"And now this." Driton's gaze returns to me, sharp as broken glass. "A non-Albanian fiancée. An outsider brought into the heart of our family."
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled. "You're going too far trying to make things your way. You must respect the old ways. The traditions that kept this family strong for generations."
I slam my fist on the desk.
The sound cracks through the office like a gunshot. Papers jump. A pen rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor.
But my voice stays low. Deadly quiet.
"I will not allow you to disrespect my fiancée." Each word is precise. Clear. Final. "That loyal soldier you mourn tried to kill me. Planted the bomb in my car. Nearly succeeded."
I pause, letting him absorb the implications.
"Erion has more courage and loyalty than the entire council combined. He's proven himself in ways your precious bloodlines never could."
Another pause.
"And the old ways?" My voice drops even lower, becomes something cold and sharp. "They didn't serve me well."
I let that statement sit for three heartbeats.
Then I add, soft as a blade sliding between ribs, "They didn't serve the family either."
Understanding crosses my uncle's face. He knows exactly what I'm implying. Knows the family secret I'm dancing around without naming. The sins of my father that the council chose to ignore. The betrayals they sanctioned. The broken oaths they pretended didn't matter.
His expression shifts. Reassesses. Recalculates.
He nods slowly. Acknowledgment without agreement. Respect without concession.
"To prosper, there must be truces," he says carefully. His tone has changed, becoming more collaborative. "With the Irish. They will retaliate for the warehouse. It's inevitable. But it's important not to escalate further. Not to turn this into a war neither side can win."
Erion finally turns from the window. His pale blue eyes are cold. Assessing. "We'll evaluate the situation when it presents itself."
The statement is neither agreement nor refusal. Just fact. A promise that we'll respond to threats as they emerge rather than constraining ourselves with preemptive promises.
Driton looks at him. Takes his measure in a way he didn't before. Sees past the rough edges and volatile reputation to the intelligence beneath. The strategic mind. The willingness to do what others won't.
Then he nods. Acceptance. Not approval, but acknowledgment that Erion has earned his place at this table.
I stand. Button my jacket with deliberate precision. Extend my hand across the desk. "Thank you for coming all this way. I appreciate your counsel."
The dismissal is polite but unmistakable.
Driton rises. Takes my hand. Shakes it with firm pressure, his palm dry and cool against mine.
Then he smiles.
The expression doesn't reach his eyes. "There's still one important thing to discuss," he says. His voice carries the weight of authority that comes from decades of command. "Your engagement party."
He pauses. Lets the words settle.
"Since I'm in Chicago this week, I hope to receive an invitation. Soon."
The statement lands like a threat wrapped in courtesy.
Not a suggestion. Not a request.
A demand.
