Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
LUKA
Running a clan isn’t like managing some fucking corner store. It’s messier, more complicated. One bad call can destroy everything we’ve built, turn allies into enemies, or put my people in the ground. Mistakes don’t end with a bad review—they end with blood.
You need more than instincts—you need a predator’s vision and a fierce bullshit detector. And the meetings—Christ, the meetings. Always in the dead of night, in the backrooms of businesses where real power moves in shadows.
I don’t mind. Each meeting establishes my dominance. Shows who sits at the head of the table.
I stride out of one such meeting from the back of an electronics store on 156th Street, having just straightened out the Russians and their Bitcoin problems. They came in loud and left quiet. Problem solved.
Dardan follows me out with a few other soldiers, their eyes never meeting mine directly.
Dardan approaches after the Russians disappear. “I hope you enjoyed yourself the other night.”
I fix him with a stare.
“The girl? Honey?”
In one fluid motion, I close the distance between us, my hand finding his throat before he can blink. His eyes widen as I apply just enough pressure to remind him of his mortality. “Never mind!” he chokes out.
“She’s not for you,” I say, voice like ice.
“Didn’t know?—”
I tighten my grip slightly. “Now you do.”
I release him, and he stumbles back, hand at his throat, fear and respect warring in his eyes. The others look away, pretending they saw nothing.
Storm waits in the shadows where I positioned him, a lethal sphinx ready to pounce at my command.
“Let’s roll.”
We set out walking, my stride purposeful. The weird fury at Dardan still pulses through me. The thought of him even looking at her makes my blood boil. I didn’t know she was yours, he was going to say.
Storm cocks his head at a sound in the distance, then dismisses it with a barely perceptible shake of his head. We continue, comfortable in our silence, the city parting before us like we own every inch of concrete we cross. In many ways, we do.
Orton and I first liberated Storm from a terrorist bunker near Moldova.
He was chained like an animal, but even restrained, you could see the killer in him.
We weren’t being merciful when we freed him.
We were recruiting excellence. That’s what separates a true kyre from the pretenders—recognizing raw talent that can be molded into something lethal.
I’ve got a midnight meeting with a financial guy a few blocks up. The kind of meeting that happens off the books, where the real millions are made. After that, I’m seeing Edie.
The smart play would be to send her away. In this business, she’s a liability. A transaction, not a relationship. But some things aren’t about being smart .
We round a corner, my territory unfurling before us.
“Heard a rumor today,” Storm suddenly says, breaking character. He’s a ghost most days, silent as death.
“Yeah?” I don’t break stride.
“Somebody saying you’re not a true blood Zogaj.”
“Let them talk.” My voice is casual, but my mind is already calculating who needs to disappear.
“They’re looking for your DNA to prove it. Someone wants your throne. I don’t like it.”
“Nobody gets my DNA without losing their hands.” I scan the street as we walk, marking potential threats, escape routes, vantage points. Always calculating.
“But if they do? And if the testing goes a certain way that we both know it could go?”
We cross to the unlit side of the street, darkness enveloping us.
Storm knows what my brother said before I put him in the ground. He’s not superstitious like Orton. He’s not even Albanian. But he sees the world as it is.
“There are people who will feel moved to kill you,” he points out.
I laugh, the sound hard and cold. “People always feel moved to kill me.”
He slants me a glance. Orton , he means, as well as half the Ghost Hound Clan. “If somebody gets your DNA, we gotta shut that shit down, even if it means moving on some lab. It’s a hit on you, same as if they had a gun to your head.”
All of this chattiness is unlike Storm. I stop walking, turning to face him fully. “If somebody steals my DNA and brings it to some lab, I will fucking burn that lab to the ground with everyone inside it. Nobody takes my throne until I’m good and fucking done with it. Understood?”
Storm nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He’s seen me take over entire garrisons singlehandedly. Watched me put down a revolt with nothing but a knife and my reputation. An American lab wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Still.” He takes a sandwich bag from his satchel and tosses it toward a garbage can.
And misses.
He stops, retrieves it, and throws it in properly. This small disruption in his usually perfect coordination sounds alarm bells in my head.
“You okay?”
He grunts. “Just... off.”
My senses go on high alert. Storm is violence personified. If he admits weakness, something is seriously wrong.
“Off how?”
“Just... off,” he says, his usual economy of words failing to mask the gravity.
A block later, he sits heavily on a bench. This is a man I’ve seen take three bullets and still complete the mission.
Fuck.
I call Orton and order our doctor dispatched immediately, my tone leaving no room for questions. I pocket my phone and sit next to him, watching the street for threats. “How bad is it?”
“Pulse elevated. Lethargy. Slight loss of coordination. Dizziness.” The battlefield report of symptoms.
I examine his eyes. “Pupils look normal.” But his brown hair is dark with sweat, and the night air is cool. “Doc’s on the way,” I say, my voice carrying the certainty of a man whose orders are never questioned.
He blinks, seeming to have trouble focusing.
“Fuck,” I say, already planning retribution against whoever is responsible.
“Go on to the meet. I’ll wait,” he says.
“The fuck you will,” I snap.
The doc arrives within minutes—as he should when I call. His men bundle Storm into a car while the doctor hangs back with me .
“You think he was drugged?” I demand.
“Or bad fish. A seizure. Or a million other things.”
“Find out which. Keep me posted. Every detail.”
“Need a ride, boss?”
“Nah.” I need to walk is what I need. Need to think about who might be making a move and how many bodies I’ll need to drop before sunrise to remind this city who the fuck is in charge.
I continue on to the bank, past the neon glow of restaurant signs and nail painting places. The air is thick with the rich scents of South Bronx at dinnertime—fried meats, garlic and rosemary, curry and cumin.
I go further east, my footsteps commanding the pavement beneath me, not even flinching when that familiar prickle crawls up my neck—somebody’s watching me, following me. Sixteen years in combat zones teaches you to smell fear and danger like other men smell perfume.
I deliberately slow my pace, a predator toying with its prey, turn a corner and melt into a shadowed doorway.
The footsteps approach and hesitate. Then stop. This person knows I’ve made them. Professionals recognize professionals.
I wait, heart steady as a metronome.
I’m surprised when they start up again, coming toward me—amateur move.
I wait until they’re close enough to smell their aftershave, then explode from the darkness. One fluid motion and I’ve got him in a vise grip, my Glock kissing his liver.
“Drop it.” My voice is crushed gravel.
He shakes his head, gasping for air. I tighten my hold. Not enough to send him to sleep, just enough to remind him who’s in charge of this conversation.
A two-tone Smith the human shield jerks and goes limp in my arms.
Amateur hour’s over.
I drop him and move through the shadows, circling back toward where the shot came from. The hunt is on, and I’m never the prey.
Somebody breaks into a run. I give chase.
I catch a glimpse of him as we turn onto a street crowded with civilians, all laughter and chatter, oblivious to our deadly game. He’s big—built like a vault door—dark jacket and dark cap. Looks Albanian.
He cuts through a deserted office courtyard. His mistake. In the open, with no witnesses, he’s already mine.
I’m on him before he clears the other side, slamming him against a half-built cinderblock wall with enough force to crack mortar. “Who sent you into my backyard?”
He surges at me with practiced combinations—military trained—and sends my piece flying. Doesn’t matter. My fists were forged in hotter fires than this.
He lands a few hits, and I return with concentrated fury, fists finding his face, his ribs, his throat. The satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage is poetry under my knuckles.
That’s when I feel the others approaching.
A setup .
They took out Storm to isolate me. Their first and final mistake.
Pure adrenaline floods my system as two shadows materialize, metal glinting in their hands.
The guy I just demolished is still clinging to consciousness against the wall. I grab him by the collar and drag us both behind a dumpster, finishing what I started with mechanical efficiency before relieving him of his weapon.
I lean around and fire at the closer shadow. Miss. Unacceptable.
The equation changes. Survival becomes the only objective. They’re flanking me—professionals who’ve done this dance before.
My instincts take command. I fire where they don’t expect, making them retreat. I fire again and catch one square in the chest. The odds improve.
Now we’re even, and even is all I’ve ever needed.
Sirens wail in the distance, but they can’t drown out the whisper of shoes on gravel that betrays his position.
I glide through the darkness, head throbbing from that earlier blow, and launch myself at him. The impact alone is enough to steal his breath.
We’re face-to-face now. He’s bleeding badly, but he’ll live long enough to talk. “Just you and me now. A name. Give me that, and you walk away.”
He shakes his head, loyalty still binding his tongue.
I regulate my breathing, focusing through the fog threatening to claim me. If I black out, he wins. “Tell me. Do te mbaj besen,” I add in Albanian, invoking an oath older than either of us.
His eyes meet mine, recognition dawning.
“Nobody will know. The money stays yours. This employer of yours—he’s a hornet in your hat,” I say, invoking one of our oldest warnings. “You know what happens to men who keep hornets close. ”
Something breaks behind his eyes. “Killian,” he whispers.
“Irish?”
“Yup.”
I relieve him of his weapon and disappear into the night. I check my app and see West isn’t far. I ping him for extraction and settle into the shadows to wait. Our encrypted system connects us like a family should be connected. Storm adapted it from battlefield tech.
Five minutes later, West is pulling up in front of me. He throws me a towel as I slide in the back. “What the fuck? Someone made a move?”
“Somebody sent a boy to do a man’s job. Just drop me at the Milaga. I’m late for a meeting.”
“We need to round anybody up?”
“Nah.” I blot the blood. It’s a lot, but I’m more worried about my head. “The boys are sorry, and the man’s straight up in my sights. Works for me.”
West likes this. I can tell it even in his driving. He’s showing off a little, speeding down the Bruckner Expressway, crossing lanes like it’s Formula One.
The bleeding stops. I’m coming back.
“Heard something fucked up today,” he says. “Probably a rumor but...”
“What?”
“Some motherfucker messed with your dad’s gravesite. I sent somebody to check it out. I was gonna verify the damage first, but here you are.”
“Mmm.” I fix my cuff links. This shirt is ruined. “Lemme know when you know.”
“Will do.” His demeanor tells me that he’s heard the rumor about me not being a true Zogaj, and I can also see that it’s the furthest thing from his mind that it might be true.
“I know you weren’t the biggest fan of the old man...” he says.
“No, I wasn’t. But you don’t fuck with a man’s gravesite.”
“Fuck, no,” he agrees quickly. “Bad move.”