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.Mirëseardhje."
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 carefulEnglish. 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 anexpensive 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.
