Then I watch Luan's face change in real time. The smile disappears as if it never existed. Panic flashes across his features, quick and violent. Then it's replaced by something worse. Extreme anger. Fury so intense it's almost palpable. His jaw clenches hard enough that I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His knuckles go white around the phone, gripping it so tightly I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
Artan and I move immediately. Close the distance between us in seconds.
"What is it?" I demand, my heart already racing, adrenaline flooding my system before I even know why.
Luan looks up at us. When he speaks, his voice is cold. Controlled in that deadly way that means he's barely holding himself together. "The Irish took her."
"What do you mean?" I rip the phone from his hands before he can respond, needing to see for myself.
Read the message on the screen.
Message from Lily:
We have your girl. She's unharmed for now. If you want her back, retreat from all disputed territories on the south side, and transfer 1 million dollars of compensation. Location for drop will be sent in 1 hour. Come alone or she dies. No police or she dies. The Irish remember.
The Irish have Lily. They're holding her hostage. Using her as leverage to reclaim what they lost in our war.
"Fuck!" The curse explodes out of me. I check my weapon on instinct, pulling it from the holster at my back, making sure it's loaded, making sure the safety is off. "I knew they couldn't be trusted. I fucking knew it. That offer of truces at the engagement party was bullshit. Pure theater. Just to lure us into a false sense of peace so they could strike when we were vulnerable."
Luan steps fully into his role as leader, the transformation visible. I can see the anger in him, burning hot beneath the surface. The wish for revenge. The need to tear someone apart with his bare hands, to make them pay in blood and screaming for touching what's his.
But he stays cold on the outside. Controlled. Channeling all that rage into focus.
"Artan. Gather the men. Get them armed and ready. We're going to war with the Irish."
He picks up his own phone, already dialing. "I'm calling my uncle. Letting him know I'm going to paint Chicago red with Irish blood."
The words should satisfy the violence rising in my chest. But they don't. Nothing will until Lily is back safe.
Artan gets on his phone immediately, fingers moving fast across the screen. Starts alerting our men, sending out the call to arms that will have soldiers converging from across the city.
I do the same with my own network, texting the men who answer to me, who've fought beside me, who'll follow me into hell if I ask.
Luan's call connects. When Driton picks up, Luan's voice is pure ice, colder than I've ever heard it.
"The Irish took Lily. They are demanding money and territory. There's no more truce, uncle. This means war."
I can't hear what Driton says on the other end. But I watch Luan's expression, looking for clues, for direction, for anything.
A long pause. Then Luan's eyebrows rise fractionally.
Another pause. His jaw works. "Agreed. We'll meet you there."
He hangs up. Turns to face us both.
"He wants us to meet him at his hotel first before we make any moves. We'll strategize from there, build a stronger united front. Tell the men to gather outside the hotel."
We head to Driton's hotel, the drive taking too long even though we're breaking every traffic law. Our men are already gathering outside when we arrive, armed and dangerous, radiating the kind of violence that makes civilians cross the street.
Driton lets us into his suite without preamble. The space is elegant, expensive, wasted on the tension crackling through it.
"Show me the message," he says without greeting.
Luan hands over his phone. Driton reads it carefully, his expression giving nothing away, decades of experience keeping his reactions locked down.
"This isn't the Irish," he says after a long moment. Definitive. No room for argument.
I lose my temper completely. "What the fuck are you saying? It's right there in black and white!"
