Chapter 309: The Unlicensed Doctor
"That's fine," Sammi said immediately. "Bangladesh or wherever—doesn't matter. As long as you actually know what you're doing."
"Where did you get the liver?" Fiona asked bluntly.
Money wasn't the issue. What they lacked was a liver that could actually match.
"Based on the medical information you provided a few days ago, we've already identified a reliable donor," Doctor Johnny replied calmly.
"Can you tell us who the donor is directly?" Fiona pressed. "We won't short you on the money."
"Please rest assured," Johnny said, unfazed. "Our team includes professional anesthesiologists, hepatology specialists, and surgeons. We're fully equipped. All of us are trained professionals from overseas hospitals—just without U.S. medical licenses."
"You know how things are in America," he continued. "We're doing this simply to survive."
"A legal transplant at a private hospital would cost at least $150,000—possibly $200,000. We only charge $50,000, and we provide the donor."
"However," Johnny added carefully, "we won't be responsible for post-op recovery. Once the transplant is complete, you'll take the patient to a hospital. The ER will accept him, and they won't investigate the source of the liver."
"We'll give you the fifty thousand—every cent," Frank finally spoke. "But just give us the donor. You don't need to perform the surgery."
No matter how professional or polished Johnny sounded, it didn't change the fact that they were underground doctors.
Even if everything he said was true, their operating rooms could never match the conditions of a legitimate major hospital. That was just reality.
This wasn't some minor procedure. It was a transplant—cutting open the abdomen, removing an organ, implanting another. One mistake, and someone would die.
Frank would rather pay extra, skip their surgery entirely, buy the liver outright, and have the transplant done at a real hospital.
From Johnny's perspective, that was even better—no surgery, no risk, and easy money.
But Johnny shook his head.
Most of the fifty thousand dollars was clearly meant to cover the surgery itself. The portion that actually counted as payment for the liver probably amounted to less than ten thousand.
"I'm afraid that won't work," Doctor Johnny said—flatly refusing.
"Why?" Everyone froze, baffled.
From Johnny's perspective, this should have been a time-saving, effortless deal. His refusal only made things feel more suspicious.
"If you want the liver, the transplant must be performed by us," Johnny said.
"Please don't misunderstand—this isn't our condition. It's the donor's."
"As we explained earlier, our situation is… special," he continued carefully. "The donor is the same. He's an undocumented immigrant, not a legal U.S. resident. If he's exposed, he'll be deported immediately."
"So if you were to take the donor to a legitimate hospital—" Johnny stopped there, letting the implication sink in.
Frank and the others understood instantly.
They lived in the South Side slums. They knew undocumented migrants all too well. The workers renovating Frank's factory were almost all illegal immigrants.
For people like that, it made sense to become donors. They needed money to survive. Even if donating an organ would permanently damage their health—if tomorrow wasn't guaranteed, then the future hardly mattered.
"I've explained everything clearly," Johnny concluded.
"If you insist on taking only the donor, we can't continue working together."
"But if you agree, tell me—when do you want the surgery?"
"Give us some time to think," Sammi said.
"Of course," Johnny replied, glancing at his watch. "You have thirty minutes."
The three of them moved to a nearby booth to talk.
"Can we trust him?"
"This sounds shady."
"But his explanation makes sense…"
Voices overlapped. Disagreements flared.
More than ten minutes later, they returned.
"So?" Johnny asked. "What's your decision?"
"We'll do the surgery," Sammi said quietly. "As soon as possible."
"Good," Johnny nodded. "That man over there is the donor."
He pointed to a man sitting not far away, sipping coffee.
The three of them were startled. They hadn't expected the donor to be right there and instinctively followed Johnny's finger.
The man looked South Asian—Indian, Bangladeshi, maybe Burmese. His skin was dark, his posture hunched even while seated, as if he was trying to shrink into himself. He looked wary, uncomfortable, painfully cautious.
One glance was enough.
They believed Johnny now. This man was undocumented—and clearly struggling.
"Hi," Sammi greeted softly. "What's your name?"
The man nodded timidly but didn't answer.
"His name is Shakawat," Johnny explained. "He doesn't speak English. Anything you say, he won't understand."
"His compatibility is very high. He'll donate a lobe of his liver. Here's my number."
Johnny scribbled his phone number on a napkin.
After confirming the schedule and exchanging a few more words, Johnny left with the donor.
"That Doctor Johnny… I think he's a taxi driver," Fiona said suddenly.
The restaurant had large windows. They'd seen everything.
Johnny walked straight to a cab, got into the driver's seat, and the 'Available' light on top flicked on.
"Either way," Frank said slowly, "we move forward—but we don't trust him completely."
A few days later, they arrived at the location Johnny had given them.
A remote warehouse on the outskirts of town.
"This is the place?" Terry Milkovich muttered from the driver's seat.
"Yeah," Frank nodded.
Just in case, Frank had brought Terry along as muscle. Terry owed him—and muscle like that didn't come cheap.
"Where are your guys?" Frank asked.
"Didn't want to spook anyone," Terry replied. "They're in a van behind us. One signal, and they'll rush in."
The warehouse loomed ahead—silent, isolated, and full of unknowns.