Chapter 32 ERION
ERION
"Maybe you should slow down with the drinking. We haven't even gotten to the first course yet."
Artan's voice is low, barely audible over the murmur of fifty conversations happening at once in the Peninsula's private banquet room. He's leaning close, his shoulder pressed against mine, speaking directly into my ear so no one else can hear.
I lift my glass to my lips. The whiskey burns going down, familiar and welcome. I set it back on the white tablecloth, the crystal base making a sharp sound against the wood beneath the fabric.
"I'm fine."
"You're wasted, vella." Brother. The word carries weight. Concern wrapped in criticism.
"Not wasted enough."
Artan sighs, a sound of resignation that I've heard from him too many times to count. But he doesn't push further. He knows better by now. Knows that when I'm like this, there's no reasoning with me. No pulling me back from the edge I'm walking.
I need to drink. Need something to numb the past three days that have felt like three years.
The way Lily pulled away the second she knew the truth about us.
About what we do. About who we really are beneath the expensive suits and respectable facades.
Like we became something contaminated the moment the word mafia left my mouth.
Something she couldn't touch anymore without getting dirty herself.
I showed her who I really am. Let myself be vulnerable for the first time in my fucking life. Peeled back layers I've spent years building. Let her see the violence and the darkness and the parts of me that terrify even myself sometimes.
And she looked at me like I was a monster.
Rejected. That's what I feel. The sharp, bitter taste of rejection sitting heavy on my tongue, mixing with the whiskey until I can't tell which one burns more.
And now I have to sit here at this goddamn engagement party and watch her on Luan's arm, wearing his ring, being introduced to everyone as his fiancée. Like she belongs only to him when she belongs to all of us.
Or she did. Before she knew. Before the truth ruined everything.
She didn't invite anyone tonight either. Not her brother despite how much she talks about him. Not friends. Like she's afraid we'll contaminate them somehow. Like association with us is a disease that spreads through proximity.
And here we are, sitting at the head table facing the most powerful Albanian mafia families in the country. Fifty people minimum spread across round tables throughout the room, all watching, judging, evaluating whether this American girl is worthy of the Krasniqi name.
Yeah. I definitely need to drink.
The seating arrangement puts me three seats away from Lily, which feels both too close and impossibly far.
The long table stretches across the front of the room like a stage, putting us on display.
Luan sits in the center, with Lily beside him looking beautiful and terrified in a deep blue dress that makes her eyes impossible to look away from.
On Luan's other side sits Artan, solid and vigilant, then me, then some council member whose name I don't care about.
On Lily's side sits Driton, Luan's uncle, with his silver hair and calculating eyes. Then another council member.
She's trapped between Luan and his uncle. Surrounded by tradition and expectation and the weight of a hundred years of Albanian custom that she doesn't understand and never agreed to carry.
I reach for my glass again. The whiskey sloshes slightly, amber liquid catching the light from the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Movement catches my attention before I can drink. Luan stands, his chair scraping back slightly against the floor.
The room goes quiet immediately. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Fifty pairs of eyes turn toward our table.
Luan's voice carries across the space with practiced ease. Brief. Controlled. The perfect host playing the perfect role.
"Thank you all for coming tonight. For witnessing this moment with us, for traveling from across the country to be here." He glances down at Lily, his hand resting on her shoulder with possessive gentleness. "I'm honored to introduce you to my fiancée, Lily Parker."
Polite applause ripples through the room. Measured. Evaluating.
"I'm grateful to the elders for attending, for your continued guidance and wisdom." Luan's gaze moves across the room, making eye contact with the important people, the ones whose approval matters. "Tonight we celebrate family. Continuity. The future we're building together."
He sits. The applause continues briefly then fades into expectant silence.
Servers begin moving between tables. The first course. Finally.
But Driton stands before anyone can get comfortable, before forks can touch plates.
The voice of a man who's been giving orders for decades and expects them to be followed without question.
"Family is everything," he begins, his hands braced on the table, leaning forward slightly like he's delivering a sermon. "It's what has sustained us through generations. Through wars and poverty and persecution. What keeps us strong when the world tries to break us."
He looks directly at Lily. His gaze is heavy. Assessing. She shrinks slightly under the weight of it.
"This engagement represents our future. The continuation of our bloodline. Our traditions carried forward into the next generation."
He pauses. Lets the words settle like stones.
Then he smiles. Cold. "We welcome you, Lily. Into our family. Into our world. Mireseardhje."
The words sound like a closing door. Like a cage locking. Like the decision has already been made and there's no escape now.
He sits with deliberate slowness.
The room erupts in approving applause.
Finally, people begin eating.
But then the gifts start.
I'd forgotten about this tradition. The ritual presentation of gifts to the bride and her family, meant to welcome her and show respect. Except Lily has no family here. No father to receive the symbolic tribute. No mother to beam with pride.
Just her. Alone in a room full of strangers who speak a language she doesn't understand and follow customs she's never heard of.
One by one, people approach the table. Council members first, establishing hierarchy. Then family heads. Their wives draped in gold and designer clothes.
They present gold jewelry with reverent ceremony. Heavy necklaces that look like they weigh pounds. Bracelets thick as handcuffs. Earrings that dangle and catch the light. Each piece more elaborate than the last, more expensive, more ostentatious.
Envelopes are placed in front of her in a growing pile. Thick with cash.
Lily doesn't know how to react. I can see it from here, even through my alcohol-blurred vision. The panic flashing across her face. The overwhelm tightening her shoulders. The trapped-animal look in her eyes.
Luan leans close. Whispers something in her ear.
She straightens immediately. Starts accepting the gifts with grace and poise. Smiling. Thanking each person in careful English. Playing the role of grateful bride-to-be with perfect precision.
Playing the role. Just like everything else between us has become performance instead of truth.
The dinner continues around me. I keep drinking, each glass emptying faster than the last. The whiskey burns less with each swallow, numbing spreading through my chest and limbs like welcome frost.
Artan stays vigilant beside me, his body tense despite the festive atmosphere. Always watching. Always ready. But even he seems to relax slightly as the evening progresses without incident, the threat level decreasing with each passed hour.
The atmosphere loosens degree by degree. Conversation flows more freely. Laughter rises from the tables, genuine and unguarded. Music starts playing softly, traditional Albanian melodies that make some of the older guests smile with nostalgia.
I'm reaching for my glass again, my hand closing around the crystal stem, when I feel Artan stiffen beside me.
His entire body goes rigid. Muscles locking. Breathing changing.
I follow his line of sight immediately, my own body responding to his alarm even before my brain processes the threat.
A man enters the private room through the main doors.
Tall, well over six feet. Well-built, shoulders broad beneath an expensive suit.
Thick beard, dark with threads of silver, neatly trimmed.
He moves with purpose, with confidence that borders on arrogance.
His eyes are fixed on Luan with laser focus.
My hand moves to my gun automatically. The weight of it pressed against my ribs suddenly feels reassuring instead of burdensome. Artan's hand moves too, I can see it in my peripheral vision. Both of us ready to draw. Ready to act.
The man walks straight to our table without hesitation or deviation. Doesn't pause. Doesn't acknowledge the fifty pairs of eyes now tracking his movement. Doesn't seem to care that he's walking into a room full of armed men who have every reason to want him dead.
By the time he reaches us, all three of us are standing. Chairs scraping back. Hands on our weapons beneath our jackets. Ready to pull. Ready to fire.
But the man doesn't look at us. Doesn't acknowledge the threat we represent or the violence coiled in our bodies like springs compressed to breaking point.
He looks at Lily.
Just turns his attention to her like the rest of us don't exist.
He offers his hand with old-fashioned courtesy.
She hesitates, confusion and fear warring across her face. Her eyes move between Luan and the stranger, seeking permission or guidance or understanding. Finding none.
Slowly, she places her hand in his.
He shakes it gently, his large hand engulfing her small one. His voice when he speaks is smooth despite the accent. Irish rolling through the vowels.
"I apologize for arriving without an invitation and for not bringing a gift worthy of such a beautiful bride." He pauses, holding her hand a moment longer than necessary. "But I believe what I bring is more valuable than anything you've received tonight."
Another pause. Letting tension build. Letting everyone in the room lean forward slightly, straining to hear.
"My name is Cormac O'Rourke. I come bearing truces. Peace."
The name hits me like ice water dumped over my head, cutting through the alcohol fog with brutal clarity.
Cormac O'Rourke.
Leader of the Irish mafia. The man we've been at war with. The man whose warehouse we destroyed.
I didn't recognize him. None of us did. He's supposed to be a hermit, a widower who never leaves his castle in Ireland, who rules his empire from a distance with an iron fist and absolute authority. A ghost. A legend. More myth than man.
But he's here. In Chicago. At Luan's engagement party. Shaking Lily's hand like they're meeting at a garden party instead of a gathering of the dangerous men.
He releases Lily's hand finally, his fingers sliding away from hers with deliberate slowness. Then he turns to Luan, his expression unreadable.
Extends his hand again.
Luan hesitates. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes at lightning speed. The cost-benefit analysis. The political ramifications. The decision being made in microseconds.
He shakes the man's hand. Briefly. Reluctantly. The contact lasting barely two seconds before both men pull back.
O'Rourke nods once. Says nothing more. No threats. No demands. No conditions.
Just turns and walks out the same way he came in, his footsteps steady and unhurried on the polished floor.
The room has gone completely silent. No one breathes. No one moves. Everyone watching this moment unfold, understanding they're witnessing something significant even if they don't yet know what.
Then whispers start. Low and urgent. Spreading like wildfire through dry grass. Speculation and theories and questions with no answers.
I'm still standing, my hand still pressed against the gun beneath my jacket, feeling my heart pound against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
What the fuck just happened?