I check the setup one more time. Chair positioning. Lighting. Sightlines. Everything is calculated. Everything is controlled.
I adjust the lamp angle. Test the shadows. Move Erion's chair half an inch to the left so the light hits just right.
Luan sits perfectly still. His hands rest on the armrests, fingers relaxed. His head tilts slightly toward the lamp. To anyone watching, he looks calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
I position myself to his right. Close enough to intervene if needed.
The apartment is quiet. The kind of silence that precedes violence.
Then I hear it.
A knock at the door. Single. Controlled. Unmistakable.
Showtime.
3
ERION
Something's wrong.
I know it the second I step through the door. Can't point to what. Just a pressure in the air. Like the room is holding its breath. Waiting.
The hallway is too quiet. Just silence pressed against my eardrums. My shoulders tighten. My pulse kicks up a notch. My hand drifts toward my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my gun.
Not fear. Recognition. Instinct.
The same instinct that kept me alive when I was eight years old and my mother, drunk out of her mind, forgot I existed for three days straight. When the only food in the apartment was a half-empty box of stale crackers and I had to decide whether to steal from the corner store or go hungry. The same instinct that toldme which alleys to avoid, which men to run from, which fights I could win and which would put me in the ground.
The same instinct that helped me survive foster homes where kindness was bait and cruelty was the only constant. Where I learned to sleep light and wake fast. Where I learned that the only person I could count on was myself.
I didn't inherit a kingdom. I built one. Brick by brick. Body by body. Gathered men who had nowhere else to go and nothing left to lose, and I turned them into something that mattered. Something feared.
Luan Krasniqi was born into his empire. Raised for it. Groomed for it. Handed a crown he never had to earn. Never had to fight for. Never had to prove he deserved.
People still look at me like I'm the underdog. Like I'm fighting for scraps while he feasts at the table. Like I'm not worthy of the same respect.
Tonight, that changes.
My hand moves to my chest. Finds the Saint George medal beneath my shirt. The metal is cold against my skin, the chain worn smooth from years of contact. My grandmother gave it to me the week before she died. Pressed it into my palm with her papery hands and told me it would keep me safe.
She was the only person who ever cared whether I lived or died.
I touch it whenever I walk into something that might go bad. Not prayer. Not sentiment. Just ritual. A reflex. Like checking my gun is loaded. Like making sure the safety is off. A reminder that I've survived worse than whatever's waiting for me in the next room.
Artan leads me deeper into the apartment. His footsteps are steady, controlled. The kind of walk that says he's counted every exit and calculated every angle before I even crossed the threshold.
The hallway stretches long and dark. Too dark. No light spilling from other rooms. No glow from the windows. Just shadows pressing in from all sides, thick enough to feel.
My skin prickles.
We turn a corner.
The living room opens up in front of us. Barely lit. A single lamp behind an empty chair, the bulb dimmed so low it's almost useless. Another lamp somewhere off to the left, casting long shadows across the floor. The rest is darkness.
Luan sits in an armchair like it's a throne. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on the armrests with the kind of casual authority that comes from never having to prove yourself. His face is hard. Unreadable.
But he's not looking at me.
