Chapter 3 ERION
ERION
Something's wrong.
I know it the second I step through the door. Can't point to what. Just a pressure in the air. Like the room is holding its breath. Waiting.
The hallway is too quiet. Just silence pressed against my eardrums. My shoulders tighten. My pulse kicks up a notch. My hand drifts toward my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my gun.
Not fear. Recognition. Instinct.
The same instinct that kept me alive when I was eight years old and my mother, drunk out of her mind, forgot I existed for three days straight.
When the only food in the apartment was a half-empty box of stale crackers and I had to decide whether to steal from the corner store or go hungry.
The same instinct that told me which alleys to avoid, which men to run from, which fights I could win and which would put me in the ground.
The same instinct that helped me survive foster homes where kindness was bait and cruelty was the only constant. Where I learned to sleep light and wake fast. Where I learned that the only person I could count on was myself.
I didn't inherit a kingdom. I built one. Brick by brick. Body by body. Gathered men who had nowhere else to go and nothing left to lose, and I turned them into something that mattered. Something feared.
Luan Krasniqi was born into his empire. Raised for it. Groomed for it. Handed a crown he never had to earn. Never had to fight for. Never had to prove he deserved.
People still look at me like I'm the underdog. Like I'm fighting for scraps while he feasts at the table. Like I'm not worthy of the same respect.
Tonight, that changes.
My hand moves to my chest. Finds the Saint George medal beneath my shirt. The metal is cold against my skin, the chain worn smooth from years of contact. My grandmother gave it to me the week before she died. Pressed it into my palm with her papery hands and told me it would keep me safe.
She was the only person who ever cared whether I lived or died.
I touch it whenever I walk into something that might go bad. Not prayer. Not sentiment. Just ritual. A reflex. Like checking my gun is loaded. Like making sure the safety is off. A reminder that I've survived worse than whatever's waiting for me in the next room.
Artan leads me deeper into the apartment. His footsteps are steady, controlled. The kind of walk that says he's counted every exit and calculated every angle before I even crossed the threshold.
The hallway stretches long and dark. Too dark. No light spilling from other rooms. No glow from the windows. Just shadows pressing in from all sides, thick enough to feel.
My skin prickles.
We turn a corner.
The living room opens up in front of us. Barely lit. A single lamp behind an empty chair, the bulb dimmed so low it's almost useless. Another lamp somewhere off to the left, casting long shadows across the floor. The rest is darkness.
Luan sits in an armchair like it's a throne. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on the armrests with the kind of casual authority that comes from never having to prove yourself. His face is hard. Unreadable.
But he's not looking at me.
His head is angled slightly to the left. Past my shoulder. Like I'm not worth his direct attention.
Arrogant prick.
Heat crawls up my spine. My jaw tightens. I force myself to breathe slowly. Evenly. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me react.
I smile instead. Let it spread slow and sharp. "What's this? Mood lighting? You trying to seduce me, Krasniqi?"
His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. Barely visible in the dim light. But I catch it.
Good. I got under his skin.
"Sit down and get to the point." His voice is flat. Cold. "I'm a busy man."
The words are dismissive. Final. Like I'm an inconvenience. Like he's doing me a favor by letting me breathe the same air.
I sit. Let the chair take my weight. Cross one ankle over my knee. Let the silence stretch between us. Let him wait. Let him wonder if I'm going to play his game or flip the board.
Then I let my face turn to stone. All humor gone. All pretense dropped.
"I don't know if condolences or congratulations are in order," I say. My voice is steady. Deliberate. "What's the protocol when a man kills his own father?"
Luan's hands tighten on the armrests. His knuckles go white. His shoulders shift forward half an inch. For a moment, I think he's going to launch himself at me. Come across the ottoman and put his hands around my throat.
I almost want him to try.
But Artan steps forward. His voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Get to the point, Erion."
I hold Luan's gaze. Or try to. He's still not looking directly at me. His eyes are fixed somewhere above my head. Past me. Through me.
Like I'm not even here.
The disrespect crawls under my skin. Presses against my ribs.
"I have a proposition," I say, my voice even. Let the words carry their own weight. "An alliance. Between the Krasniqis and my crew."
Luan's head tilts. Just slightly. Still not meeting my eyes. "What do I gain from an alliance with you?" A pause. Then, quieter, sharper: "I just got rid of one unhinged element from my organization. Why would I align with another?"
The insult lands clean. Sharp. Deliberate.
I smile again. Slow and dangerous. Let him see the edge. Let him know exactly what he's poking.
"We both know the bomb three weeks ago was planted by men loyal to your father," I say. "Men still operating inside your organization. Hidden. Waiting. You don't know who you can trust, Krasniqi. Could be anyone. Could be the man standing next to you right now."
I let that sink in. Watch Artan's face for a reaction. He doesn't give me one. Stone. Unreadable.
"I don't have that problem," I continue.
"My men are loyal to me. Not because of blood.
Not because of tradition. Not because their fathers served my father.
Because I earned it. Every single one of them chose to follow me.
And if I tell them we're joining forces with the Krasniqis, that we're taking Chicago together, they won't hesitate. Not one of them."
Silence settles over the room. Thick. Suffocating.
Luan's hands flex once against the armrests. Then still. Completely motionless.
Artan shifts his weight. Just barely. A fraction of an inch. But I catch it.
Good. I'm getting to them.
Then Luan speaks. His voice is cold. Controlled. Surgical. "Why do you want this alliance? If we're as exposed as you say, why not make a move? Take Chicago for yourself."
I lean back in the chair. Let the question hang in the air for a moment. Let him think I'm considering it. Weighing my options.
"We could do that," I say finally. "Fight it out. Bleed each other dry. Cover the streets in Albanian blood until the last man standing is too weak to hold what he's won. Until someone else swoops in and takes it all while we're picking up the pieces."
I lean forward. Rest my elbows on my knees.
"Or we can be smart. Join forces. Root out the traitors in your organization. Push out the Irish who've been testing both of us. Consolidate power. Make Chicago ours."
I pause. Let the words settle.
"It's simple math, Krasniqi. Together, we're stronger than we are fighting each other and everyone else."
Artan shifts again. This time he speaks. His voice is measured. Careful. "The Irish hit two of our warehouses last week. Southside. Small strikes. Nothing major. But they're testing response time. Seeing how fast we move."
Luan doesn't respond right away. His head turns slightly. Like he's listening for something I can't hear. Like he's processing information that isn't coming from the words being spoken.
Strange.
Finally, he speaks. "I don't trust you."
The words are flat. Cold. Final.
Not anger. Not insult. Just truth.
And somehow that pisses me off more than any insult could.
"You don't have to trust me," I say. My voice sharpens despite my best efforts. "You just have to be smart enough to see that this benefits both of us."
"Does it?" Luan's tone doesn't change. Still cold. Still cutting. "Or does it benefit you more? You get legitimacy. Access to my territory. My connections. My resources. You get to call yourself an equal."
There it is.
The real problem.
He doesn't see me as an equal. Never will. Doesn't matter what I've built. Doesn't matter what I've survived. Doesn't matter that I've earned every inch of ground I stand on.
Still the underdog. Still unworthy.
My pulse kicks up. Heat crawls up my spine, spreads across my shoulders. My hands tighten on the armrests of the chair.
"You think I need your permission to be relevant?" My voice rises. Can't help it. "You think I need you?"
"I think you need something." His voice stays level. Doesn't rise to match mine. Doesn't crack. "Or you wouldn't be here."
I stand. Fast. The chair scrapes against the floor, loud in the quiet room.
Artan's hand drifts toward his waistband. Deliberate. A warning.
Luan stands too. Slower than me. More controlled. But something's off. His weight shifts too much to the left. His head turns too far. Like he's compensating for something. Like his balance is wrong.
"You think I can't take what I want?" I say. My voice is hard now. Sharp. "You think I need you to give me anything?"
"You can try." Luan's hand moves to the side table. To the gun resting there. His fingers brush the grip. "See how that works out for you."
Artan's hand is halfway to his gun now. His eyes locked on me. Calculating.
I'm faster than both of them.
My hand closes around the grip of my gun at my back. Metal warm in my palm. Familiar. Comforting. I don't draw. Not yet. But the threat is there. Clear. Unmistakable.
The room compresses. All the air sucked out. All sound muffled except the hammering of my pulse in my ears.
We're all one movement away from blood.
One breath away from ending this.
The silence stretches. Tight. Fragile. Like glass about to shatter.
Then I hear it.
A small gasp. Feminine. Shocked. Out of place.
My head snaps toward the sound.
A woman stands at the entrance to the living room.
Blonde hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves. Blue eyes wide with surprise. Soft curves. Angel face. The kind that makes men stupid. Makes them forget where they are and what they're doing.
And in her hands, a bottle of Macallan Sherry Oak 25.
My favorite whiskey.
But that's not what stops me cold.
It's Luan.
His head is moving. Left to right. Searching. Like he heard the sound but doesn't know where it came from. Like he's trying to locate her in the room.
He can't see her.