Chapter 23 ERION
ERION
These streets are mine.
Not in the way Luan inherited the Krasniqi territory, passed down through blood and legacy like some crown you're born wearing. I own them because I fought for them. Bled for them. Built something from nothing.
Back of the Yards. Industrial. Working-class.
The kind of neighborhood where people mind their business because they've learned that survival means keeping your head down and your mouth shut.
The buildings are low and spread out, brick facades darkened by decades of exhaust and weather, grime settling into every crevice until the original color is just a memory.
Chain-link fences topped with barbed wire.
Loading docks where trucks idle at dawn.
The smell of meat processing plants mixing with diesel fuel and the sharp bite of cold air that never quite leaves, even in summer.
I know who belongs here and who doesn't. Know which cars should be parked where, which ones have been here long enough to fade into the landscape and which ones stick out like threats. Which faces fit the neighborhood's rhythm. Which movements signal danger before a hand reaches for a weapon.
This is control. Not chaos. Order built through violence, brick by brick, body by body, until violence becomes unnecessary because everyone knows the rules. Everyone understands what happens when you break them.
The alliance with the Krasniqis makes it worth it.
Every fight that left me bleeding in alleys.
Every body I had to step over. Every risk I took when the odds were stacked against me and survival felt like a coin toss.
Together we're strong enough that the Irish won't test us again, won't push into territory they've been eyeing for years.
Strong enough that other clans will think twice before challenging what we've built.
Strong enough to create something that lasts beyond the next turf war, beyond the next power struggle.
Strong enough to matter.
There's only one thing that could fuck it all up.
Lily.
I'm not stupid. I know what happened last night between her and Luan.
Saw it written all over her this morning when she walked into that kitchen.
The way she moved, careful and deliberate, the flush that wouldn't quite fade from her cheeks, spreading down her neck every time someone looked at her too long.
She'd been fucked. Thoroughly. And she was still feeling it.
And Artan. Zot me ruaj. God save me. That man is wound so tight around her he's going to snap, and when he does it's going to be spectacular.
I've known him for weeks now, worked beside him, watched him operate with the kind of cold efficiency that comes from years of practice.
I've never seen him like this. Never seen him lose that iron control, never seen his mask slip the way it does when she's in the room.
The way his eyes track her movements like she's the only thing that matters.
The way his jaw tightens when she gets too close to someone else.
The way he looked ready to put his fist through a wall this morning when he realized what had happened between her and Luan.
I can still taste her. The dressing room at the boutique.
Her skin under my mouth, soft and warm and responsive.
The way she gasped when I bit down on that sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
The way she trembled when I pressed closer, when I let her feel exactly what she does to me.
The way she looked at me afterward, pupils blown wide, lips parted, like she was trying to remember how to breathe.
I deserve a fucking medal for the restraint I've shown. For not going after her with everything I have, for not pressing every advantage until she breaks and admits she wants this. Wants me. Wants all of us in a way that should feel wrong but doesn't.
Because she does want it. Wants all three of us.
I can see it in the way she looks at Luan, hunger mixing with something softer, something that looks dangerously close to care.
The way she blushes when Artan says her name, when his voice drops into that protective register that makes her melt.
The way her body responds to me before her mind catches up, the way she leans into my touch even when she's trying to pull away.
The way she blushes and stutters and tries to hide what's written all over her in letters big enough for anyone to read.
But that's a problem for later.
Right now I park in front of my butcher shop, the engine ticking as it cools.
The sign above the door reads "Kodra Meats" in faded red letters, paint chipping at the edges.
Behind me, Artan pulls up with Luan in the passenger seat, the sleek black car looking out of place on this street full of delivery trucks and rust-stained vehicles.
The SUV with my guards stops behind them, three men I trust with my life because they've proven themselves a dozen times over.
We all get out. The cold hits immediately, sharp enough to sting. Luan is wearing sunglasses even though the morning is overcast, the sky the color of old concrete. But he moves differently than he did even days ago. More confident. Less hesitation.
His vision is coming back. Fast.
"Position yourselves out front," I tell my guards in Albanian. "Askush nuk hyn. Nobody comes in."
They nod and spread out, taking positions that give them clear sightlines down the street in both directions. Professional. Alert. Hands resting casually near weapons concealed under jackets.
The three of us walk inside.
The shop smells like meat and bleach, the sharp tang of disinfectant fighting a losing battle against the iron-rich scent of blood. Display cases line one wall, filled with cuts of meat. The walk-in refrigerator hums steadily in the back, a constant white noise that fills every silence.
Behind the counter is Gjergj. Old. Weathered.
Loyal in a way money can't buy because I gave him something more valuable than cash when he needed it most. Protection for his granddaughter when her ex-boyfriend decided restraining orders were just suggestions.
He's been running this place for me since I bought it five years ago, and he's never asked questions he doesn't need answers to.
"Erion," he greets me, his Albanian accent thick even after decades in America. "Miremengjes." Good morning.
"Miremengjes, Gjergj." I lean against the counter, casual, like this is just another day. "Any trouble from the basement?"
He shakes his head, his weathered face creasing into something that might be amusement if you squint. "Jo. No trouble at all." He pauses. The ghost of a smirk crosses his face. "Even if there were, it would be hard to know. The basement is soundproof."
We share a look. Understanding passing between us without words.
"Good work," I tell him.
He nods and goes back to his cutting board, the knife moving with practiced efficiency through a slab of beef.
We move through the shop. To the door at the back, unmarked and easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for.
I open it. The stairs creak under our weight, old wood protesting.
The air gets colder as we descend, temperature dropping with each step until I can see my breath.
The smell changes too. Concrete and old blood and something else, something sharper.
Fear. Pain. The particular scent of suffering that clings to places like this, that soaks into the walls and never quite leaves.
The basement is exactly what it needs to be.
Bare concrete floor, stained dark in places where cleaning couldn't quite erase history.
Stone walls, rough and unfinished. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the air current from the door, casting shadows that move and shift like living things.
And below it, tied to a chair with zip ties that have cut into his wrists deep enough to draw blood, is the man who tried to kill Luan.
He's in bad shape. Worse than bad. One eye is swollen shut, the flesh around it purple and black and distended.
His lip is split open, blood dried in crusty streaks down his chin.
His nose sits at an angle it shouldn't, clearly broken.
Multiple other wounds mark his face and torso, dark bruises and cuts from where Artan and I worked him over last night.
His clothes are torn and stained so dark with blood they look black in the dim light.
He's conscious but barely, head lolling forward, breathing shallow and wet.
I turn to Luan. Notice he's taken off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into his jacket pocket with careful precision.
"We worked him last night," I say. Keep my voice neutral. Factual. "He didn't have much useful information. But we thought you'd want to be the one to finish it."
Luan looks at the man. His eyes are clearer than they were even yesterday. Focused. The green cutting through the dim light like something alive.
"This is the one who planted the bomb?" His voice is calm. Cold. Empty of everything except certainty.
"Yes," Artan confirms from beside me.
"Then yes," Luan says quietly, and the softness of his voice makes the words more terrible, not less. "I would like very much to finish it."
I pull my gun from my waistband. The weight is familiar, comforting. I offer it to him, grip first.
Luan looks at the gun.
Then he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a knife. Fixed blade. Six inches of steel that catches the light from the bulb overhead. Sharp enough to split skin with pressure alone.
"I prefer a blade," he says, and his voice is still empty of emotion, still flat and cold. " I want him to suffer."
He moves toward the man. His steps are measured. Controlled. There's no rage in his posture, no visible anger twisting his features or making his movements jerky. Just certainty. Just the calm inevitability of violence that's already decided.