I don't say what we're both thinking. That weakness, real or perceived, is a death sentence. That if his uncle, family or not, smells blood in the water, he'll move fast.
Luan killed his father two months ago. Took his place at the head of the Krasniqi clan. It was necessary. Overdue, even. His father had it coming.
But necessity doesn't buy loyalty. And a blind leader is no leader at all.
"We need to focus on tonight," I say. "Erion first. Your uncle later."
Luan nods once. "Agreed."
I move to the living room. Start shifting furniture. The setup has to be perfect. No room for error.
Erion Kodra. Leader of a rival Albanian clan. Volatile. Aggressive. Smart enough to be dangerous. He's been pushingfor this meeting for three weeks. Ever since the explosion. Ever since Luan disappeared from view.
At first, I handled it. Told Erion that Luan was out of the city, making contacts with other families. That he'd be back soon. That business would resume when he returned.
But Erion doesn't take delays well. He kept pushing. Kept insisting. And the longer Luan stayed out of sight, the more questions started circulating.
Questions get people killed.
So tonight, Luan shows his face. Proves he's still in control. Sends a message that the Krasniqi clan is intact and operational.
Even if it's a lie.
I move the armchair to the center of the room. Position it so the back faces the window. Then I grab the ottoman and place it a few feet in front of the chair.
"Here," I say. "Sit."
Luan moves toward me. One hand trails along the back of the sofa until he finds the armchair. He lowers himself into it, adjusts his posture. Shoulders back. Head up. Hands resting on the armrests.
He looks like a king.
I grab a second chair and position it across from him, on the other side of the ottoman. "Erion sits here. Directly in front of you. I'll be to your right."
Luan nods.
I move to the lamp behind what will be Erion's chair. Turn it on. The light is low, but bright enough to create a silhouette. Bright enough that if Luan looks in that direction, it'll seem like he's looking at Erion's face.
"There's a light behind his chair," I say. "Focus on that. It'll look like you're making eye contact."
"And if he moves?"
"I'll tap a signal on your shoulder. If I shift my weight to the left, he's leaning forward. If I clear my throat, he's looking at something else. If I tap the armrest, he's standing."
I step back. Survey the room. The lighting is dim. Deliberate. Low enough to obscure details but not so low that it seems suspicious. A man who values privacy. A man who controls his environment.
That's the story we're selling.
I move the side table closer to Luan's chair. Place the gun on it. Within reach but not obvious.
"If this doesn't work," Luan says, his voice quiet, "he doesn't leave this apartment alive."
I don't argue. He's right. If Erion realizes Luan is compromised, the information will spread. Fast. And once it spreads, the power struggle begins. Men who've been waiting for an opening will take it. The clan will fracture. Blood will follow.
I've been acting on Luan's behalf for three weeks. Attending meetings. Issuing orders. Enforcing consequences.
But there's only so long a leader can go without showing his face.
Tonight, he shows it.
