Chapter 56 THE ALLIANCE
Tristan shifts in his seat and loosens his tie. He eyes the floral displays in front of him at Arcana & Bloom.
Scarlett is in the middle of swapping hydrangeas for peonies in time for spring.
The flowers smell too sweet—sickly sweet today.
“I could’ve chosen the place,” he mutters.
“Too girly?” I smirk.
The FBI agent rolls his shoulders, his discomfort obvious.
I used to be the one smoothing PR crises in boardrooms. Now I’m in love with the king of the underworld.
As his queen, I have a few tricks up my sleeve.
My first meeting with Tristan was on his turf.
This time, it’s on mine.
And in negotiations, making the other party uncomfortable gives me an edge.
Elias would be proud of me. An ache presses on my lungs. I miss him and I worry about him.
Scarlett slides a mug in front of Tristan. Her gaze drifts toward me, and I give her a subtle nod—proof I’m holding strong.
“I didn’t order anything.” He eyes it, brow cocked high. “Is this a thing with you guys? Free drinks?”
“You need it. Trust me.” Scarlett grins and tosses her red hair over her shoulder. “And the café’s closed. Consider it celebrity treatment from me.”
I snicker and sip my hot toddy—lemon balm, chamomile, and a whisper of spice. “You’ll get used to it.”
Tristan wanted to meet after I gave him some evidence from Elias’s micro SD card. I cloned parts of it onto a USB drive. There’s no way I’m giving him the drive itself.
It’s too valuable.
And it’s leverage—protection for Elias when we get out of this situation alive.
And we will.
“You’ve checked the evidence?” I ask.
“Yes.” Tristan leans in, fingers trailing his jaw. “Called in a few favors. It’s legit.” He levels his sharp gaze at me. “You have more where it came from.”
“The deal is immunity. Evidence on the Berishas is a finder’s freebie. I’m not giving anything more until you guarantee Elias’s safety.”
Tristan sits back, his head dipping in a slow nod. “I underestimated you.”
“Many do.”
He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and slides it across the table.
I open it and scan the pages.
“Immunity for past and future crimes as long as he cooperates. But nothing for capital offenses. I can’t help him there.”
Relief sweeps through me like a cool breeze in the Sahara. “Did you find anything on that Sable person?”
It was one of the documents I gave him—a crematory log with the Lestes’ names on it. Tristan asked me who these people were, but I didn’t tell him.
“The trail was pretty cold, but I traced the signature through our archives and consulted a handwriting specialist.” Keeping his gaze firmly on me, he taps his phone and turns it to me.
On the screen are documents compared side-by-side, red circles pinpointing uniqueness in signature samples. He swipes to the next photo. A land deed filed fifteen years ago for a company, Sable Enterprises.
The signature?
Edon Berisha.
My hand flies to my mouth as the truth unravels. This is why Elias left me.
He found the man responsible for his family’s deaths.
And he’s going to kill him and set off a war.
That’s why he gave me his black book.
The ache sharpens into a blade, twisting into my chest.
Elias really doesn’t think he’ll survive.
And the black book…it’s his way of protecting me after he’s gone.
My eyes snap up, and Tristan nods. “Your Berishas rose to power quickly. I suspect these deaths have something to do with it.”
“Do you know where the Berishas are?” I haven’t heard from them in ages. No press releases or PR projects. No dinners or galas.
Tristan leans forward, his voice low. “I’m not stupid. I have a feeling Edon Berisha will end up floating face down in Lake Michigan very soon. I won’t lose any sleep over that, but I want to know why you’re asking.”
At my hesitation, he adds, “Lana, I can’t help you if you don’t give me all the facts. Flying in blind will get us—or Elias—killed.”
My pulse quickens as I hold his gaze, searching for tells—a nose twitch, a clenched jaw—any sign he’ll betray us.
The Berishas—not to mention The Association—are powerful in the city. What if this is all a trap? What if Special Agent Tristan Clarke is using me to unravel Elias’s plans?
But what options do I have? I can’t ask my brothers for help without risking them. I’m not a black ops specialist or anyone remotely familiar with this world.
There’s only one move I can make.
“The Berishas murdered his family,” I whisper, digging my nails into my palms.
Please let my gut feeling be right.
Understanding dawns in Tristan’s eyes.
“The Lestes,” he murmurs. “I see.”
He flips his phone, knocking it on the table a few times, then straightens, apparently deciding.
“Edon Berisha is scheduled for gallbladder surgery at Chicago Memorial tomorrow at ten a.m.”
I gasp, and he nods, clearly coming to the same conclusion.
“Elias Kent will make a move then,” he says. “That’s what I’d do.”
“Can you provide backup?”
Tristan frowns, his eyes contemplative. “Like you guessed before, I’m doing this off the books. The Association’s too powerful. I’ve bent the rules for informants in the past, but never this far. If the director finds out, I’m finished.”
A vein pulses in his temple. “I’ll try my best, but no guarantees. It won’t be easy to get into the hospital’s restricted areas, and the surgical floor is definitely one of them.”
He sips his drink and nearly spits out the contents. He levels a glare at Scarlett, who’s busy wiping the counters.
“If I flash my badge…someone in The Association’s pocket may see it. Rumors will swirl about an FBI agent investigating something.”
My palms sweat. That’ll draw more attention to Elias. To whatever he’s doing. It might put a target on his back.
Unless…
“What if I can get you in?”
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, “we really underestimate 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…”