"She’s going to take us somewhere terrible, isn't she?"
“Realistically?” I say. "Yes. The probability is one hundred percent."
Preston snaps his notebook shut. "I give it twenty minutes before she tries to bribe a landmark into changing its zoning laws."
"Tomorrow," Jax sighs, grabbing my hand. "We survive tomorrow. Let’s go."
The black SUV Mother provided is waiting at the curb. It is armour-plated. Of course it is.
We climb in—me and Jax in the middle, Preston and Luke in the back. The interior smells of new leather and oppression. As the driver pulls away from the curb, merging aggressively into the Queens traffic, the silence in the car is heavy.
Jax is vibrating. I can feel it radiating off him. It’s not the happy vibration of adrenaline; it’s the jagged, discordant frequency of a man who realizes he is outgunned.
"We need a strategy," Jax says, staring out the tinted window at the Van Wyck Expressway. "We can't just walk into those tours tomorrow. She’s going to steamroll us. She’s going to show us a ballroom, I’m going to say it’s too big, and she’s going to say she bought the block to knock down the neighbouring buildings for 'sightlines'. I can't fight that kind of crazy, Max. I fix bullet holes. I don't fix... whateverthatis."
"It’s asymmetrical warfare," Preston supplies from the back seat. "She controls the logistics, the funding, and the environment. You are fighting an insurgency against an occupying force."
"Thanks, Preston," Jax snaps. "That’s really helpful. Any clinical advice on how to defeat a dictator?"
"Usually? Revolution," Preston says. "Or waiting for them to die. But Mother eats kale and rage. She’s going to live forever."
Jax turns to me. His eyes are dark with that specific mix of panic and admiration that always makes my heart rate spike.
"Max," Jax says, leaning in. "Use that sexy brain of yours. Look at the data. What are our assets?"
I close my eyes, tracing the familiar comfort of a mental spreadsheet, though the numbers feel useless right now. "We have leverage," I admit, leaning slightly into his space. "She needs us for the merger. But we are out of our depth. You thrive in the chaos, Jax, and I survive on structure. But Mother doesn't play by either of those rules. She is a force of nature, and she writes her own weather reports."
"We need a wall," Jax says. "We need someone she can't buy. Someone she can't bully. Someone who looks at a York and sees a patient, not a paycheck."
He pauses. He sits up straighter.
"I need a Chief of Staff," Jax says. "I need a Warlord. I need someone who runs the floor. Someone who scares the residents. Someone who scaresme."
From the back seat, Luke leans forward. He rests his elbows on the centre console. "You’re describing my mother.”
Jax freezes. I freeze.
We both slowly turn around. Luke isn't smiling; he’s perfectly serious.
"Think about it," Luke says, ticking points off on his fingers. "She made a neurosurgeon cry last week because he broke sterilefield. She doesn't care about money. She cares about protocol. And she really, really hates it when people are rude."
Jax looks at me. The data points align instantly. Rosa Ortiz. The Head Charge Nurse. The woman who has been running St. Jude’s since before I was an intern. And, crucially, Luke's mother.
"Rosa," we say in unison.
"Mama Ortiz," Luke confirms. "But she’s on shift. It’s Friday night. The ER is going to be a combat zone."
"Exactly," Jax says, tapping on the partition glass. "Driver! Change of plans. We’re not going to the penthouse. Take us to St. Jude’s. Emergency Bay entrance."
"Sir, Mrs. York’s instructions were specifically to—" the driver begins.
"I have a scalpel in my pocket and I know exactly where your femoral artery is," Jax lies smoothly. "St. Jude’s. Now."
The driver makes a hard U-turn.
We arrive at the St. Jude’s Ambulance Bay twenty minutes later. We don't go through the main entrance; we go through the trauma doors.
The ER is, as predicted, a controlled disaster. It is Friday night in New York City. There is a waiting room full of flu cases, a drunk tank full of regrets, and the distinct, high-energy hum of a trauma centre at capacity.
