"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.
