The scent of antiseptic was supposed to be a comfort, but to Hannah, it smelled like an arena where she was slowly losing. / Chapter 6 / 13

Chapter 6 - Shadows on the West SideNight fell over Chicago like a lead blanket, turning the lake into a black mirror reflecting the cold neon of the skyline.

Inside Room 402, Mr. Henderson had finally fallen asleep, lulled by a combination of heavy painkillers and the surreal luxury of his new surroundings. Hannah sat in the leather armchair by the window, staring down at her phone.

The screen displayed thirty-four missed calls from the local news, twelve from her landlord threatening eviction because the clinic's closure meant her paycheck had vanished, and one text message from an unknown number: Don't leave the room.

The door clicked open.

Hannah didn't look up. "If you're here to tell me another hospital board member is going to resign, save it. My brain is officially fried."

It wasn't Damen.

A woman in a crisp gray trench coat stepped into the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She had dark hair cut into a sharp bob, and eyes that were unsettlingly similar to Damen's—though hers held a sharp, analytical edge instead of heavy sorrow.

"You're Hannah," the woman said, closing the door quietly behind her.

"And you are?" Hannah asked, standing up defensively.

"Elena Moretti. Damen's older sister." Elena paused, letting the name hang in the air like smoke. She walked over to the window, looking out toward the dark waters of Lake Michigan. "He told me not to come here. He said it was too dangerous. But Damen has always had a blind spot when it comes to playing the lone hero."

Hannah crossed her arms, defensive instinct flaring. "I didn't ask to be rescued, and I certainly didn't ask for a corporate war to be fought over my hospital chart."

"No, you didn't," Elena agreed, turning her gaze to meet Hannah's. There was no hostility in her eyes, only a deep, weary understanding. "Sophia didn't ask for it either. Nine years ago, my little sister was just like you—working a community clinic on the South Side, patching up people the city pretended didn't exist. She thought she could help everyone by keeping her head down and smiling through the bruises."

Hannah's breath caught. She instinctively pulled her left sleeve down over her wrist.

"Vance didn't kill her because of politics," Elena continued, walking slowly toward the bed. "He killed her because she found out the clinic's emergency funds weren't being used for medicine. They were being used to launder bribe money for the city's zoning committee through fake medical supply orders."

Hannah stared at her in horror. "That's... that's what West Haven was doing."

"Dr. Evans wasn't just incompetent, Hannah. He was Vance's accountant in a white coat," Elena said quietly. "And when you started asking questions about why the emergency fund was always empty three years ago—wait, no. You started asking questions last month, didn't you?"

Hannah felt the blood drain from her face. "I... I asked why the insulin shipments didn't match the patient logs."

"And that's why your arm looks like someone tried to break it," Elena said flatly. "Vance’s men didn't want to kill you yet. They wanted to scare you into silence, the same way they tried to scare Sophia before they ran her off the road."

Elena reached out, laying a warm hand over Hannah’s rigid fingers.

"Damen spent nine years blaming himself for picking up a phone call about a shipping contract instead of answering his sister's call," Elena whispered. "When he saw you collapse on that sidewalk yesterday—when he saw those exact same bruises on your arm—he stopped being a mob boss and became a brother who got a second chance."