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The waiter makes another pass by our table, his sleeve brushing against my chair—a clumsy move or a deliberate one? I'm not sure, but I'm not taking any chances. I excuse myself, standing up under the pretense of needing to make a phone call.
Outside the restaurant, the city's pulse thrums around me, a much different feel from the confined tension I've just left behind. I breathe in the crisp air, trying to center myself. The stakes are high, and I need to be at the top of my game.
But it's not just the deal with the Turks that preoccupies me. It's Mariya, her presence in my life like a puzzle I can't solve, a distracting melody that's both haunting and sweet. As I walk back into the restaurant, I know that no matter what happens, it's her that I'll be going home to, in one way or another.
I'm threading my way back through the maze of tables, the rich tapestry of conversation and clinking glasses enveloping me. The crisp night air has cleared my head and sharpened my focus. I'm ready to sit down again and dive back into the intricacies of negotiation with Ahmet.
Then, without warning, the world erupts into madness.
A resounding blast shatters the evening's calm, a shockwave that sends me sprawling. The floor rushes up to meet me, and I'm thrown off my feet, the air punched out of my lungs. My ears ring with the ferocity of the explosion, the sound ricocheting inside my skull, a deafening silence that drowns out everything else.
Shaking off the disorientation, I push myself up. Through the ringing in my ears, the screams and shouts of the patrons rise in a panicked crescendo. My eyes focus, taking in the chaos—the bomb, rather than striking at the heart of the place, has torn through the wall between our table and the kitchen. Dust and debris hang in the air, a cloud of confusion.
It appears no one is seriously hurt, a small mercy in the midst of potential carnage. The bomb, intended to maim and kill, has only managed to leave a gaping hole in the structure, a failed attempt at whatever dark purpose it was meant to serve.
The scene is a whirlwind of action, people scrambling for cover, for exits. The Turks are on their feet, their eyes wild with fury and fear. Ahmet's face is a mask of rage, his bodyguards bristling with barely restrained violence. I take a step back, my mind racing—who would dare?
In the midst of the pandemonium, the restaurant has been transformed from a place of diplomacy to a battlefield, and I'm caught right at its center.
Chaos erupts around me as I stagger to my feet, the acrid scent of smoke assaulting my senses. My head throbs in sync with the shrill chorus of alarms blaring through the shattered calm.
The aftermath of the explosion creates a dark picture of violence within the interior. A hole gapes in the wall, a silent testament to the force that tore through the space. People are scattered about, their moans and cries a distressing song of panic and pain.
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Ahmet's voice, raw with fury, his words punctuated by the sharp clicks of firearms being cocked. "This was you, Damien!" he accuses, his eyes alight with betrayal. "You tried to kill me!"
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of disorientation. "Ahmet, no," I insist, my voice hoarse. "This wasn't me. I have nothing to gain from this."
Oskar is at my side in an instant, his posture tense, his eyes scanning for threats. We're outnumbered and outgunned; the nascent level of trust we were forming is shattered in an instant. My own men, previously relaxed, now stand ready for a fight, their loyalty unspoken but fiercely present.
I take a step forward, my hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Think about it, Ahmet. Why would I sabotage my own deal? We both stand to lose everything."
The Turks appear torn, their trust in me hanging by a thread. I can see the calculations running through Ahmet's mind: the cost of vengeance versus the price of peace.
I keep my voice steady, my gaze locked on Ahmet's. "Someone else is playing us, trying to pit us against each other. We can't let them win."
The stand-off is tense, every muscle coiled, every breath held. It's a moment teetering on the edge of a cliff, and the slightest misstep could send us all plummeting into a war neither side wants.
A shout from outside breaks the tension. Sirens wail in the distance, the sound of approaching salvation—or damnation—depending on how this unfolds.
"We need to get out of here," I say, the urgency clear in my tone. "Before the authorities arrive."
Adrenaline surges through me as Ahmet's accusations fly, his conviction that I orchestrated this attack undeniable in his blazing eyes. I raise my hands, trying to inject some reason into the madness. "Ahmet, this isn't what it—"
A gunshot cuts through my words, slicing the tension into pandemonium. Instinct kicks in. Oskar's body slams into mine, driving me toward the ground as our other two guards leap into action, their weapons popping in controlled bursts, carving a path to the exit.
"Move!" Oskar hisses, his voice a hard edge against the chaos. We're moving, low and fast, ducking behind overturned tables, splintered wood, and shattered glass. The stench of gunpowder stings my nostrils.
My mind races, desperate for a way out. My hand finds the grip of my gun, and I aim—not at a person, but at the grand chandelier hanging precariously in the center of the room. A well-placed shot, and the cord snaps. The chandelier plunges, a cascade of sparkling glass and plunging shadows, enveloping the room in darkness.
The cover of night is our ally, and we seize the moment, slipping out of the back door, the sounds of confusion and shouts fading behind us. Oskar, the guards, and I burst into the cool night, our breaths coming in sharp, ragged pulls. We're unscathed, or so it seems.
The safety of the car beckons, and we pile in, the tires squealing against the pavement as we tear away from the scene. I'm pressing my hand to my side, trying to catch my breath, when I feel it—a warm wetness spreading beneath my fingers.
"Dammit," I murmur, peeling my hand away to see the dark stain blooming across my shirt. A bullet has found its mark, a searing pain that announces its presence with every jolt of the car.
Oskar's eyes meet mine, his concern a clear question. "You hit?"
I nod, pressing down on the wound, the reality of the situation setting in. "I'll make it. Just get us out of here."
