The hospital in Lausanne was built into the side of a mountain, its windows facing the Alps like an offering. It was the kind of place that didn't advertise, didn't have a website, didn't appear on any map I'd ever seen. Dante's people had found it through a shell company inside a shell company, buried so deep in the financial records that it had taken me six hours just to confirm the address.
We arrived at dusk. The air was thin and cold, tasting of snow that hadn't fallen yet. Dante parked the car—an unmarked sedan, nothing that screamed mafia—at the edge of the visitors' lot and killed the engine. For a moment we just sat there, watching the building through the windshield.
It looked more like a luxury spa than a hospital. Low stone walls, manicured hedges, lights glowing warm behind
