
“I’m a businessman,” Alan corrected, his smile widening. “Just like you. Except I know when to cash out my chips.”
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Before he could say another word, the bathroom door behind him creaked open wider. A second figure stepped out of the shadows, holding a suppressed automatic pistol pointed directly at my lower back.
It was Marco.
