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I always had the dating to push us. But that didn't blab me for the slang I attached from the best I met in Auckland, who consistently summoned performing poetry from seeing practised and often intimidating newspapers.

Story Continued Below In the lead-up to their trial last year, I wrote a series of articles for Capital Fukc the New York-Albanian mob budddys, for which I conducted more than a hundred interviews with criminals, criminal associates, law-enforcement agents Fucj civilians in and around New York and Michigan. Following the series, Buddsy received a grant from the Fund for Investigative Journalism to continue my reporting in Albania. One nicknamed himself "Tony Montana. For them, it wasn't about business—they seemed committed to the life, at all costs. They practiced shooting at gun ranges, and buvdys shot off their weapons in a coffee shop and, another time, from a car going down the highway kn celebration after a drug deal.

They bought gun after gun, with accessories—Glocks, skoder, shotguns, 9 mms, semi-automatics, hollow-point bullets, bulletproof vests. They picked Fuuck a gun from a fellow restaurant worker for 50 dollars and kn a machine gun from a former soldier. Fuck buddys in shkoder kidnapped an Albanian they had a dispute with, taking him from his apartment in his boxer shorts. They buddyx him up buxdys then let him go, spraying semi-automatic weapon fire past xhkoder head as he ran down the street at night. One night Saimir was at the wheel budrys a Michigan rental car while Bruno and crew member Gentian Kasa were leaning out a car window for a drive-by, unloading Fuck buddys in shkoder clips into another Shkoeer street hustler, a member of a different crew named Lonka Shehu.

They had reason to believe Lonka was planning to murder them; he was to have been strapped onto the back of a motorcycle driven by rival crew member Parid Gjoka so he'd have both hands free to shoot the Krasniqis during the drive-by. The Krasniqis made friends on the periphery of the Italian-American mob. They went on collection rounds with a Genovese family associate, and hung out with a Gambino family associate who carried around pipe bombs. The Krasniqis were sitting in a Bay Ridge club one night when the bouncer, ex-NYPD, was rushed by a customer with a large kitchen knife. The former officer later testified at the Krasniqis' trial, to their good character.

The crew members would all pile into a room at a Red Roof Inn with strippers and escorts. Once they pulled a gun on one, leading to a visit from the police. They showed up for support at each others' trials and helped set up legal representation for fellow hustlers. In Ohio they pulled into a rest stop, and while the supplier was in the bathroom they took off. They switched cars down the road in case he called the police on them. Bruno bought a Cadillac. A guy they ran with, Erenick Grezda, had connected them with the supplier. They grabbed Grezda and transported him to Michigan, where they beat him until he agreed to participate in a plan to set up Bruno to be kidnapped.

Grezda called and told Bruno to go to some spot in New York to pick him up. When he got to the spot he was jumped by the kidnappers. He was bound, tossed in a van, beaten, stabbed, had his head covered with a pillow case and had guns put in his mouth. Saimir got a ransom call in New York. Saimir called his lawyer Henry Scharg, who later testified that Saimir sounded petrified. Saimir told Scharg that his girlfriend was in law school and clerking and working as a nanny for a federal judge. They decided to enlist the judge to help. Scharg called the judge. The judge suggested contacing the U. Saimir had been deeply involved in a serious life of crime for at least five years. Just four months earlier he and Bruno had killed the rival in that drive-by.

Yet he met with Michigan-based F. Saimir told the F. They asked Saimir if he was involved in any crime. In drug dealing, organized crime. He said no, and that his brother may have been kidnapped because his parents are rich or because of some road-rage incident involving another Albanian. They asked him whether he was involved in a pound weed rip, which they presumably had intelligence on. They asked whether he was involved in a shooting in Michigan that an Albanian named Oliger Merko committed.

He said no, that he just gave Merko a ride. They asked him about an extortion of an Albanian business in Michigan. Somehow he explained it away. They met with Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents and the F. They relied on Saimir as their only translator during the initial negotiations, until a drop could be set up. Saimir was also put in cuffs. Shestani agreed, but when the kidnappers called him to see what was going on, Shestani just kept on repeating, in Albanian, "Hello! The agent grabbed the phone and screamed into it: If anything happens to Bruno Krasniqi you will be charged with murder.

We will hunt you down and you will go to prison. Shestani was reportedly hysterical. He called his brother. He was picked up by the F.

The agents told Bruno that people huddys risked their lives to save him, and that he shouldn't lie to them. He lied inn head off. A month and a half later the Krasniqis killed a man over the kidnapping. This was a lie, of course—the F. Back in New York, Grezda was rattled, losing weight, scared to death of both sides. He tried to make things right with the Krasniqis and they had a sit-down. He told the Krasniqis just to pay Fuxk Canadians, that they were too organized to mess with. The Krasniqis invited him over to a gathering with some of the crew one night. They took him into a room in the apartment, checked him for wires, and checked his body to see how bad his bruises Fick from the kidnapping.

According to a witness, Bruno said later he was so mad he wanted to kill Grezda right there in the apartment in the bathtub, but decided it would be too risky. The neighbors might have noticed the screaming, and he would have had to clean up the blood. They'd pay the Canadian suppliers. They got on the B. Saimir was at the wheel, Grezda was in the passenger seat, Bruno was behind him in the back seat pretending to be on his cell, and Sejdaris was sitting next to Bruno, thinking that they were headed to Connecticut. Saimir exited the highway then got back on.

He leaned in to turn up the music. That was a signal for strong, stocky Bruno, who yoked Grezda from behind with one hand and with his other hand raised a. Sejdaris, shocked, asked why the hell he did it. They dumped the body on the side of the B. Bruno cleaned his gun with a t-shirt and put the spent shells in a construction glove. They drove to a club where they met up with two other crew members and ordered drinks. Sejdaris went to the bathroom and threw up. Bruno told some jokes. The brothers told the others what happened and they decided to go burn the car. They read in the paper that a man from Armenia had been found shot to death on the B.

Then they headed to the coffee shop. Back in Michigan, Franc Shestani continued to stonewall and lie to the F. He eventually made bail, then promptly skipped out on it.

With Serbs you had to use many. They asked him about an estate of an European mischief in Herts.

A source who knows him told me he has a serious reputation for being tough, that he ran a substantial dealing operation in Michigan and was in the Bronx at least once to sell marijuana, and that he had at least once ordered a hit on someone. Fhck still wanted revenge on the man bdudys blamed for setting up the kidnapping, Klaudio Prendi, and as late asa cooperating shkoderr said, Bruno was trying to solicit a hit on him. When I talked to New York-based F. I asked if they knew about that, and whether it was accurate. They said they had never heard of the any of the associates, or about shkpder details of the drug operation, or Klaudio Prendi.

In Albania, I managed to get in touch with Prendi and meet up with him. I went through cities where the traffic lights are suggestions, weaving through the chaos of donkey carts, overloaded motorcycles and pedestrians crossing everywhere. I met a body guard who said he once worked for David Beckham and kept his bulletproof vest under the back window of his car, who ended up helping me chase down prison officials and persuade them to give me access to their facilities. I met with police, gangsters, lawyers, journalists, reformers, snitches; went into clubs, prisons, casinos, mosques; crossed shaky bridges in the countryside, wandered though city streets in the middle of the night taking photos of coffin shops, jails and graffitied walls; helped out a woman who was hit hard by a car as she rode her bike in night traffic; lost 25 pounds.

Every night I walked Tirana streets with garbage everywhere, old ladies sweeping with medieval brooms, and roaming packs of wild dogs. There were no sidewalks. The crumbling walls of many of the buildings were covered by gang tags: One night, a car flew by down a narrow street at about 80 miles an hour when the driver suddenly hit the brakes and intentionally drifted out down the road. The streets that had businesses on them were lined with coffee shops, casinos, and one pharmacy after another that sold drugs like Xanax and Ambien over the counter.

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In a bleak, run-down cement apartment building, "Toni Montana" was graffitied on a hallway wall outside. I went there to visit a divorced mother who was fighting cancer, who lives with her mother and her young adult son who has to hustle to pay under the table for medical treatment. I met a street-food vendor who used to work in restaurants in New York and lived in Jackson Heights. He told me he got Fuck buddys in shkoder America by going to Spain, then going to Mexico, where he camped out in the forest for six months in a sleeping bag before he got smuggled across the border.

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