What began as diplomacy dissolved into boredom: forced smiles, carefully measured insults, and threats disguised in the polite language of “cooperation.”
The Albanians excelled at that particular art.
Every compliment carried a threat. Every handshake was a reminder that they believed themselves untouchable on Italian soil.
They were wrong.
The Albanian presence on Lake Como was never hospitality.
It was leverage.
A calculated concession on our part—mid-level bosses housed in villas we owned, protected by our security, breathing air that remained in their lungs only because we allowed it.
All of this stemmed from the recent agreement Lake Como signed with the Albanians—an alliance that allowed us to do business together and enter each other’s territory for specific, agreed purposes.
The understanding was unspoken but absolute.
Even though I had been sent here alone, they wouldn’t dare touch me.
If anything happened to me—or to anyone connected to me—a war would erupt. And the benefits of our present alignment far outweighed whatever blood such a war would cost.
That knowledge kept conversations civil.
It kept knives sheathed.
When the meeting finally ended, I stood and walked out before anyone could corner me with polite farewells disguised as veiled threats.
Outside, I stepped into the open air with my son, Vanya.
I was already halfway to the car, my patience spent, when Vanya’s voice cut through the night.
“Dad... there’s blood.”
The word snapped my focus sharp.
He stood frozen beside the rear passenger door, small fingers clenched at his sides, eyes locked on the ground.
Under the weak spill of the sodium lamps, a dark smear glistened against the white gravel—too dark, too fresh to be anything else.
My pulse kicked once, hard.
I moved instantly, sliding an arm around his shoulders and guiding him back, positioning my body between him and the car without conscious thought.
“Stay close,” I said quietly.
My Glock was in my hand before the sentence finished, drawn from the shoulder holster in one smooth motion.
Thumb off the safety.
The parking area outside the Albanian safehouse was poorly lit—sodium lamps throwing weak orange halos over cracked asphalt and parked vehicles.
No movement.
No raised voices.
Just the cicadas and the faint echo of my own breathing.
I scanned left. Right. Rooflines. Windows. Reflections in windshields. I didn’t miss details; I’d survived too long for that.