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I keep my head down, blending into the flow of the city. The vibrant energy of Istanbul is contagious, the air rich with the scents of spices and the sounds of bustling life. Yet beneath its lively appearance, I feel the undercurrent of danger, a reminder that I'm walking on a knife's edge.
My instincts are on high alert, scanning for any sign of Ahmet's men.
The neighborhood of Beyoglu looms ahead, its narrow streets and historic buildings very different from the sleek modernity of the airport. I begin my search within the maze of alleyways and crowded markets.
I move unseen, unnoticed. My heart beats a relentless rhythm, reminding me of what I’m fighting for. Mariya’s face, her smile, the sound of her laugh…they’re all etched into my mind, driving me forward.
The sun begins to dip low, painting the city in hues of orange and red. With each passing moment, the risk of danger grows. If Ahmet’s men spot me, it could all be over.
Stepping into my temporary abode in Istanbul, a nondescript apartment in the heart of Beyoglu, I unload my essentials: a collage of hastily scribbled notes, a small arsenal of tactical gear, and my laptop. My heart is heavy with the weight of my fear for Mariya’s safety.
I prepare for a reconnaissance of a local bar, whispered in the underworld grapevines to be a haven for mobsters, a place where information flows as freely as the Raki—the national drink of Turkey. The name ‘Karanlik Köse,’ meaning The Dark Corner, lingers in my mind, an apt moniker for a den of secrets.
Finally, I arrive at Karanlik Köse. The bar’s I is unassuming, its entrance cloaked in shadows as if to deter the gaze of the uninitiated. Inside, the space is dimly lit, with a smoky haze that clings to the air above like a cloud. The walls are adorned with old photographs and Turkish tapestries, creating an aura of time-worn secrecy.
I find a spot at the bar and order a drink to blend in. My eyes and ears are open, sifting through the hum of voices for any mention of Ahmet or his operations. Every word, every glance exchanged, could be the key to finding Mariya.
As I nurse my drink, the reality of my situation sinks in. I'm a stranger in a foreign land, searching for the woman I love in the heart of a criminal underworld. The task is daunting, and the danger is real, but my resolve is unbreakable.
Turning to the bartender, I try to strike up a conversation, hoping to glean even a fragment of useful intel. But my words are met with a stony silence, a wall as impenetrable as the city's ancient fortifications. It's clear that trust is a currency hard earned in these parts, and I'm a man without a dime to my name.
"Busy here, I see," I say in English, my tone casual, aiming to bridge the gap with a touch of commonality.
The bartender barely acknowledges me, his focus fixed on polishing a glass with a cloth that's nowhere near clean. "It's always busy," he replies, his voice as rough as the city's cobblestone streets.
"Must hear a lot of interesting things in a place like this," I probe further, attempting to pique his interest or at least his willingness to talk.
He sets the glass down, his eyes finally meeting mine. There's a depth there, a knowing that speaks of years spent observing the ebb and flow of Istanbul's darker tides. "In this job, you learn to hear little and see even less," he responds, a hint of a warning lacing his words.
I nod, understanding the unspoken rule of silence that governs places like this. In a world rife with danger and betrayal, words are often the most lethal weapon.
Stepping out of Karanlik Köse, the frustration of fruitless inquiries on my mind, I decide it's time to retreat and regroup. The information I need isn't going to be found in the bottom of a glass or the idle chitchat of wary patrons. As I weave through the bustling streets of Istanbul, the vibrant life of the city pulsates around me, but my focus is on the grim task at hand.
Just as I'm about to turn the corner, a subtle yet unmistakable sensation grips me: a light brush against my back pocket, the faintest shift in weight. Years in the Bratva have honed my senses to such nuances. A pickpocket in the crowd has lifted my wallet.
Instinct kicks in. I whirl around, catching the briefest glimpse of a figure darting away. With a surge of adrenaline, I give chase. The thief weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, but I'm close behind, my strides fueled by frustration and the need for action, any action.
The chase leads us into a narrow alley, the shadows growing longer as the sun dips lower in the sky. It's quieter here, the sounds of the city muffled by the enclosing walls. The thief, a silhouette against the muted light, slows down, thinking they've lost me. They couldn't be more wrong.
As I close in, ready to confront the pickpocket and retrieve what's mine, a sudden blur of movement catches me off guard. From the shadows, a figure emerges, launching a swift, precise strike. I’m jarred by a fist connecting with my face, sending a shockwave of pain through me. I stagger but quickly regain my footing, my training taking over.
Anger flares within me, a fiery response to this unexpected assault. I square off against my assailant, my fists clenched, my stance ready. This is no ordinary street mugging—it's a premeditated attack, a clear message that I'm not welcome here.
The alley transforms into a battleground, the grimy walls and dumpsters silent witnesses to the impending clash. My opponent, shrouded in the darkness of the alley, exudes confidence and hostility. But he’s about to learn who he’s decided to cross.
In the heat of this unexpected fight, a part of me feels alive and invigorated. It's a distraction from the gnawing worry over Mariya, a release for the pent-up tension. But I can't afford to lose focus, not when every second counts, not when Mariya's life hangs in the balance.
With a deep breath, I ready myself. They've picked the wrong man to corner. I'm not backing down, and they’re about to feel every ounce of my anger, retaliation, and fury.
Chapter 29
Damien
The alley is a narrow corridor. Filled with the threat of danger and adrenaline. I can feel the echoes of Samuil's teachings coursing through my veins. The years of training with my brother are now my greatest ally in this unexpected combat. My muscles respond with practiced precision, instincts honed by countless hours of rigorous training.
The assailant is fast, a street fighter with rough and unpredictable moves. We exchange blows, his fists seeking my weakness, my own strikes calculating and measured seeking his. The act of violence is brutal, a mixture of grunts and the unmistakable sound of fists making contact.
Suddenly, he draws a gun, the metal glinting in the darkened alley. My heart pounds against my ribcage, but fear is a luxury I can't afford. The shot rings out, a deadly blast missing its mark. Instinctively, I lunge forward, closing the gap between us with the speed of a predatory animal.
