Page 13 of Sing For Us

1. A way to start saying "fuck you' in Bosnian.

Chapter six

Lana

To be a fly on the wall for that arrogant piece of shit. My desire for him is still there, but the desire to watch him break is even bigger. That’s something that will have to wait.

It has been seven days since I last saw him, and it pains me I had to let him go without killing him first. My fingers were dying to pull that trigger and to watch him bleed out all over my basement, but I couldn’t do it. I made a promise, and holding on to your honor is important in my world. If you can’t do that, then nobody can trust you, and you will be shunned. Or in the worst case, you will be killed.

I need to think about my next steps and how to reach Noa so I can reach his father. I know that Dario gave the order to M to kill my father. When I came back to Sarajevo from college, my father confided in me that he thinks someone is after him. He noticed a tall figure was following him everywhere, yet he stayed far enough away. That prompted me to ask who he thinks is behind it, and my father didn’t want to answer at first. It was all to…

“I need to protect you, Lana,” my father tells me as he sips on his coffee. I sigh and hold my tongue between my teeth.

“Baba.” I compose myself. “I don’t need protection. Most of these men don’t even know that I am–”

“Lana, don’t,” he scolds me as he rubs his head. Fuck, he has a headache again. I give him his pills, and he swallows one. When he looks at me again, I see a man broken from grief and sickness.

“I understand that you want to keep me safe, but at least tell me who you think is following you.”

“Lana…”

“Please, baba. When I go back to Switzerland, it’s going to be harder to monitor you.”

“Sunce moje1, I am your father; I need to be there for you. Plus, I have Maria to take care of me once you are gone.”

“I can also stay, you know?” I suggest to him. My father tilts his head and presses his lips into a thin line. I throw my hands up in the air, surrendering.

“Fine,” I start. “Are you now going to tell me who you think is after you?”

“You just have to promise me one thing.” I nod at him. “You can’t go after them. They are the most vicious organization.”

“They haven’t met me,” I tell him coldly. He grabs my hand and is pleading with his eyes. I roll my eyes and motion for him to continue.

“I told you that Dario met with me to do a hit for him, and that I backed out because it didn’t align with how we do things.”

“Yes,” I reply. In our world, someone can request a hit, but the other party can deny it. No hard feelings. If the asking party tries to retaliate because of that, an order for an immediate assassination is permissible. You don’t fuck nobody over—no means no.

“Even though he said that he understood, his body said something else. He tensed up and gripped his whiskey glass tighter,” my father explains to me as he lets go of my hand.

“And now you think Dario is after you?” I inquire of him. He nods and sighs.

“Yes, but I don’t think he himself is following me. But his most trusted man.” Those last words come out like he has run a marathon. Exhausted. My father is getting tired, physically and emotionally, and my heart breaks to see him like this. He was once the strongest and most feared man alive; now there is almost nothing left of him. He presents himself as strong, but he isn’t that anymore.

“Let me handle Dario. Please,” I beg him. My father’s face contorts into anger–he narrows his eyes and his jaw tightens.

“Absolutely fucking not. This is my fight. And before you ask for the hundredth time, I’m not going to tell you who the hit was Dario wanted me to execute.”

“Why not? I would have done the hit.” I am getting impatient. For the last couple of months, he has stayed tight-lipped about the one hit he denied.

“Drop it, sunce moje.” He uses the nickname that stayed with me ever since my childhood. I soften at that, and let it go. For the rest of the day, I chill with my favorite person in the whole world.

If I had known that would be the last time I saw my father, I would have hugged him tighter. I shake off any grief, like that can happen, and continue driving up to my gate at my estate. I went out to pick up something from the basement, and I am finally home. That dingy-ass apartment I had in Sarajevo wasn’t my home.

This is.

This is the home I shared with my father and mother, and it will always hold a special place in my heart. The property begins twenty-three minutes outside Sarajevo, and one hour away from him. It’s far enough to disappear. Close enough to be useful.

The gates open before I reach them. They’re automated, but I still note the delay—half a second slower than yesterday. I’ll have it fixed first thing in the morning, I can’t afford any mistakes. The driveway cuts through the estate in a straight line. No curves, no blind spots. Trees are spaced deliberately, trimmed high enough to eliminate cover. There are cameras every fifty meters. Motion sensors buried where no one would think to look. No one gets in without me knowing, and the same goes for all my other properties.