Because if word gets out that Luan Krasniqi can't see, the power struggle begins immediately. Not in days. Not in hours. In minutes.
His uncle in New York makes a move. The old guard who never fully accepted his leadership makes a move. Every opportunist who's been waiting for an opening makes a move.
Chicago becomes a war zone. Blood in the streets. Alliances fracturing. Territory carved up by whoever's fastest and most ruthless.
And we become the first casualties.
Luan stays completely still in his chair. His hands rest flat on the armrests. His posture is perfect. Controlled. His breathing is even. Measured. The kind of control that requires conscious effort.
I've seen him like this before. When his father was alive and unpredictable. When violence could erupt without warning. Luan learned early to hold himself like stone. To give nothing away. To wait.
He's waiting now.
Erion leans forward slightly. His elbows rest on his knees. His hands clasp together loosely. "That's why you disappeared for three weeks. Why you've been invisible. Why you refused every meeting until I forced your hand."
He pauses. Lets the statement settle into the silence.
My hand drifts toward my waistband. Slow. Subtle. Not drawing yet. Just positioning. Just ready. My fingers brush the grip of my gun. Familiar. Grounding.
Erion catches the movement. His eyes flick to me briefly. He smiles. Faint. Almost amused. "Easy, Artan. I'm not stupid."
He sits back again. Spreads his hands. Palms up. Empty. No weapon visible. But the threat is there. Implicit. Undeniable.
Knowledge is a weapon. And he's holding it now.
"Chaos benefits no one," he says. His voice is steady. Reasonable. The voice of a man stating obvious truth. "The Irish are already testing territory. Hitting warehouses on the south side. Probing defenses. Seeing how fast you move. How strong you are."
He shifts forward again. Just slightly. Enough to emphasize his words.
"If I go public with this information, if I let it slip that Luan Krasniqi is compromised, the Irish move in before either of us can blink. They take the south side first. Then everything else. They'll move fast because they'll know you're vulnerable. That your organization is fractured."
He pauses. Lets the scenario play out in our minds.
"Then it's not your problem or my problem. It's everyone's problem. Because once the Irish have a foothold, they won't stop. They'll push until there's nothing left of either of our operations. And we'll both be dead or irrelevant."
I hate that he's right. But he is.
The Irish have been patient. Waiting for an opening. They've tested our defenses before and backed off when we responded with strength. But if they sense weakness, they'll commit everything. And they have the numbers and the resources to win.
"So the alliance stands," Erion continues. His tone doesn't change. Still calm. Still measured. Still reasonable. "Not because I trust you. Not because I like you. But because we're strongertogether than we are bleeding each other dry while the Irish carve up our territory and take what's left."
He leans back. Crosses one ankle over his knee, settling into the chair.
Luan's jaw tightens. The muscle jumps once. Then goes still. His hands remain flat on the armrests. Steady. Controlled.
"What do you want in exchange for your silence?" His voice is cold. Flat.
"Besa."
The single word drops into the room like a stone into still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
I go completely still. My hand drops away from my gun. Hangs at my side.
Besa.
Blood oath. Sacred vow. Not a casual promise or a handshake agreement or a gentleman's understanding. Besa is ancient. Binding. The kind of oath that carries weight across generations. It binds not just the men who swear it, but their families. Their clans. Their entire networks.
In Albanian tradition, Besa is everything. It's honor. It's identity. It's the foundation of trust in a world where trust is currency.
