Wrapped in a graceful knit dress, a sleek trench coat, and low-heeled boots, Arzu wandered through the streets of Manhattan, breathing in the fresh, floral-scented air of spring. The aroma of newly blossomed flowers danced with the city's distant hum, filling her chest with a buoyant, inexplicable lightness.
It had been two full years since she'd moved here. She had secured a small but comfortable apartment in one of the city's most refined neighborhoods. Her first priority had been to enroll her son in a good college and dedicate herself entirely to his education. Now, the bond between her and Mert felt different—closer, warmer, more like true companions.
Every summer, her mother would visit, staying for months at a time and filling their home with laughter and life. The modest income from a handful of small businesses her mother still managed was more than enough to support them. Arzu, unwilling to be idle, continued to practice law, though it wasn't quite the same as it had been in Turkey—everything here felt more rigid, more monotonous. Still, the safety, the absence of paparazzi lurking at every turn... it was worth it.
As she approached the gates of the college, she couldn't help but roll her eyes slightly.
Standing there, waiting for her, was a familiar figure: Jack.
She had met him months ago at one of Mert's school club events. He was the father of a girl Mert had befriended, recently divorced and starting fresh with his daughter. What had started as casual, friendly conversations had slowly shifted into something more persistent—an unwelcome flirtation.
Jack, hands tucked into his pockets and wearing an easy smile, stepped toward her.
"Ah, Arzu, how are you? It's so nice to see you!" he said with enthusiasm.
Arzu offered him a polite, measured smile.
"Thank you, Jack, I'm good. I came to pick up Mert. How are you?"
Jack, seemingly undeterred, spread his arms in a theatrical gesture.
"I came to pick up Leylia too. I think it's a sign! Let's take the kids and check out this wonderful new café on the north side of the city!"
Maintaining a gracious but professional expression, Arzu shook her head gently.
"I'd love to, Jack, but a friend from Turkey is visiting, and Mert has really missed them. They're waiting for us—maybe another time."
Jack, slightly deflated, nodded.
"I understand. I'll call you when you're free then."
Just then, a burst of joyous shrieks distracted Arzu.
She turned to see Mert racing toward her with a wide grin, tugging along Leylia by the hand.
"Mom, look what I made!" Mert cried, his face alight with excitement.
Leylia held out her tiny hand, proudly showing off a makeshift ring drawn on her skin with a colorful marker.
It sat there, rough and bumpy, like a miniature jewel crafted by a child's heart.
Arzu chuckled, unable to suppress a thought that popped into her head:
"Just like his father... always chasing the girls!"
Laughing softly to herself, she leaned down with a warm smile.
"It's wonderful," she said affectionately. "But next time, sweetheart, maybe ask Leylia first if she wants it, okay?"
Jack let out a hearty laugh and turned to his daughter.
"Did you like it, Leylia? How does it look?"
Leylia, her blonde ponytail bouncing with enthusiasm, beamed.
"I loved it! Daddy, can we make it permanent, like a tattoo?"
Arzu froze for a moment, staring at the little girl in shock.
Inwardly, she muttered, "You barely know my son and you already want a tattoo?!"
And then, half under her breath, she added with a smirk:
"We women are hopeless... even at this age."
Jack, noticing her murmur, tilted his head.
"Did you say something?" he asked.
Arzu, recovering with a graceful smile, waved a hand dismissively.
"No, just saying how adorable they are," she replied, wrinkling her nose slightly.
She extended her hand toward Mert.
"Come on, sweetheart, time to go."
Mert eagerly grabbed her hand, his grip warm and trusting.
"Okay, Mommy!" he chirped.
Turning to Leylia, he said, "See you!" and blew a playful kiss into the air.
Arzu gave Jack a polite wave.
"See you, Jack," she said lightly, before walking away with Mert.
They wandered off through the spring-scented streets of Manhattan, their laughter drifting behind them like petals in the breeze.
Meanwhile, back in Turkey, a different scene was unfolding:
In front of an abandoned, crumbling factory, a fleet of black cars stood in silent menace, their presence marked by the grim figures of armed men surrounding the building. The air was thick with tension, so dense it seemed almost tangible.
From inside the factory came the shattering of glass and the anguished cries of men. Even the concrete walls seemed to tremble under the weight of the violence erupting within.
Ateş Yamanoğlu sat slouched in a rusted metal chair, his powerful frame relaxed yet coiled like a predator at rest. His broad chest strained against his bloodstained white shirt, crimson droplets painting dark, ominous spots across the fabric.
His sharp, severe features were hardened even further by the fury burning beneath the surface. His jaw clenched tightly, teeth grinding with barely restrained rage.
His cold, unblinking gaze was fixed on a man kneeling before him—an expression so chilling it could freeze blood.
With a growl rumbling low in his throat, Ateş spoke.
"I've seen men do many things for money... but selling out your own family? That's a rare breed of filth," he said, his voice growing darker with every word. "Even after we told you your wife and children were in our hands, you still tried to run? You spineless worm."
Without warning, he lashed out with his foot, slamming the sole of his shoe into the man's chest.
The sound echoed through the hollow space, raw and brutal.
The man collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, gasping for breath as he clawed his way back to his knees.
"Please, brother... forgive me... I thought if I left, you'd let them go... Please... I'll be your servant, your dog... just let me live!" he sobbed.
Ateş wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"I have dogs with more honor than you," he said, his voice as cold as a blade. "You're no better than a hellhound. A man who doesn't care for his own family is worth less than dirt to me."
With slow, deliberate movements, Ateş rose to his feet.
The scrape of his shoes against the cracked concrete floor was the only sound that filled the vast, broken space.
The man, sensing the finality in Ateş's movements, screamed in terror.
"Please, brother! Don't! I'm begging you!"
But Ateş's eyes had already turned to stone.
He said nothing as he walked toward the exit.
And then—
A gunshot split the air, sharp and merciless.
Silence followed, heavy and absolute, as even the cracked walls seemed to seal away the secret forever.
Ateş Yamanoğlu had settled another score.
And he knew all too well: sometimes, justice arrived on the tip of a bullet.