"Position yourselves out front," I tell my guards in Albanian. "Askush nuk hyn.Nobody comes in."
They nod and spread out, taking positions that give them clear sightlines down the street in both directions. Professional. Alert. Hands resting casually near weapons concealed under jackets.
The three of us walk inside.
The shop smells like meat and bleach, the sharp tang of disinfectant fighting a losing battle against the iron-rich scent of blood. Display cases line one wall, filled with cuts of meat. The walk-in refrigerator hums steadily in the back, a constant white noise that fills every silence.
Behind the counter is Gjergj. Old. Weathered. Loyal in a way money can't buy because I gave him something more valuable than cash when he needed it most. Protection for his granddaughter when her ex-boyfriend decided restraining orders were just suggestions. He's been running this place for me since I bought it five years ago, and he's never asked questions he doesn't need answers to.
"Erion," he greets me, his Albanian accent thick even after decades in America. "Mirëmëngjes." Good morning.
"Mirëmëngjes, Gjergj." I lean against the counter, casual, like this is just another day. "Any trouble from the basement?"
He shakes his head, his weathered face creasing into something that might be amusement if you squint. "Jo.No trouble at all." He pauses. The ghost of a smirk crosses his face. "Even if there were, it would be hard to know. The basement is soundproof."
We share a look. Understanding passing between us without words.
"Good work," I tell him.
He nods and goes back to his cutting board, the knife moving with practiced efficiency through a slab of beef.
We move through the shop. To the door at the back, unmarked and easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for.
I open it. The stairs creak under our weight, old wood protesting. The air gets colder as we descend, temperature dropping with each step until I can see my breath. The smell changes too. Concrete and old blood and something else, something sharper. Fear. Pain. The particular scent of suffering that clings to places like this, that soaks into the walls and never quite leaves.
The basement is exactly what it needs to be. Bare concrete floor, stained dark in places where cleaning couldn't quite erase history. Stone walls, rough and unfinished. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the air current from the door, casting shadows that move and shift like living things.
And below it, tied to a chair with zip ties that have cut into his wrists deep enough to draw blood, is the man who tried to kill Luan.
He's in bad shape. Worse than bad. One eye is swollen shut, the flesh around it purple and black and distended. His lip is split open, blood dried in crusty streaks down his chin. His nose sits at an angle it shouldn't, clearly broken. Multiple other woundsmark his face and torso, dark bruises and cuts from where Artan and I worked him over last night. His clothes are torn and stained so dark with blood they look black in the dim light. He's conscious but barely, head lolling forward, breathing shallow and wet.
I turn to Luan. Notice he's taken off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into his jacket pocket with careful precision.
"We worked him last night," I say. Keep my voice neutral. Factual. "He didn't have much useful information. But we thought you'd want to be the one to finish it."
Luan looks at the man. His eyes are clearer than they were even yesterday. Focused. The green cutting through the dim light like something alive.
"This is the one who planted the bomb?" His voice is calm. Cold. Empty of everything except certainty.
"Yes," Artan confirms from beside me.
"Then yes," Luan says quietly, and the softness of his voice makes the words more terrible, not less. "I would like very much to finish it."
I pull my gun from my waistband. The weight is familiar, comforting. I offer it to him, grip first.
Luan looks at the gun.
Then he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a knife. Fixed blade. Six inches of steel that catches the light from the bulb overhead. Sharp enough to split skin with pressure alone.
"I prefer a blade," he says, and his voice is still empty of emotion, still flat and cold. " I want him to suffer."
He moves toward the man. His steps are measured. Controlled. There's no rage in his posture, no visible anger twisting his features or making his movements jerky. Just certainty. Just the calm inevitability of violence that's already decided.
The man sees him coming. Makes a sound, something between a whimper and a moan. Fear cutting through the pain fog that's been keeping him numb.
"Who do you work for?" Luan asks. Conversational. Like he's asking about the weather.
The man tries to answer. His mouth moves, lips struggling to form words. Blood dribbles down his chin, dark and thick. The sounds he makes are unintelligible, wet and broken.
