Chapter 30 LUAN
LUAN
My uncle stands in the entryway of my apartment like he owns it.
Driton Krasniqi. Tall, broad-shouldered, imposing in the way men become when power has lived in their bones for decades.
His hair is silver at the temples, perfectly groomed, not a strand out of place.
He wears a charcoal gray suite with subtle pinstripes, tailored to fit his frame with precision.
His eyes are cold. Calculating. The eyes of a man who's survived decades in this life by being smarter and more ruthless than everyone around him.
He doesn't ask permission to enter. Doesn't wait for invitation. Just walks in like the space belongs to him by right of blood and seniority.
I watch him take in the apartment with a single sweeping glance. Assessing. Looking for weaknesses he can exploit later.
Then his gaze lands on Lily.
She stands beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm.
She's dressed simply but beautifully in a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes and dark jeans that fit her curves.
Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders.
She looks nervous but composed, her chin lifted, her expression open and welcoming despite the tension crackling through the air.
My uncle looks at her for a long moment. Then he speaks.
"Gezohem qe te takoj, e ardhmja e Krasniqi familjes."
The Albanian flows from his mouth smooth and deliberate.
Lily stares at him. Confusion crosses her face, followed quickly by embarrassment. Her cheeks flush pink. She doesn't understand a single word.
The silence stretches uncomfortably.
Driton's expression shifts. Surprise flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something darker. Something disappointed. His eyebrows rise fractionally as he turns to me.
"Ajo nuk eshte shqiptare?" She's not Albanian?
The question comes out sharp. Accusatory. Like I've committed some unforgivable breach of protocol by choosing someone outside our world.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Anger rises hot and immediate in my chest, flooding through my veins like gasoline looking for a spark.
I respond in English. My voice comes out tense, each word clipped and controlled. "Lily is American. We speak English when she's present."
The statement is a line drawn in sand. A claim made public and undeniable.
The insult hangs in the air between us. Not in the words my uncle said, but in the assumption behind them. The assumption that Lily doesn't belong. That she's not good enough. That I've made a mistake by choosing someone who doesn't share our blood, our language, our culture.
I won't tolerate it.
Marrying within Albanian families is the norm in our world.
It's about power. About keeping bloodlines pure and allegiances clear.
About maintaining control across generations.
Strategic marriages that enhance territory, strengthen alliances, eliminate threats through binding oaths that transcend individual will.
When I first proposed this fake engagement to Lily, it was pure strategy. A way to satisfy the council's demands while maintaining my independence. A performance designed to buy time while I consolidated power.
But somewhere between that first lie and this moment, everything changed.
It's not fake anymore.
The realization that started as a whisper has become a roar I can't ignore.
This woman standing beside me, nervous but brave, trying to smile through confusion and discomfort, has become essential.
Mine in a way that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the way my chest tightens when she laughs.
The way her absence feels like missing a limb.
And I won't stand by and watch my decrepit uncle disrespect the woman I love.
The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity.
I love her.
I love Lily Parker with a fierceness that terrifies me. With a totality that leaves no room for doubt or half measures. With a certainty that feels like fate instead of choice.
I step closer to her. Put my hand on the small of her back, fingers spreading possessively across the curve of her spine. Draw her against my side with gentle but undeniable pressure.
She's mine. And I protect what's mine.
Lily tries to smooth over the tension radiating through the room. Her voice is polite, warm, carefully modulated to defuse the situation. "Can I get you something to drink? Or eat?"
The offer is generous. Kind. Exactly the sort of hospitality that should be extended to family.
Driton barely glances at her. Dismisses her with a wave of his hand like she's a servant instead of my fiancée. "I don't need anything." He turns to me, his attention shifting as if Lily has ceased to exist. "We need to speak about family business."
The dismissal is deliberate. A power play designed to put her in her place.
Rage flares hot behind my ribs, but I swallow it. Lock it down. There will be time to address this later. Time to make my uncle understand exactly how things work now.
I turn to Lily. Kiss her forehead softly, my lips lingering against her skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then I murmur quietly, just for her, "Why don't you start getting lunch ready?"
Relief floods her expression immediately. Her shoulders drop fractionally. She nods, grateful for the escape, for permission to leave this room and the tension suffocating it.
I watch her go, her footsteps quick and light as she disappears into the kitchen.
I know cooking is her happy place. Where she feels safe and in control. And right now, she needs that sanctuary. Needs to be away from this room and what's coming.
Because what's coming won't be pretty.
I lead Driton toward the office. Artan and Erion fall into step behind us, their footfalls heavy and deliberate on the hardwood floor.
We're nearly at the door when Driton stops abruptly. Turns on his heel. His voice cuts through the air like ice. "This should be family only."
I can feel Erion's anger spike immediately. Can sense the tension coiling through his body, muscles bunching beneath his skin, hands curling into fists. He's half a second from exploding, from saying something that will make this situation infinitely worse.
I speak before he can. My voice is firm. Final. Leaving no room for negotiation or argument. "They are family. This is the new way of the Krasniqi clan in Chicago."
The words land like stones dropped into still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
Silence.
My uncle's jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath the weathered skin of his cheek. His eyes narrow fractionally, calculation happening behind them at lightning speed. But he doesn't argue. Doesn't push back. Just makes a sound of disapproval deep in his throat and continues toward the office.
It's a small victory. But a significant one.
I just redrew the power map in front of a council representative. Publicly elevated Erion and Artan to positions of authority that transcend blood. Signaled clearly that I'm done with inherited hierarchy and outdated traditions that no longer serve us.
We enter the office. I move behind my desk, the massive piece of furniture serving as both shield and throne.
Artan positions himself to my right, just behind me, close enough to intervene if necessary.
Erion turns his back to the room entirely, choosing instead to look out the window at the Chicago skyline spread below us like a kingdom waiting to be claimed.
Driton sits in the chair opposite my desk with deliberate slowness. Crosses one leg over the other. Adjusts his cufflinks with meticulous precision. Making me wait. Asserting dominance through calculated delay.
I let him have the performance.
When he's finally settled, I take the lead. "What's so important that you had to come all the way from New York? I thought the council was satisfied with my leadership."
My uncle stares long and hard at me. Testing to see if I'll look away first, if I'll show weakness or uncertainty.
My father trained me well. Beat the fear out of me young. Replaced it with cold calculation and the understanding that showing weakness is the same as dying.
I don't scare easily.
"I thought so too," Driton says finally.
His voice is measured. Reasonable. The tone of a disappointed father rather than an angry superior.
Which makes it infinitely more dangerous.
"I thought the reckless, impulsive Luan was in the past. The young man who acted without thinking, who let emotion guide his decisions. "
He pauses. Lets the implication settle into the air between us.
"But recent events have brought back doubt."
Another pause. Longer this time. Heavier.
"The message you left for the Irish. Exploding their warehouse. Excessive. Provocative." His fingers tap once against the armrest, a rhythmic punctuation. "Leaving the body of a trusted Krasniqi soldier at the steps of your father's house. Dramatic. Unnecessary."
His eyes flick to Erion's back, contempt clear in the curl of his lip. "Associating with less interesting men. Men without proper lineage or standing."
Erion scoffs but doesn't turn around. The sound is dark. Amused. Dangerous.
"And now this." Driton's gaze returns to me, sharp as broken glass. "A non-Albanian fiancée. An outsider brought into the heart of our family."
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled. "You're going too far trying to make things your way. You must respect the old ways. The traditions that kept this family strong for generations."
I slam my fist on the desk.
The sound cracks through the office like a gunshot. Papers jump. A pen rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor.
But my voice stays low. Deadly quiet.
"I will not allow you to disrespect my fiancée." Each word is precise. Clear. Final. "That loyal soldier you mourn tried to kill me. Planted the bomb in my car. Nearly succeeded."
I pause, letting him absorb the implications.
"Erion has more courage and loyalty than the entire council combined. He's proven himself in ways your precious bloodlines never could."
Another pause.
"And the old ways?" My voice drops even lower, becomes something cold and sharp. "They didn't serve me well."
I let that statement sit for three heartbeats.
Then I add, soft as a blade sliding between ribs, "They didn't serve the family either."
Understanding crosses my uncle's face. He knows exactly what I'm implying. Knows the family secret I'm dancing around without naming. The sins of my father that the council chose to ignore. The betrayals they sanctioned. The broken oaths they pretended didn't matter.
His expression shifts. Reassesses. Recalculates.
He nods slowly. Acknowledgment without agreement. Respect without concession.
"To prosper, there must be truces," he says carefully. His tone has changed, becoming more collaborative. "With the Irish. They will retaliate for the warehouse. It's inevitable. But it's important not to escalate further. Not to turn this into a war neither side can win."
Erion finally turns from the window. His pale blue eyes are cold. Assessing. "We'll evaluate the situation when it presents itself."
The statement is neither agreement nor refusal. Just fact. A promise that we'll respond to threats as they emerge rather than constraining ourselves with preemptive promises.
Driton looks at him. Takes his measure in a way he didn't before. Sees past the rough edges and volatile reputation to the intelligence beneath. The strategic mind. The willingness to do what others won't.
Then he nods. Acceptance. Not approval, but acknowledgment that Erion has earned his place at this table.
I stand. Button my jacket with deliberate precision. Extend my hand across the desk. "Thank you for coming all this way. I appreciate your counsel."
The dismissal is polite but unmistakable.
Driton rises. Takes my hand. Shakes it with firm pressure, his palm dry and cool against mine.
Then he smiles.
The expression doesn't reach his eyes. "There's still one important thing to discuss," he says. His voice carries the weight of authority that comes from decades of command. "Your engagement party."
He pauses. Lets the words settle.
"Since I'm in Chicago this week, I hope to receive an invitation. Soon."
The statement lands like a threat wrapped in courtesy.
Not a suggestion. Not a request.
A demand.
A deadline disguised as honor. An expectation that within days, I'll host an engagement party in front of all the most important Albanian clans in the United States. That Lily will be presented. Evaluated. Judged.
And refusal isn't an option.