Chapter Eleven
Of all the places I never wanted to see again, Tirana sat right at the top of the list.
Yet, here I was, stuck in this cramped airplane seat, feeling the pressure in my ears build.
I should have stayed in Shanghai and faked a canceled flight. I should have “accidentally” missed my connection in Athens on this puddle jumper.
Glad I had chosen an aisle seat, I didn’t have the temptation of looking through the window to watch the origin of my family’s destruction loom larger and larger. However, I regretted not having a splash of whisky in my Coke during the beverage service.
The little boy and girl across the aisle made silly sounds playing with the Duffy Bear and Peach Pooh plushes I’d given them just after take-off.
They’d been antsy and whining, and their harried mother looked like she was at the end of her rope.
As much as I’d wanted to add the stuffed animals to my collection back home, I’d wanted a quiet flight more.
Besides, there would be other chances to visit Shanghai Disney and buy merch.
After my meeting with Mr. Ma and the subsequent discussion with my stepdad, it looked like I would be spending more time in China.
But even if I did go back to Disney, the chance that I’d have the same companion was almost nil.
Even now, I couldn’t quite believe I had drunkenly agreed to spend a day at an amusement park with Luka’s cousin. The fact that I had actually chosen to extend my stay in Shanghai and traipse from one end of that resort to the other with Kristo was even more baffling.
But we’d had a hell of a time together.
He was funny and quick-witted, and it had been so easy to forget that he was just as responsible for my family’s downfall as Luka. I wasn’t quite sure how to make sense of that. As much fun as we’d had together, I couldn’t shake the feeling I had betrayed my family.
Was it also a betrayal to look at the file Kristo had given me? To try to help him fix his problem? Or was it also helping my sister who was only hours away from being married into that family?
I pulled the file from the seat back pocket where I had stowed it before takeoff.
It wasn’t very thick, and as I thumbed through it, I noticed it wasn’t very impressive either.
The information was scant. Was this what Kristo had been offering to prospective business partners? No wonder he hadn’t had any bites!
I placed the folder on the tray table and flipped through the pages until I found the warehouse specs. My gaze lingered on the satellite image of the site. There was something strangely familiar about the shape of the warehouses, the distance to the port, and the placement of utilities.
Where have I seen this before?
And then it hit me.
I retrieved my phone from under the folder and quickly navigated to the PDF Skender had sent more than a week ago. I used my fingertips to enhance the image and then compared it to the image in Kristo’s file. It was the same site. The same warehouses. The same piece of property.
What the hell is going on?
I swallowed nervously. There had to be an innocuous explanation. Maybe Skender had seen the property for sale? Or had been looking for something that fit the specs needed for a data center? Maybe he had no idea that this property belonged to Luka’s family.
Get real, Elona. There’s no such thing as coincidence, not in our world.
My heart raced as I considered what I might have just stumbled into so stupidly. There were a few options, and none of them were good.
One—Skender planned to get his hands on this property in some way that was likely to be underhanded. Maybe through some kind of blackmail or pressuring our sister to manipulate Luka into giving her control over it?
Two—Skender was being backed by a larger player.
He had been living with the Raffaelli family for nine years.
They were ostensibly neutral in the conflict between our two families, but they had profited immensely during the peace.
Had they convinced my brother to work with them?
Were they planning some kind of mischief?
Three—Skender and Kristo were working together but had different ideas about the project. If they were working together, Kristo would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t he? Unless he didn’t want me to know that he was working with my brother.
But there was something else that bothered me. A detail that had meant nothing to me until now.
Kristo. The car accident in Abu Dhabi. The time he spent in prison.
I tried to do the math as quickly as possible, working out what time period he might have been incarcerated.
My stomach dropped as I realized the time period when Kristo likely had that wreck overlapped with a time period when my brother was recovering from a beating.
Or, at least, that’s what he’d told me. That he’d been jumped by football fans after a Champions League final.
I’d believed it to be nothing more than hooliganism.
But now?
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Stop. You’re spiraling. This isn’t healthy. You’re catastrophizing. Stop.
I closed the folder and cleared the open apps on my phone. I closed my eyes, trying to center myself and calm my racing heart.
This is all a coincidence. It’s nothing. You’re making up wild stories.
The plane touched down, and I set aside any thoughts of Luka, Skender and Kristo.
I never crowded the aisle during deplaning, but I was close enough to the front that I didn’t have to wait long for my turn.
I grabbed my carry-on, smiled and waved at the kids and their mother and filed out with the other passengers.
Once I was in the airport, I took my time queuing up for customs. I hadn’t had a reason to use my Albanian passport since leaving the country.
I’d even considered giving up my citizenship, but this was my home, after all.
It was the place where I traced my bloodline.
I had renewed it as an adult, but never traveled on it, preferring the ease of my US passport.
But now, here I was, waiting to legally re-enter the country I had fled as a child. The home I had been forced to leave by Luka Beciraj. My soon-to-be brother-in-law.
Infuriating.
Arrogant.
Cruel.
Handsome.
Sexy in a way that made me sick to my stomach.
Luka and his stupid face had been popping up in my dreams, usually in filthy and disturbing scenarios.
I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t even fathom why he of all people was playing a starring role in my fantasies.
He was my enemy.
He was mean.
He was trash.
And my stupid, treacherous body wanted him. My sister’s fiancé. My almost brother-in-law.
I’m sick. I’m so gross. What the hell is wrong with me?
The thought of seeing Luka again was as anxiety-inducing as the unknown fear of what awaited my family. I kept thinking about my last conversation with my stepfather. He had been worried about me coming back to Albania. He feared I wouldn’t be allowed to leave after the wedding.
But Brett had something Luka didn’t. He had money. Real money. A giant corporation that he controlled. He had contacts in the US government and all across the world. He’d given me a phone number to memorize and use in case I ran into any trouble.
I recalled and practiced the number as I wheeled my suitcase through the crowd. The airport was small by international standards. It didn’t take me long to reach the exit. I was considering getting in line for a coffee at one of the kiosks when I heard the roughest, raspiest voice say my name.
“Elona Dushku.”
Stiffening, I turned in the direction of the voice and spotted a face that had haunted my dreams. Black, shark-like eyes. Dark hair. A gnarled scar across his throat. The menacing stare of a killer.
It had been almost seventeen years—but I could still feel his hands on my shoulders, grabbing me out of a car, marching me through the rain to the middle of a tarmac. I could still smell the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stink of gunfire that clung to him.
Zec. The Beciraj family henchman.
“You’re late.” Zec took a step toward me, and I clutched the handle of my rolling suitcase. I glanced to the left, toward the exit, hoping for a clear path. There were two other men loitering nearby, clearly waiting to catch me if I decided to run.
“Is this how you treat wedding guests?” I asked, trying to keep my chin up and my voice calm. My insides shook violently as I imagined all the horrible ways this might end.
“With a private car and personal pick-up?” Zec grasped my elbow, his touch firm but not violent. “You’re getting VIP treatment.”
“I’d rather take my chances with an Uber.”
“Not here you wouldn’t,” he grumbled and tugged me along beside him. The few people who noticed him manhandling me quickly looked the other way. I didn’t blame them.
I jerked my arm free from his grasp. “I don’t need you to drag me along like a naughty child.”
“Considering the family you come from—.”
“And what family do you come from?” I asked spitefully. “Another one of the rich, spoiled Beciraj cousins?”
He took hold of my arm again, this time his grip less kind. He practically dragged me through the doors and into the overcast Tirana weather. “I was born in a Russian prison.”
I had barely registered what he’d said before my luggage and purse were taken from me.
I fought down the panic that erupted as I realized the file from Kristo was in my carry-on, right there in the front zippered pocket.
Would they search my bags? Find that file?
Start asking questions about me, my brother and Kristo?
The two men who had been waiting near the doors appeared like shadows, boxing me in so that I had no choice but to get inside the car idling at the curb. The windows were heavily tinted, and I held my breath as the back passenger door was opened to reveal an empty back seat.
“Get in.”