Lily has cast a spell. Walked into this apartment and wrapped herself around something vital in our chests. Made herself matter in a way that's dangerous. In a way that complicates everything.
And whoever hurt her just became our problem.
And in our world, that's not a position anyone wants to be in. Because when men like us decide someone's our problem, it stops being theoretical. It becomes concrete. Final. The kind of decision that ends in blood and consequences and justice delivered outside any legal system.
I look at Luan. See the set of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands rest flat on the armrests, fingers pressed hard against the leather.
He's thinking the same thing I am.
Whoever hurt Lily is going to regret it.
Deeply.
11
LUAN
The water is scalding. I stand under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders, my neck, the tension that lives permanently in my spine now. Steam fills the bathroom, thick enough that I can see it even with my compromised vision. Gray shapes moving through white fog.
Today is the day.
For weeks, my uncle Driton has been calling. Demanding meetings. Asking questions wrapped in polite concern that barely conceals suspicion. He wants to know why I've been invisible.
I've been stalling. Making excuses. Buying time for my vision to return.
But time just ran out.
The Kuvendi i Gjakut. The Blood Council. Five representatives from the most powerful Albanian clans operating in the United States. Men who've built empires on blood and loyalty and fear. Men who decide who leads and who dies. Men whose authority supersedes borders, governments, and laws.
And they want to speak to me.
Not just my uncle Driton, though he'll be there too. All five of them. Sitting in judgment over what I did. Over the fact that I killed my father and took his seat.
Killing your father is always extreme, even in our world. It doesn't matter if he was a monster. Doesn't matter if he ruled through cruelty and fear. Doesn't matter if removing him saved lives.
What matters is that I broke the oldest rule. The one that keeps clans stable across generations. The one that prevents chaos.
Blood doesn't kill blood. Not without consequence.
They need to decide if I'm legitimate. If the Krasniqi clan remains under their protection. If I remain breathing.
I convinced Driton to do a virtual meeting. Told him I'm cementing my leadership here in Chicago, that I can't leave the territory unattended while the transition is still fresh. That showing weakness by abandoning my post would invite challenges I can't afford.
He agreed. Reluctantly.
But then the others wanted in. Wanted to see for themselves. Wanted to measure me against whatever standard they use to judge men who kill their fathers and claim thrones built on patricide.
So now it's not just a conversation with my uncle.
It's a trial.
My vision has improved. I can see shapes now, edges, contrasts between light and dark. Maybe fifty percent of what I had before. Enough to navigate the apartment without trailing my hand along walls. Enough to find a glass without knocking it over. Enough to orient myself in familiar spaces.
But is it enough to fool five men who've survived decades in this life by reading weakness in others?
Is it enough to hide the fact that I'm still blind enough to be vulnerable?
Artan and Erion will be there. Visible on the call. A united front. Proof that the alliance is real, that I have strength behind me.
