Ableson’s head snapped toward Rylie, hatred burning in his eyes. He pulled out a pistol and leveled it at her chest.

“You get one chance to tell me the truth. Was this an accident — or did you mean it? Think before you answer.”

“Fear” finally flickered across her face. “It wasn’t me! It was your godfather who forced my hand! I swear I’m not lying!”

“Take her away!”

Two men grabbed her roughly, dragging her out of the operating room.

In the hallway, she caught Ableson’s voice through the noise. He was on the phone, excitement creeping into his tone. “Get Deandre under control! Bring him here now!”

Thrown back into her room, Rylie heard the door click locked. She rubbed her sore wrist, eyes cold, before pulling a gun from the holster she had swiped off one of Ableson’s men.

She checked the bullets, then walked to the door and knocked. “Why lock me up? Wasn’t I supposed to leave?”

Silence. No one outside bothered to answer. Clearly, Ableson had played this game before.

Rylie scanned the window, gauging the drop from the third floor. Without hesitation, she climbed onto the ledge. In one fluid move, she landed on the air-conditioning unit below, swung to the drainpipe, and slid down to the ground floor.

Her mind ran calculations with each step. She slipped through gaps in the patrol routes, hugging shadows and using blind spots to move toward the tall structure in the distance.

At that same time, Deandre arrived from the airport, unaware of the chaos. The moment he stepped out of the car, Ableson’s men blocked his path. Tension crackled as both sides faced off.

Ableson shouted, “I gave you the title of Godfather, and this is how you repay me? You murdered my father — my last family!”

Deandre’s temper flared. “That’s a lie! I’d never kill him!”

His eyes darted to his own men near the operating room. A subtle nod from them confirmed the scene inside: Lochlan was gone. Ableson had set him up. Several neutral members of the gang watched from the sidelines. The weight of the moment struck.

Regardless of the trap, Deandre still cared deeply for Lochlan. He shoved Ableson aside and stormed toward the medical room.

When he saw Lochlan lying motionless, Deandre’s eyes burned red. He pressed a trembling hand against Lochlan’s cold chest, his knuckles whitening as he fought the sting of grief. The flatline beeped over and over, each sound like a blade cutting through his mind.

“Are you happy now?” Ableson rolled his wheelchair into the doorway, his voice dripping with feigned sorrow. “The whole gang saw it. You killed the old leader. You’ve won, Deandre. So tell me — why did you have to kill him?”

Deandre turned sharply, his boots scuffing the floor with a harsh scrape. He stood taller than Ableson, his frame casting a long shadow that swallowed the smaller man. “Where’s the surveillance footage? What happened to the surgery records?”

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