"THE MAFIA BOSS WALKED INTO THE HOSPITAL WITH HIS NEW LOVER—THEN FROZE WHEN HE SAW THE WOMAN HE ABANDONED DYING WITH HIS CHILD

Night fell over Chicago like a heavy black velvet curtain, bringing with it a bitter autumn wind that whipped off Lake Michigan, driving dark waves against the concrete shorelines.

At 6:30 PM, the fifth floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital had completed its transformation.

Thirty of Cormack’s top enforcers—men trained in military tactics and loyal only to the Hale family—were stationed strategic points throughout the building. The hospital staff had been quietly restricted to necessary personnel, and the public elevators were shut down, locked on the ground floor.

Cormack sat in a chair inside the small private waiting room connected to the CICU, a cold cup of black coffee resting on the table beside him. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the shoulder holster housing his Kimber .45.

The door opened, and Dr. Vance stepped inside, holding a clipboard covered in test results.

“How is she, Richard?” Cormack asked instantly, standing up.

Dr. Vance rubbed his tired eyes. “Her ejection fraction—the percentage of blood her heart pumps out with each beat—is sitting at eighteen percent. A normal heart is between fifty-five and seventy. Her body is surviving solely because of the high-dose vasopressors and the ventilator.”

“Can we perform the transplant?”

“No,” Dr. Vance shook his head firmly. “Her liver and kidney values are elevated from the acute shock. If we put her under heavy anesthesia for a heart transplant right now, she will die on the operating table. We need her heart to stabilize, even by ten percent, to buy us time to find a donor match and prepare her body.”

“What about Clara?”

A genuine, warm smile broke across the doctor's tired face. “The baby is doing surprisingly well. Her lungs are clear, her reflexes are strong, and she’s already taking small amounts of formula. She’s a tiny miracle, Cormack.”

Cormack breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Before he could say more, the heavy double doors at the end of the main hallway slammed open with a loud, echoey crash.

Cormack’s hand dropped instinctively to the grip of his pistol. He stepped out of the waiting room into the corridor, his enforcers instantly falling into position behind him, their suit jackets pulling back to reveal concealed weapons.

Walking down the hall was a group of eight men.

At the center walked Aurelio Salcedo.

The fifty-eight-year-old head of the Salcedo cartel was a stocky, imposing man with short silver hair, a thick mustache, and eyes as sharp and unforgiving as razor wire. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a three-piece suit. Flanking him were six heavily armed cartel enforcers, led by his infamous right-hand man, a scarred gunman known as El Alacrán (The Scorpion).

Walking beside Aurelio was Yara. She wore an expensive fur coat, her red lips twisted into a vengeful, arrogant sneer as she looked at Cormack.

Royce and Viktor immediately stepped forward, their hands resting on their weapons, but Cormack held up a single, firm hand, halting his men.

Aurelio stopped ten feet away from Cormack. The air in the hallway became so thick with tension that even the distant hum of the hospital machinery seemed to fade away.

“Cormack,” Aurelio said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp carrying a heavy Mexican accent. “You missed our meeting at the Drake.”

“I was busy, Aurelio,” Cormack replied coldly, standing tall, his posture relaxed but deadly. “As you can see.”

Aurelio’s dark eyes shifted toward the CICU glass window behind Cormack, catching sight of Brin lying in the bed, surrounded by life support machinery. Then his gaze drifted toward the end of the hall, where two armed men stood outside the NICU doors.

“So it’s true,” Aurelio said softly, taking a step closer. “My daughter sits in a restaurant waiting to celebrate our union, while you are here... tending to a dying barmaid and a bastard baby.”

“Watch your mouth, Aurelio,” Cormack said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a quiet, terrifying rumble. “You are in my hospital, in my city. Speak about my family with respect, or you won't leave this floor.”

Yara stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger at Cormack. “Family?! She’s a nobody, Cormack! A pathetic servant girl you picked up off the street! And you humiliated me for her? You humiliated the Salcedo name!”

“Be quiet, Yara,” Aurelio snapped, raising a hand. His daughter instantly fell silent, though her eyes burned with hatred.

Aurelio looked back at Cormack, his expression hardening into stone.

“We came to Chicago to form an alliance, Cormack,” Aurelio said slowly. “We offered you our distribution routes, our political connections, and my daughter’s hand. In return, we expected absolute loyalty. A joint empire.”

“My business alliances do not dictate my personal life, Aurelio,” Cormack stated flatly.

“In my world, they do!” Aurelio roared, stepping right up to Cormack, standing nose-to-nose with the younger mob boss. “You cannot marry my daughter while keeping a bastard child born to another woman! It makes my family look weak! It makes Yara look like a fool!”

“I am not marrying Yara,” Cormack said clearly, the words echoing down the silent corridor.

Yara gasped loudly. Aurelio’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits of pure rage.

“What did you say?” Aurelio whispered.

“The deal is off,” Cormack declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Take your distribution routes. Take your political connections. Take your daughter. Get out of my city.”

El Alacrán’s hand moved quickly toward his jacket, but before he could even touch his weapon, six red laser sights instantly illuminated his chest. Royce, Viktor, and four Hale enforcers had pulled their suppressed firearms, aiming directly at the cartel guards.

Aurelio didn't flinch. He slowly looked down at the red dots on his lieutenant’s chest, then looked back up into Cormack’s unwavering eyes.

“You are making a fatal mistake, boy,” Aurelio said, his voice dripping with venom. “You think you are strong because you own a few docks and a dozen streets? I have two hundred men waiting in Hammond. I will burn your clubs. I will murder your captains. And when I am finished with you...”

Aurelio leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper meant only for Cormack.

“...I will come back to this hospital, and I will smother that dying woman and her worthless baby with my own hands.”

In a fraction of a second—faster than human eyes could track—Cormack’s right hand whipped out.

He grabbed Aurelio by the throat, slamming the older cartel chief heavily against the drywall. Before the cartel bodyguards could react, Royce and Viktor stepped forward, pressing the barrels of their suppressed pistols directly against El Alacrán’s and Yara’s temples.

“Don't move!” Royce snarled. “Move and she dies first!”

Aurelio gasped for air, his face turning purple as Cormack’s fingers tightened around his windpipe like iron bands. Cormack leaned in until his nose was an inch from Aurelio’s ear.

“Listen to me very carefully, old man,” Cormack hissed, his voice sounding like something crawling out of the depths of hell. “If you so much as utter a threat against my daughter or her mother ever again, I won't just kill you. I will hunt down every person who carries your bloodline. I will erase the Salcedo name from the face of the Earth. Do you understand me?”

Cormack shoved Aurelio backward. The cartel chief stumbled, coughing violently, clutching his red throat as his men caught him.

Yara was trembling with fear, her arrogant composure completely shattered by the sudden, brutal display of absolute power.

“Get them out of my sight,” Cormack ordered, turning his back on them and walking back toward Brin’s room.

“This isn't over, Hale!” Aurelio choked out, his voice hoarse as his men pulled him backward toward the elevators. “War! You wanted war, you have it!”

The elevator doors closed, sealing the cartel chief and his entourage away.

Cormack stood outside Brin’s room, taking a deep, slow breath to control the adrenaline surging through his veins. He looked through the glass window.

Inside, a nurse was frantically tapping the glass, motioning for him to come in.

Cormack pushed the door open. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Hale!” the nurse exclaimed, pointing at the cardiac monitor. “Look!”

Cormack turned his eyes toward the monitor.

The heart rate line, which had been dragging along at a terrifyingly low rate, was suddenly spiking.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

The ejection fraction numbers on the digital screen were rising—18%... 22%... 26%.

On the bed, Brin’s eyelids were fluttering wildly. Her pale fingers twitched against the white bedsheet, reaching out blindly into the air.

“Brin!” Cormack gasped, rushing to the side of the bed and grabbing her hand tightly. “Brin, can you hear me?”

A soft, raspy groan escaped beneath her oxygen mask. Slowly, painfully, her dark green eyes flickered open, trying to focus through the haze of medication and exhaustion.

Her gaze drifted across the ceiling, then slowly turned until her eyes locked onto Cormack’s face.

Tears welled in her green eyes, spilling down her pale cheeks into the mask.

“Cor... mack?” she rasped, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’m here, baby,” Cormack sobbed, lifting her hand to his cheek. “I’m right here.”