Chapter 57 DISHONOR AND ATONẸMENT
Sobs reach my ears. Then muffled whispers. Hum of machines… beep…beep…beep hammers 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.
“Father Mancini,” a teary-eyed woman clutches Rafe’s shoulder. “Can you pray with us?”
Rafe nods, his gaze soft, heavy with sympathy. He rolls down the sleeves of his black clerical shirt, hiding his tattoos. “I’ll be right there.”
As I step toward Surgical Suite 5, Rafe’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Elias,” he murmurs.
I pause, meeting his eyes.
“Remember rule three. Promise me.” His jaw tics.
No innocents.
I’m once again wondering why someone from the church is helping me commit a mortal sin.
“Forgiveness will set you free,” he says, guilt darkening his eyes.
“If it’s that simple,” I whisper, “why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Who says I haven’t tried?”
The second stretches. I take in his tensed shoulders, the flush crawling up his neck above his clerical collar.
“Something tells me you haven’t succeeded.” A bitter laugh lodges in my throat. “And it’s too late for me…but I promise you. No innocents.”
I clasp his shoulder. “Thank you, Rafe, for everything. If anything happens, take care of Lana for me.”
The priest’s nostrils flare. He dips his head in a curt nod and pivots to the grieving woman.
I slip away. Keeping my head down, I pull on a doctor’s white coat Sebastian’s contact left for me behind the now-empty nurse’s station. My footsteps are brisk but silent as I move toward the room.
Sofia, disguised in nurse scrubs, nods at the door.
We enter the room.
The hiss of oxygen pumping through machines fills the air. The EKG beeps steadily and hypnotic.
“Labs back?”
“Yep, H&H stable.”
Low conversation from next door hums from the hallway.
Sofia closes the door behind us.
Edon lies on the narrow gurney, dressed in a pale-blue surgical cap and gown, IV line taped to his arm.
The asshole is scrolling on his phone, oblivious death is at his door.
“Well, well, well, Edon. The blue doesn’t become you.”
I pull on surgical gloves. The elastic snapping punctures the sterile quiet.
Berisha jerks, his gaze swinging in our direction, eyes wide.
“K-Kent, what are you doing here?” He scrambles back, clearly sensing danger.
Sofia pulls his gurney away from the wall and the emergency buttons.
I tsk, shaking my head. “You really don’t know? A sly weasel like you suspected nothing?”
“What are you talking about? If this is about Shkelzen’s behavior—”
I cross the room in three strides, my hand shackling his neck.
The tendons yield and snap. His face reddens, hands clawing at my wrist.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” I growl, tightening my grip, “so fucking long. The only thing I dream about is watching the light leave your eyes.”
Leaning in, I shove him back onto the gurney. He thrashes in my hold, completely at my mercy.
“Don’t worry. I’m not letting you die this way. Too messy,” I whisper, loosening my grip. I seal his lips with medical tape. His screams turn into muffled whispers. “Much better.”
It’ll be a nightmare in autopsy—prints around his bruised neck. Too obvious. As much as I want him to suffer just like my parents and Beatrice did, I need him dead more, and this needs to look clean.
Sofia’s already prepping—hands steady and efficient, but with a rare, haunted look in her eyes.
She winks when she catches me staring and flashes five large-gauge syringes filled to the brim with one thing.
Air.
“Not a doctor. The literature’s confusing.” I take the first syringe and stare at the needle. “Coronary artery. Cerebral? Veins? No clue what any of that means.”
Shifting closer, I hold him still as Sofia fastens his arms and legs to the gurney with bedsheets.
“Some websites say half a milliliter kills. Others say fifty. Honestly, who knows? But everyone seems to agree that a hundred milliliters of air is fatal.”
I grip his chin and force the trembling man to look at me. “So this is one fifty, a little extra for the man who’s changed my life.”
Heat rushes to my face as I cock my head. “Not so scary anymore, Berisha? People like you only lord over the weak, like a family of five from twenty years ago. Was too much of a pussy to do it yourself. Had to send your minions.”
His brows furrow, confusion obvious in his mumbling.
“What? Not ringing a bell? Here’s a clue.” I lean in and whisper, “The Lestes.”
Berisha freezes.
Fury simmers into a boil inside my veins.
Rule one: Look them in the eyes.
“My name is Kian Leste,” I rasp. “Your extirpation all those years ago wasn’t thorough enough.”
I slide the needle into the IV port and slowly depress the plunger. Edon thrashes, muffled screams ripping out of his throat.
Sofia slaps him hard across his face. My gaze snaps to hers, and I see tears in her eyes.
Rule two: Tell them their sins.
“You killed our parents and our sister. My grandfather…I’m sure you offed him too. For what? Power? A seat in The Six?” I fist his shirt and hand the IV to Sofia, who takes over and inserts the second syringe.
Damn hospitals for not carrying larger gauges. Not expeditious enough.
“You forged the evidence, didn’t you? My grandfather’s alleged wrongdoings. You wanted to take out the ruling Albanian family and become the top man.”
Berisha’s eyes widen in pain.
Sofia stabs in the third syringe.
“But it doesn’t matter if my grandfather was guilty or not. The result is the same. You killed our family!”
Rule three: No innocents.
But there are no innocents here. Not him. Not us.
“Looks like we won’t need all five syringes with you, Edon,” I whisper and set his quaking body back on the bed, tucking him in like he was asleep waiting for surgery.
I glance at the clock. Five past ten. The honor walk will be over soon. Our window is shrinking.
“Rot in hell.”
The syringe empties. Life slowly drains from his mottled face, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Soon, he stills. The flatline wails.
Sofia turns off the monitor, tears streaking down her face. She’s trembling, her hands clutching the rails on the gurney like she’s struggling to stay upright.
“I know, Sofia,” I whisper.
She shakes her head and wipes her eyes, quickly gathering the syringes to get rid of the evidence.
One death won’t resurrect our parents or little Beatrice, won’t erase the decades of scars, turning us into shadows of our former selves.
Inhuman.
My nose burns as hollowness fills the space where rage once lived.
I feel nothing.
No satisfaction. No peace. No absolution.
Just empty.
I try to conjure Lana’s voice, her scent of roses, but I can’t. I’m not worthy.
Then the door slams open. Boots scrape on the floor.
“Elias Kent,” a voice drawls, cold and satisfied. “Thank you for the help.”
A gun barrel gleams, pointing straight at our faces.