Chapter 6: The T-Shirt and the Morning
The old Mercedes rattled down the dirt track toward Prekaz, the scent of last week’s burned fields still hanging in the cold air. Vanja stared out at the stark Drenica hills, her fingers tight around the satellite phone in her lap.
“Who is Dren?” Luan asked suddenly, his eyes on the ruts in the road.
“My other brother,” she said, not turning. “He lives in Munich. Helps my babi run the family business.”
“And Agron?”
“He’s in the mafia. I think Hashim knows him. He is the one sending you weapons from southern Italy, as you know.” Her voice was flat, a recitation of facts.
Luan shook his head. “He didn’t mention it.”
“He wouldn’t. It’s a courtesy. My father’s name opens doors; my brother’s shipments keep them open.” She finally looked at him. “Does it bother you? The source of the guns?”
“Only if they fail to fire.” He reached over, his calloused hand covering hers. “My mother will be curious. She’ll have a hundred questions.”
Vanja smiled then, a real one that reached her strange green-gold eyes. She switched to a fluent, soft Tosk dialect. “Unë mund të flas të dy llojet e shqipes. Jam e edukuar, e bukur, dhe mund të gatuaj. Ajo do të jetë e kënaqur.” I can speak both types of Albanian. I’m educated, beautiful, and I can cook. She will be pleased.
Luan laughed, the sound warm in the cramped car. “You’ve never cooked for me.”
“That’s something I’ll do for my husband,” she said, her tone sly, testing the word in the space between them.
He pinched her cheek gently. “Shpresoj.” I hope so.
The Jashari compound was not what she expected. It wasn’t just a house; it was a small fortress in the making. And it was full of people. The entire clan, it seemed, was in the wide, muddy yard, save for Rifat and those in Germany. Shaban and Zahide, Adem and Adile, Hamez and his wife, Rifat’s wife, sons and daughters, cousins—a small army of dark, watching eyes.
Luan made a pained face. “I thought only my mother wanted to meet you.”
“Yes,” Vanja said, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her posture straightening, a mask of effortless poise slipping into place. “Good thing I brought gifts for everyone.”
And she had. She moved through the yard like a diplomat, dispensing rahatlokum, packets of Swiss chocolate for the wide-eyed children, bags of coffee and bottles of rakia for the men. For the women—Zahide, Adile, the aunts—she produced silk scarves and fine perfumes from her bag, each offering accompanied by a few perfect words in their own Gheg dialect. The tension in the air thinned, just slightly.
Adile came to her first, wiping her hands on her apron, her gaze both kind and fiercely assessing. “Mirë se erdhe në shtëpinë tonë.” Welcome to our home.
“Ju falenderoj nga zemra, zonjë.” Thank you from the heart, ma’am, Vanja replied, dipping her head just enough.
Then Adem was there, his presence solid as an oak trunk. “Your father called,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Your family is very generous.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite soften the hard intelligence in his eyes.
“I would assume you prefer my brother’s gifts over mine,” Vanja said, her voice clear and unafraid.
Luan laughed, a short bark. “She meant weapons over candies.”
“I might,” Adem conceded, his smile becoming something more genuine. “But my wife and my mother prefer yours. Come in.”
They were led not to the main family house but to the kula, the traditional fortified building. The room was huge, with a high, beamed ceiling, its walls thick stone. A low table sat in the center, a fire cracking in the massive hearth behind it. They sat on cushions, and tiny cups of bitter coffee appeared. Vanja sat silently beside Luan, who barely spoke. When asked direct questions—about her studies, her family, her thoughts on the situation—her answers were short, polite, and impeccably crafted. She was a satellite, observing, calibrating.
Then Adile and Zahide stood. “Come, vajzë,” Zahide said. “Let the men talk war. We will make pite.”
Luan began to rise with her, but both Zahide and Vanja shook their heads almost in unison. A flicker of understanding passed between the women. This was another test, one he could not help her with.
In the warm, steamy kitchen, Vanja rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and washed her hands at the deep sink without being asked. She took the mound of dough Zahide offered and began to knead, her movements strong and practiced.
“You have done this before,” Adile noted, shaping her own loaf.
“My babi in Munich believes idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Vanja said. “I grew up kneading dough and balancing ledgers.”
“And what do you believe in?” Zahide asked, her old eyes sharp.
Vanja looked up, flour dusting her wrists. “I believe in not being idle when the world is burning.”
In the kula, the men drank rakia.
“She is beautiful, the Halimi girl,” Shaban said, sipping from his small glass. “Sharp, too. She watches everything.”
Luan nodded, staring into the fire.
“You want to marry her?” Adem asked directly.
“I love her,” Luan said, the words feeling both dangerous and necessary. “And I would like nothing more.”
Adem sighed, a heavy sound. “Hard times are coming, bir. If you were to marry, you would need to be careful. She is a… complicated ally.”
“I know.”
“You would live here,” Adem stated.
“Yes,” Luan said. “If she so wishes.”
Hamez laughed, a booming sound that echoed. “You are whipped, boy! Head over heels.”
Luan nodded, his neck flushed, but he didn’t deny it.
Shaban placed a gnarled hand on the table. “Go get her. Show her the estate. Show her your new house.” His eyes held his grandson’s. “Let her see the future you are building.”
Luan found her in the kitchen, her hands deep in flour, laughing quietly at something Adile had said. The sight stole his breath. For a moment, she wasn’t the oracle of grim futures or the bearer of a split name; she was just a beautiful girl in a sunlit kitchen, accepted.
“Come,” he said, his voice rough. “Let me show you the land.”
She followed him out, wiping her hands on a cloth. They walked in silence past the barns, the chicken coops, the new, raw concrete foundation of a larger hall. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth.
“This one,” he said, stopping before a 3 story house set slightly apart. It was half-finished, the roof on, the windows still bare openings. “This is mine. Ours, if you want.”
He led her inside. The interior was cool and dim, empty but for a few sacks of cement, the floors swept clean. Sunlight streamed in through the empty window frames, painting bars of gold on the stone floor.
Vanja walked to the center of the main room, turning slowly. “It’s strong and its really big,” she said.
“It needs to be.” He came up behind her, his hands settling on her hips.
She leaned back into him, her head resting on his shoulder. “Your family is kind.”
“They are wary. But they see you. They see what I see.”
He turned her to face him. There was no one around, just the sound of a distant cowbell and the wind in the pines. The isolation was absolute. The look in her eyes, that deep, knowing hunger, ignited something primal in him.
He kissed her, hard, his tongue claiming her mouth. She met him with equal force, her hands fisting in his jacket. There was no prelude, no gentle unwinding. The tension of the day, the watching eyes, the unspoken wars—it all coalesced into a sharp, desperate need.
He walked her backward until her shoulders met the cold stone wall. His hands went under her skirt, roughly pushing it up around her waist. He tore at her tights, the sound of the nylon ripping loud in the empty space.
“Luan,” she gasped, not in protest but in urging.
“I need you,” he growled against her neck, his breath hot. “Now. Right the fuck now.”
He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing himself. He was already painfully hard. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her back against the rough stone. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed inside with one deep, brutal stroke.
She cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound that echoed in the shell of the house. She was wet, welcoming him, but the angle was deep, unforgiving. He fucked her like that, pinning her to the wall, each thrust a solid impact that shook her body. The filth spilled from his lips, mingled with Albanian endearments. “Ti je e imja,” you are mine, he grunted. “Take all of me.Take it.”
Her nails scored his neck. She was whimpering with each drive, her head thrashing side to side. “Harder,” she pleaded, her own language dissolving. “Don’t be gentle.”
He obeyed, pounding into her, the slapping sound of their bodies a raw rhythm in the empty room. He could feel her tightening around him, her internal muscles clenching in urgent waves. He drove a hand between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, urgent circles.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Come on my cock, Vanja. I want to feel you lose it.”
Her orgasm hit her like a seizure. She screamed, a raw, tearing sound that was half-sob, her body clamping down on him so fiercely he saw stars. It tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his own shout muffled against her shoulder, his release hot and pulsing inside her.
For a long minute, they stayed like that, joined, panting, sweating in the cold air. He gently lowered her, her legs shaky. They slumped together against the wall, sliding to the floor amidst the dust and cement powder.
His arm was around her, her face buried in his neck. He felt the wet heat of her tears.
“What is it?” he whispered, stroking her hair.
“I don’t know,” she choked out. “It feels like peace. And that terrifies me.”
He held her tighter. “This house. This land. You. It’s the only future I want to build.”
She looked up at him, her eyes luminous with spent passion and unshed tears. “Then build it, Luan. And I will cook in your kitchen.”
He kissed her forehead, a solemn promise. “We will start with the windows tomorrow.”
The afternoon light was slanting low through the windows, painting the empty room in amber. In the distance, the sound of children playing carried from the main house. Life, stubborn and persistent, went on around them. For now, in the shell of their unborn home, it was enough.
For now, in the shell of their unborn home, it was enough.
They returned to Priština two days later, the memory of the compound’s watchful quiet replaced by the city’s anxious murmur. His apartment was on the top floor of one of the newer, uglier buildings near the Grand Hotel, all concrete and spray-foam insulation.He’d paid for it with German marks.
“It’s big,” Vanja said, dropping her bag inside the doorway. She walked across the bare parquet floors, her footsteps echoing. “New.”
“Fancy,” she added, running a hand over the cold radiator.
“It’s yours too,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “If you want it.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile touched her lips.“I want a home in Drenica. This is just a place to sleep between whispers.”
“It’s a place with hot water and a lock on the door,” he countered. “A place where no one hears us.”
She turned to him, the fading light from the large window carving her silhouette. “Where are we going to marry?”
He crossed the room, gathering her hands in his.They were still cold. “Let me ask you first,” he said, his thumb tracing her knuckles. “And survive your father and your brothers.”
“And my mother,” she said, her voice softening. “Don’t forget her.”
He brought her fingers to his mouth, kissing each one slowly. “I am terrified of your mother.”
She laughed, the sound finally breaking the last of the tension from the countryside. He pulled her into a proper embrace, smelling the winter air and diesel fumes in her hair. They stood like that for a long while, the unspoken calendar of doom ticking quietly in both their minds.
Later, tangled in the sheets of his unfamiliar bed, she traced the scars on his shoulder—a childhood burn from a stove. “My father likes you,” she murmured.“He likes the pipeline I represent,” Luan corrected, staring at the ceiling. “There’s a difference.”
“He sees your integrity.He trusts you. That’s more valuable.”
“Does Agron trust me?”
She was silent for a beat too long. “Agron trusts no one.But he respects capability.He’s heard of you, of your family. It’s why the shipments come without extra ‘taxes.’” She shifted, her bare leg hooking over his. “Dren will just be happy I’m with someone who can keep up with him drinking rakia.”
“I can do that,” Luan said, a real smile finally breaking through.
“I know.” Her hand drifted lower, over the hard plane of his stomach. “You can do many things.”
Her touch was deliberate, a reassertion of their private language.He turned onto his side to face her. In the dim blue light from the window, her eyes were dark pools, the strange gold flecks swallowed by the night. There was no shyness left between them, only a deep, knowing hunger.
He kissed her, and it was slower than against the stone wall, but no less intense.A claiming. She opened for him, her tongue meeting his, a low hum vibrating in her throat. His hand slid down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass, gripping firmly. He rolled her onto her back, settling his weight over her.“I need to feel you,” he whispered, his lips against her jaw. “All of you.”
“You have me,” she breathed, arching beneath him.
He didn’t rush. He kissed a path down her neck, to her collarbone, taking his time. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth until she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair. He moved lower, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her navel.She spread her legs for him, an open invitation.He buried his face between her thighs. The taste of her, musky and sharp, flooded his senses. He licked her with flat, broad strokes, then focused on the swollen bud of her clit, circling it precisely. Her hips bucked off the mattress.
“Fuck, Luan,” she moaned, her voice strangled.
He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the rough spot that made her cry out. He fucked her with his fingers while his mouth worked her clit, relentless, a brutal, loving attention.Her thighs trembled around his head. He could feel her body coiling, tightening.“Don’t stop,” she begged, her syntax fracturing. “I’m gonna… right there, oh god…”
Her orgasm crashed over her, a silent, wrenching wave that made her back arch off the bed, her mouth open in a soundless scream. He rode it with her, gentling his tongue until she was shuddering, spent.
He moved up her body, his own need a hard, aching pressure. He notched the head of his cock at her slick entrance.She was still pulsing from her climax, impossibly wet and hot.
“Look at me,” he demanded.Her green-gold eyes found his, glazed but present.
He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion. She winced, her body stretching to accommodate him, and he stilled, letting her adjust. Then he began to move, setting a deep, grinding rhythm.Each thrust was a full, complete possession, hitting the end of her. The slap of skin filled the sterile room.
“You’re so deep,” she choked out, her legs locking around his hips.“That’s the point,” he grunted, his control fraying. “I want to be so deep in you there’s no fucking separation.”
He fucked her harder, the bedframe slamming against the wall. The filth poured from him again, a mix of Serbian and Albanian profanities, whispered promises, raw praise. “Your perfect cunt,” he rasped.“Taking me so good.Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you.”
Her nails raked down his back, spurring him on. She was climbing again, her breaths coming in sharp gasps that matched his thrusts. He could feel her inner muscles beginning to flutter, a frantic, addictive clenching.
“Come with me,” he pleaded, his rhythm becoming erratic, punishing. “Vanja, now.”
He drove into her one last time, hilting himself as her body shattered around him.Her scream was muffled against his shoulder. The intense, pulsing squeeze of her climax pulled his own from him, a raw, groaning release that left him empty and weightless.
He collapsed beside her, both of them slick with sweat, breathing the same spent air. The city’s nocturnal sounds filtered through the window: a distant car alarm, a dog barking.A week passed in a blur of murmured plans and tense silences. They drove back to the unfinished house in Prekaz one afternoon.The workers were gone for the day. Vanja had brought a broom, of all things.
He found her on the second floor, sweeping plaster dust into a neat pile. The sight was so profoundly domestic, so at odds with the woman who spoke of weapon shipments and coming massacres, that his chest tightened.
“I love you,” he told her, watching her clean the shell of their future.
She leaned on the broom handle, a mock-scowl on her face. “If you loved me, you would build two floors, not three.Eight bedrooms?So much cleaning.”
He laughed, crossing the room in two strides. He lifted her off her feet, the broom clattering to the floor, and she giggled, her head thrown back.
“My parents are meeting yours in three days,” he said, spinning her once before setting her down. “Your father just called.”
“Dren is coming?” she asked, her hands resting on his shoulders.“Yes. Agron too.”
She smiled and nodded, but he saw the calculation in her eyes, the swift mapping of alliances and threats.He took her hand.
“Let’s go back to the city,” he said. Tonight, he wanted her in the sterile, locked apartment, far from the ghosts of Drenica.