Chapter 7 - The Eve of the Operation
It was Wednesday night, eight hours before Wyatt’s scheduled transplant surgery.
The eighth floor of St. Matthew’s was quiet. The bright lights in the corridor had been dimmed, and soft, warm ambient lamps illuminated the private suite.
Wyatt was fast asleep, his breathing deep and peaceful, resting after a battery of pre-operative preparations conducted by Dr. Sterling’s specialist team.
Quinn sat on the private balcony overlooking the shimmering lights of Ashford Bay. The cool night sea breeze blew soft strands of dark hair across her face. She held a warm glass of water, staring out at the cargo ships moving quietly across the dark water.
A soft step sounded behind her.
Lucas Hale walked out onto the balcony. He had shed his suit jacket, wearing only his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing broad, powerful wrists. He held two small paper cups of black coffee.
He offered one to her.
"Thank you," Quinn whispered, taking the cup.
Lucas leaned his broad forearms against the balcony railing, staring out at the city he had controlled from the shadows for over a decade.
"He’s resting well," Lucas noted quietly. "Dr. Sterling says his blood values are optimal for tomorrow morning."
"I still feel like I'm going to wake up," Quinn said softly, looking at the man beside her. "Three days ago, I was working nineteen hours a day, counting pennies to buy bread, terrified that my brother was going to die in a county hospital. And now..."
She paused, looking at his sharp side profile lit by the distant city lights.
"Why are you really doing this, Lucas?" Quinn asked softly. "I know about your reputation. I know what people call you on the waterfront. They call you the Gravedigger. They say you're heartless."
Lucas let out a low, soft exhale—a sound that was almost a sigh.
"They're not wrong," Lucas said quietly. "In my world, having a heart gets you killed. I took over my uncle's syndicate when I was twenty-six because the men around me were wolves. If you don't eat them, they eat you."
He turned to face her, his gray eyes softer than she had ever seen them.
"Twelve years ago," Lucas continued, "when I was bleeding out in the snow, I had accepted that I was going to die. I was a killer, Quinn. I had done terrible things. I believed I deserved to freeze on those steps."
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out the silver paper crane, and held it up between them. The moonlight reflected off the small silver wings.
"Your mother didn't know who I was," Lucas whispered. "She didn't ask if I was a good man or a bad man. She just saw a twenty-five-year-old boy dying in the dark, and she refused to let me give up. She gave me her coat, her hands, and her wish."
He looked into Quinn’s green eyes—the eyes of the woman who had saved his soul.
"When I looked at that crane over the years," Lucas said, his voice thick with rare emotion, "it reminded me that somewhere in this filthy, corrupt city, true mercy existed. For twelve years, I survived because I wanted to prove to Marian Beckett that her wish wasn't wasted on a monster."
Quinn felt tears welling up in her eyes. She reached out, her fingers gently covering his hand holding the crane.
"It wasn't wasted, Lucas," Quinn whispered firmly. "Look at what you did today. You saved Wyatt. You stopped those monsters from hurting anyone else."
May you like
Lucas looked down at her small, warm hand over his. For the first time in twelve years, the cold, heavy darkness inside his chest felt a little lighter.
"Tomorrow morning," Lucas murmured softly, "your brother gets a new life. And so do you, Quinn."
