A temporary hiding place with a temporary friend—but within a year we had created a future together. I changed. Or, maybe I didn’t at all? Maybe it was more that once I was with my aunt and my father’s old friend I finally understood who I was, where I came from, and maybe it was difficult or even impossible to escape something you want to get closer to? That kind of fear that turns into strength and determination when it’s paired with trust. Because we made up our minds. I made them make up their minds. We would take back what belonged to us, finish what Dad had started, and we’d do it with the help of Hamid’s and Dad’s old contacts. We hired professionals to take out Zoltan’s men one by one. Always Ulcinj execution. The same method used to kill my own family while I watched. We saved King Zoltan for last, and I took care of him myself—it was the third time gunshots changed the meaning and direction of my life.

Now we had taken back the Balkan route.

And we’d do what Dad had been preparing to do—use the secret stash of the world’s most advanced machine gun to take over bigger markets.

That’s why we split up. Hamid and Aunt Vesa led the organization from Shkodër, while I, with my newly acquired knowledge of explosives and ammunition—becoming Hamid’s student had felt like getting closer to Dad—would travel to Sweden and solve the mystery of the hidden weapons. I changed my name, again—Zana Lilaj became Hannah Ohlsson became Amelia Schmidt—and with my new name, I applied to the police academy. That seemed like the best way to complete my three objectives. First, I needed to get access to the police investigation into the murders of my family, specifically the address of an apartment with a small square hole in its floor. Secondly, to get the names of the men who were arrested and interrogated at the time, but never locked up. And finally so I’d get the best cover in the world—someone in a police uniform running the Swedish illegal arms trade.

—

She asked Zofia and the boys to take Luiza to the sofa in the living room and wait there until Superintendent Grens arrived, while she went and got them some water and a bag of buns that was sitting on the kitchen counter. A few minutes to herself before the apartment filled up with voices and energy. And then it just happened. It wasn’t anything she was planning, but her legs carried her to the two men in the bedroom, and she did the same thing she’d done in Albania when they were lying on the floor after a professional hit: she kicked them. Hard. Again, again. Kicked them even though she knew they couldn’t feel it.

—