The mood is relaxed. Easy. Erion starts talking about a restaurant he wants to try back in Chicago, some place that serves traditional Albanian food the way his grandmother used to make it. Lily laughs at something he says, the sound bright and unguarded.
Luan is quiet. But there's contentment in his expression. Peace. The kind of peace that comes after long suffering. After darkness finally giving way to light.
For the first time in weeks, things feel stable. Like we might actually make this work. Like the impossible situation we've created might have a future.
Luan's phone pings.
The sound cuts through the conversation like a blade. Sharp. Intrusive. Wrong.
We all go quiet.
The automated voice announces the sender before Luan can silence it.
"Message from Driton Krasniqi."
Luan's entire body goes still. His jaw tightens. His hand squeezes Lily's unconsciously.
He stares at the phone screen. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The calculation. The decision being made in real time.
He could ignore it. Could wait until we're home. Could keep Lily separate from this part of our lives for a little while longer.
But he doesn't.
His thumb moves. Taps the screen.
"Read message," he says.
The voice fills the car, flat and emotionless.
"Luan. I'm leaving New York now. I'll be in Chicago tomorrow. There are things we need to discuss. And I'm looking forward to meeting your fiancée."
The silence that follows is heavy. Oppressive. Like all the air has been sucked out of the vehicle.
Lily's hand tightens around Luan's, her knuckles going white.
Erion's relaxed posture shifts, tension creeping back into his shoulders like an old familiar coat.
Luan stares straight ahead, his jaw working, muscle jumping beneath skin.
I don't say anything. There's nothing to say yet. Nothing that will make this better or easier.
The fragile peace we built over the past few hours cracks.
Not broken. Not shattered.
But cracked.
And through that crack, the real world begins to seep back in.
30
LUAN
My uncle stands in the entryway of my apartment like he owns it.
Driton Krasniqi. Tall, broad-shouldered, imposing in the way men become when power has lived in their bones for decades. His hair is silver at the temples, perfectly groomed, not a strand out of place. He wears a charcoal gray suite with subtle pinstripes, tailored to fit his frame with precision. His eyes are cold. Calculating. The eyes of a man who's survived decades in this life by being smarter and more ruthless than everyone around him.
He doesn't ask permission to enter. Doesn't wait for invitation. Just walks in like the space belongs to him by right of blood and seniority.
