3. Kanyan
3
KANYAN
S car Gatti doesn’t waste time with pleasantries when we arrive at the Gatti Estate. He stands near the window, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his posture one of quiet command. The dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, his presence alone enough to weigh down the air in the room. There’s no need for theatrics—Scar’s reputation speaks for itself. He built the Gatti empire from the ground up, clawing his way to the top with blood, strategy, and a relentless will that made him both feared and respected. He controls the city’s largest family with an iron fist, the kind that doesn’t need to flex to remind you it could crush you at any moment.
He nods toward the bar, offering us a silent invitation to pour our own drinks. It’s an unspoken test, one I recognize. In his world, knowing when to drink and when to stay sharp is as important as knowing when to strike and when to hold back.
Mason steps forward to fix our drinks, but I barely glance at mine before setting it down. I need my head clear for this conversation. Scar didn’t just welcome me into his family—he backed me when I took control of the Moreno family, putting his faith in me when others doubted my ability to lead. That kind of endorsement carries weight, but it also comes with expectation.
Scar may hold power over the five families in this city, but even he answers to someone—Dante Accardi. The don of all dons. A ghost of a man who rarely makes public appearances but whose influence stretches far beyond Seattle. Dante is the kind of leader who doesn’t need to remind people who he is; his name alone is enough to send a message. He was the one who appointed me as the new head of the Morenos, sealing my fate with a single decree.
“You two look like shit,” he says, turning to face us fully.
“Good to see you too,” I reply dryly, taking the seat across from him while Mason stands, his arms crossed like a sentinel. “We’ve got a problem.”
Scar arches a brow, his expression unreadable. “With the Albanians?”
Mason and I exchange quick glances. Now, how did he know that?
I nod, sliding a folder across the glass table. He opens it, his face hardening as he skims through the evidence—intercepted shipments, forged documents, and a list of names connected to Albanian operations.
“Moreno was in bed with the Albanians,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “Victor either didn’t notice or didn’t care that they were inching into our territory. Either way, they’ve gotten too comfortable.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they spread their wings,” Mason says. “It could get ugly-they’re already circling like vultures, requesting a sit down.”
Scar closes the folder, his fingers drumming against the glass. “We have nothing to offer them. We run this city, and there’s no seat for them at our table.”
Mason steps forward. “I’ve already set up an appointment with Altin Kadri.”
Scar’s gaze shifts to me. “You ready for a meet?”
I hold his stare, my voice steady. “We need to send a message. We can’t do that sitting on our hands.”
Scar smirks, a glint of approval in his eyes. “Good. You’re thinking like a leader.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “If they don’t fall in line, plug their lifeline. Disrupt their shipments, and you cripple them. But make sure it’s surgical—quick, clean, and brutal.”
Mason’s grin is wolfish. “Surgical we can do.”
Scar’s gaze darkens as he fixes his piercing gaze on me, his tone dropping. “You had a clean-up,” he says.
I nod, the acknowledgement settling over me. Obviously, he’s been keeping tabs on what we’re doing. It’s a small comfort knowing that we have the backing of the Gatti brothers. Scar nods his head, giving his approval.
He rises, finishing his bourbon in one smooth motion. “Good. Good. Now get out there and remind them why the Morenos are a name they should fear.”
As we leave the house, Mason’s grin grows at the prospect of a showdown with the Albanians. “You think they’ll heel?” he asks, his tone almost casual.
“They’ll bow ,” I say, my voice firm. “Because if they don’t, there’ll be hell to pay.”
The Albanians think they’ve found an easy mark, but they’re about to learn that this family doesn’t bend—and it sure as hell doesn’t break.
The restaurant is too quiet. It’s the kind of place that would be buzzing with soft chatter and the clink of glasses any other night, but tonight, it feels like the world is holding its breath. I sit at the head of a long table, my back to the wall. Mason Ironside is at my right, silent but watchful, his hand resting casually on the table—close enough to his sidearm to make a statement.
Across from me sits Altin Kadri, the leader of the Albanian mafia. The man exudes the kind of confidence born from years of unchecked power. The man is in his fifties, dressed sharply in a tailored suit, his silver hair slicked back, his dark eyes hard as stone. His men, three of them, flank him like sentinels, their bulk straining against their jackets.
The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
Kadri’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. De Scarzi,” he says in a tone that’s all silk and steel. “I appreciate you inviting me to this… discussion.”
He gestures wildly, his hands slicing through the air as if to illustrate the sheer enormity of the situation. Yet, despite the exaggerated movements, the curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes betray him. Amusement dances just beneath the surface, like he’s merely humoring me with his presence. I’m offended.
But I don’t let him see my frustration. The man has had a free pass to run riot all over the city long enough. His self-appointed reign ends here and now.
“Ground rules,” I reply evenly, my voice low but firm as it cuts through the pleasantries. There’s no need for me to be nice to him. “Victor Moreno is gone, and with him, so is the way he used to do business.”
Kadri tilts his head, studying me like a wolf sizing up its prey. “Victor may be gone, but his agreements with me are not. Business is business, and the Moreno family owes me fulfillment of several contracts. Arms shipments, to be precise.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t let my expression slip. “Victor made unsanctioned deals he couldn’t fulfill. Promises he had no right making. I’m not Victor. I’m not here to play nice or to string you along. Whatever was agreed to before is null.”
The smile vanishes from Kadri’s face. His voice drops, each word weighted. “You misunderstand. These are not casual agreements, Mr. De Scarzi. I’ve paid for those shipments. Paid handsomely. You owe me, and I expect you to deliver.”
Mason shifts slightly beside me, his knuckles brushing the edge of the table. I raise a hand to keep him still, locking eyes with Kadri.
“I owe you nothing,” I say, my tone as sharp as a blade. “Victor might’ve sold you lies, but I don’t deal in false promises. You got your money back. Every cent. With interest. But the shipments? Not happening.”
His jaw tightens as he watches me, assessing his next words. If he could kill me now, he would. But we’re on my turf, in my playground, and we’re surrounded by loyalists who would shoot him dead even before he made it to the front door if he were to try anything.
“And one more thing,” I add. “You don’t do business in my city that interferes with my family’s interests.”
No laundering. No trading. No shipping. No racketeering. No…breathing.
The room seems to shrink, the air thickening as Kadri leans forward, his hands folding neatly on the table. “Are you threatening me?”
I lean back, my movements deliberate, calm. “Warning you. You don’t want to test how far I’m willing to go to shut you down.”
Kadri’s face darkens, the lines around his mouth tightening. “You insult me, Mr. De Scarzi. You think throwing some money my way will erase a contract? Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” I say, my voice cold, controlled. “A man who’s used to getting his way because everyone’s too scared to stand up to him. But let me make this clear—I’m not scared of you, Kadri. If you push me, I’ll push back harder. And trust me, you won’t like how that ends.”
His men bristle, their hands twitching toward their jackets. Mason’s already moved, his pistol in hand, the barrel resting lightly against the edge of the table. The tension snaps taut, a hair’s breadth from breaking.
Kadri raises a hand, signaling his men to stand down. Smart move. His smile returns, colder now, like ice spreading across a frozen lake. “You’re bold, De Scarzi. I’ll give you that. But boldness without caution can get a man killed.”
I lean forward, matching his intensity. “So can underestimating the wrong man.”
For a moment, silence reigns, the kind that crackles with unspoken intentions. Then Kadri rises, buttoning his coat before he smooths the front of his suit. “I’ll take your offer under consideration. But understand this—I don’t forget insults. And I don’t forgive easily.”
“Neither do I,” I reply, my voice like granite.
He nods once, a curt gesture, and walks out with his men in tow. Mason watches them go, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.
When the door swings shut, Mason exhales sharply. “That went well.”
I smirk, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s not over. He’s testing us. We’ll need to be ready when he decides to push back.”
Mason nods, his face grim. “I’ll get the men prepared.”
I glance at the empty chair where Kadri sat, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the air. My message was clear, but so was his. This isn’t the end—it’s just the beginning of something far messier.
And we’ll be ready for it when it comes.