"But we would really like to have a conversation with you. To explain. To answer questions. To let you see all of it, not just the parts Valentina wanted you to see. After that, we'll accept whatever you choose to do. If you want to walk away, we'll let you go. If you never want to see us again, we'll respect that.Fjalë nderi.Word of honor."
He leans forward slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. Presses his lips to my forehead in a kiss that feels like benediction and goodbye and hope all mixed together. The contact lasts just seconds but burns itself into my memory with painful clarity.
Then he releases my hand. Steps back. And walks away without looking back.
I stand there in the cereal aisle, stunned and motionless. The note still in my hand where he placed it. My skin still warm where his lips touched.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The store's muzak plays something bland and forgettable. Somewhere behind me I can hear Mr. Hamilton berating another employee.
Everything is exactly as it was five minutes ago.
But everything has changed.
I look down at the note in my hand. At my own handwriting. At the words I wrote without understanding their weight.
Welcome home.
And suddenly I know exactly what I need to do. The certainty settles into my bones with quiet finality. Not a dramatic revelation. Just a simple truth that's been waiting for me to acknowledge it.
36
LUAN
"She's not coming."
Erion's resigned voice cuts through the silence. The voice of someone who's already accepted disappointment as inevitable.
"She will come," Artan replies from where he stands by the window, looking down at the street below. "She's just a little late."
I wish Artan is right. Wish with an intensity that feels foreign and uncomfortable that Lily will come. That she's just running late, caught in traffic or hesitating outside the building, and not changing her mind. Not deciding that we're not worth the risk.
We're all gathered in my living room, the three of us positioned like pieces on a chessboard waiting for the game to begin.
She sent a message yesterday to Artan after he visited her at work. A simple text. "I'll come. Tomorrow at three."
I can barely recognize myself in this moment. Luan Krasniqi, head of the Chicago Albanian mafia, pleading with a woman to hear him out. Waiting and hoping like some lovesick fool from a romance novel. About to reveal things I haven't told anyone, secrets I've kept buried so deep I sometimes convince myself they're not real. Not even Artan knows all of it, and he's the closest thing I have to family now.
So this is what love is. This vulnerability. This fear. This willingness to expose every wound and hope the person seeing them doesn't use them as weapons.
The doorbell rings.
She didn't use the code.
She rang the bell. Like she's already breaking whatever intimacy we built over the past weeks. Like she's establishing distance before she even crosses the threshold.
We all stand simultaneously, the movement synchronized without planning. Look at each other. Artan's expression is hopeful, his dark eyes bright with something close to faith. Erion's face shows doubt, skepticism written in every line. I feel resigned, braced for rejection like a blow I can see coming but can't avoid.
Artan moves first, always the one to step forward, to bridge gaps, to smooth rough edges. He crosses to the door with quick strides.
Returns moments later with Lily behind him.
She looks nervous, her hands clasped together in front of her body in a defensive posture. Frightened even, though I'm not sure if she's afraid of us or of what she might learn or of her own feelings. Her eyes move between the three of us, uncertain, assessing.
Her blonde hair is down around her shoulders, loose and slightly disheveled like she's been running her hands through it.
For a moment, we all just stand there in my living room, frozen in awkwardness. Like strangers again instead of lovers. Like we haven't touched each other, tasted each other, learned the geography of each other's bodies.
"Please. Sit." I gesture to the couch.
