Novel Tirani Novels & Stories

CHAPTER 29 LORENZO The flight landed in Albania after one and a half hours. As soon as the jet arrived, we were escorted into a truck, to take us to a casino on the other side of the city Tirana, the capital city of the country. There was so much tension in the car, that you could cut it with a knife. Ricky and a few of the other men were sat down uneasily, not saying a word the entire journey. “It’s good to see you back on your feet, son,” Dad said, as the vehicle drove. “I was starting to worry about you.”

Dear lovely readers, We’re nearing the final chapters of The Tyrant’s Baby. It’s been an incredible journey bringing this story to life, and I’m so grateful for your support, love, and patience along the way. Stay tuned as we uncover the last twist, turn, and heartfelt moments in Selene and Alaric’s story. Thank you for being part of this adventure! With love, Yña Banana 🌙

It was a blue that reminded Tirana of a guardian entity in Antares Then, Tirana felt a drop, but it was deep red. Antares was raining blood. The smell of the blood was potently carnal, like there was a massacre happening on heavens. She wondered what went on, but she was in great pain and just let herself drenched in red. There were inhumane shrieks resonated throughout the heavy red rain. Tirana wanted to check it out but she kept her eyes and mouth shut from the pouring blood. She gathered every ounce of strength left in her and got up, supported by her spear.

“So what now? We strike back? I can mobilize thirty men before nightfall.” “No.” I leaned back, fingers tapping absently against the table. “When a man like Lorenzo breathes easy, he makes mistakes. I’ll take his air when he least expects it.” That quieted the room. They knew what that meant. When I came for someone, it wasn’t fast, it was final. Milo broke the silence again, tapping on his tablet. “Before we go spilling blood, there’s something you need to hear. Micah sent a report again from Albania. Tirana post. Said he raised the issue yesterday but we were busy talking about Bukky's attack.”

The file on the obsidian desk is thin. It doesn't contain decades of history like the Greco dossier. It doesn't have the weight of blood feuds and intermarriages. It is light, new, and irritatingly sparse. I flip it open. A photograph is clipped to the top. It shows a man in his late twenties, standing outside a nightclub in Tirana. He is wearing a suit that is too shiny, a watch that is too big, and a smile that is too wide.