I've been keeping that promise for fifteen years. Since the day she left. Since the day she chose a life somewhere else over a life here. Over him. Over me.
I don't blame her. Not anymore.
Life in the Albanian Mafia is hard. Harder for someone like Mira. She was too soft for this world. Too kind. Too full of light in a place that only knows how to take.
She left to survive. I understand that.
Doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
But the promise still stands. I'll keep Luan safe.
I look at him now, standing by the window with his hands too still and his jaw too tight. He's alive. That's what matters. The blindness is temporary. The doctors had a name for it. Commotio retinae. Caused by the shockwave from the blast.
I clear my throat. "What did the doctor say? About your eyes."
Luan shifts. His fingers tap once against the window frame, then stop. "He's hopeful. Full recovery in a few more weeks."
"And now?"
"Silhouettes. Shadows. Harsh lights still bother me."
I nod, even though he can't see it. "Good enough."
He doesn't respond.
I move to the window, pull the curtain back an inch, look down at the streetlights below. Forty-three floors. Everything looks small from up here. Manageable. It's a lie, but it's a comforting one.
"We need to find who planted the bomb," I say.
"I know."
"Your father's men?"
"Most likely." His voice is colder now. Sharper. "They're still out there. Still loyal to a dead man."
"They won't stay quiet forever."
"No. They won't."
I let the curtain fall back into place. Turn to face him. "Your uncle called again."
Luan's jaw tightens. "What does he want?"
"A meeting. New York. He's demanding you show up."
"Wat did you tell him?"
"That you're handling business here. That Chicago comes first."
"He won't accept that for long."
"No. He won't."
Silence. Then Luan exhales slowly through his nose. "How long can we stall?"
"A week. Maybe two. After that, he'll get suspicious."
"Then we have two weeks to make sure I can see well enough to convince him I'm not weak."
