Chapter 2
ARTAN
The note sits on the counter next to the banana bread, folded once, the edges crisp.
I pick it up. The paper is thin. The handwriting is clean, looping. Not rushed.
Hope you enjoy the bread. Welcome home.
That's it. No signature. No name. Just the assumption that whoever walks through that door deserves a welcome.
I read it twice.
Then I fold it again and slip it into my pocket. Don't know why.
I tear off a piece. Dense. Sweet. The cinnamon hits first, then the vanilla underneath. It tastes like something special. The kind of thing you didn't know you were missing until it's sitting in front of you, warm and real and impossibly out of place.
I glance at Luan. He's standing by the window, one hand braced against the frame. His posture is rigid. Shoulders back. Head tilted slightly, like he's listening to something I can't hear. The gun sits on the side table.
"This is fucking delicious," I say.
He doesn't respond right away. Just nods once, a short, controlled dip of his chin.
I take another bite. Wait.
Then I ask, "You sure she didn't see you, last night?"
"I'm sure."
"How sure?"
"I was sitting in the dark." His voice is flat. No inflection. "She was too busy talking on the phone about her life problems to notice anything else."
I study him. His jaw is tight. His hands flex once, then still. He's wound tighter than usual today.
The blindness is eating at him.
He hates that he can't see. Hates that his body betrayed him. Hates that he has to sit here and wait to heal.
I know better than to push. So I finish the banana bread and let him sit with whatever's eating at him.
But my back twinges, and the memory surfaces before I can stop it.
Three weeks ago. Late afternoon. We were heading to his car after a meeting with the southside crew.
Another power play, another round of proving Luan's claim to leadership of the Krasniqi clan.
The transition from his father's rule to his had been brutal, but necessary.
We'd spent weeks shoring up alliances, eliminating threats, making sure everyone understood that the new order was permanent.
It was supposed to be routine. Another meeting. Another day of building the foundation that would keep Luan alive and in power.
Then I heard the click.
A sound so small it shouldn't have registered. But it did. Instinct kicked in before thought. I grabbed Luan by the shoulder and shoved him sideways, hard. He hit the ground half a second before the explosion tore through the car we were about to enter.
Heat. Noise. The world compressing into a single moment of chaos.
Then pain.
Sharp. Searing. My back bowed as shrapnel tore into my skin, white-hot metal embedding itself between my ribs and shoulder blades. Not deep enough to kill. Just deep enough to remind me how close we'd come.
I pushed myself up. Forced my eyes open. Found Luan lying on the pavement a few feet away, unconscious. Blood on his face. Dirt in his hair. His body too still.
For a moment, I thought I'd lost him.
For a moment, I was back in that hallway fifteen years ago. Mira's hand in mine. Her voice soft, breaking. Promise me you'll keep him safe. No matter what happens.
I'd promised.
And I thought I'd broken it.
Mira. Luan's sister. The woman I loved in secret for years. The woman who left without looking back because staying would have killed her.
No one knew about us. Not Luan. Not his father. No one. We kept it hidden because that was the only way it could exist. And when she left, she took that secret with her.
I've carried it alone ever since.
I arch my back now, feel the pull of scar tissue. The wounds have healed, but the ache lingers.
I've been keeping that promise for fifteen years. Since the day she left. Since the day she chose a life somewhere else over a life here. Over him. Over me.
I don't blame her. Not anymore.
Life in the Albanian Mafia is hard. Harder for someone like Mira. She was too soft for this world. Too kind. Too full of light in a place that only knows how to take.
She left to survive. I understand that.
Doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
But the promise still stands. I'll keep Luan safe.
I look at him now, standing by the window with his hands too still and his jaw too tight. He's alive. That's what matters. The blindness is temporary. The doctors had a name for it. Commotio retinae. Caused by the shockwave from the blast.
I clear my throat. "What did the doctor say? About your eyes."
Luan shifts. His fingers tap once against the window frame, then stop. "He's hopeful. Full recovery in a few more weeks."
"And now?"
"Silhouettes. Shadows. Harsh lights still bother me."
I nod, even though he can't see it. "Good enough."
He doesn't respond.
I move to the window, pull the curtain back an inch, look down at the streetlights below. Forty-three floors. Everything looks small from up here. Manageable. It's a lie, but it's a comforting one.
"We need to find who planted the bomb," I say.
"I know."
"Your father's men?"
"Most likely." His voice is colder now. Sharper. "They're still out there. Still loyal to a dead man."
"They won't stay quiet forever."
"No. They won't."
I let the curtain fall back into place. Turn to face him. "Your uncle called again."
Luan's jaw tightens. "What does he want?"
"A meeting. New York. He's demanding you show up."
"Wat did you tell him?"
"That you're handling business here. That Chicago comes first."
"He won't accept that for long."
"No. He won't."
Silence. Then Luan exhales slowly through his nose. "How long can we stall?"
"A week. Maybe two. After that, he'll get suspicious."
"Then we have two weeks to make sure I can see well enough to convince him I'm not weak."
I don't say what we're both thinking. That weakness, real or perceived, is a death sentence. That if his uncle, family or not, smells blood in the water, he'll move fast.
Luan killed his father two months ago. Took his place at the head of the Krasniqi clan. It was necessary. Overdue, even. His father had it coming.
But necessity doesn't buy loyalty. And a blind leader is no leader at all.
"We need to focus on tonight," I say. "Erion first. Your uncle later."
Luan nods once. "Agreed."
I move to the living room. Start shifting furniture. The setup has to be perfect. No room for error.
Erion Kodra. Leader of a rival Albanian clan. Volatile. Aggressive. Smart enough to be dangerous. He's been pushing for this meeting for three weeks. Ever since the explosion. Ever since Luan disappeared from view.
At first, I handled it. Told Erion that Luan was out of the city, making contacts with other families. That he'd be back soon. That business would resume when he returned.
But Erion doesn't take delays well. He kept pushing. Kept insisting. And the longer Luan stayed out of sight, the more questions started circulating.
Questions get people killed.
So tonight, Luan shows his face. Proves he's still in control. Sends a message that the Krasniqi clan is intact and operational.
Even if it's a lie.
I move the armchair to the center of the room. Position it so the back faces the window. Then I grab the ottoman and place it a few feet in front of the chair.
"Here," I say. "Sit."
Luan moves toward me. One hand trails along the back of the sofa until he finds the armchair. He lowers himself into it, adjusts his posture. Shoulders back. Head up. Hands resting on the armrests.
He looks like a king.
I grab a second chair and position it across from him, on the other side of the ottoman. "Erion sits here. Directly in front of you. I'll be to your right."
Luan nods.
I move to the lamp behind what will be Erion's chair. Turn it on. The light is low, but bright enough to create a silhouette. Bright enough that if Luan looks in that direction, it'll seem like he's looking at Erion's face.
"There's a light behind his chair," I say. "Focus on that. It'll look like you're making eye contact."
"And if he moves?"
"I'll tap a signal on your shoulder. If I shift my weight to the left, he's leaning forward. If I clear my throat, he's looking at something else. If I tap the armrest, he's standing."
I step back. Survey the room. The lighting is dim. Deliberate. Low enough to obscure details but not so low that it seems suspicious. A man who values privacy. A man who controls his environment.
That's the story we're selling.
I move the side table closer to Luan's chair. Place the gun on it. Within reach but not obvious.
"If this doesn't work," Luan says, his voice quiet, "he doesn't leave this apartment alive."
I don't argue. He's right. If Erion realizes Luan is compromised, the information will spread. Fast. And once it spreads, the power struggle begins. Men who've been waiting for an opening will take it. The clan will fracture. Blood will follow.
I've been acting on Luan's behalf for three weeks. Attending meetings. Issuing orders. Enforcing consequences.
But there's only so long a leader can go without showing his face.
Tonight, he shows it.
I check the setup one more time. Chair positioning. Lighting. Sightlines. Everything is calculated. Everything is controlled.
I adjust the lamp angle. Test the shadows. Move Erion's chair half an inch to the left so the light hits just right.
Luan sits perfectly still. His hands rest on the armrests, fingers relaxed. His head tilts slightly toward the lamp. To anyone watching, he looks calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
I position myself to his right. Close enough to intervene if needed.
The apartment is quiet. The kind of silence that precedes violence.
Then I hear it.
A knock at the door. Single. Controlled. Unmistakable.
Showtime.