Kuzgun [BXB]

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

CEM Karaca#Çökertme

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March 8, 2005... For them, this year was no ordinary page on the calendar; it was that sharp blade that sliced their lives in two—into "before" and "after." Etch this into your heart, for after that day, nothing would ever shine quite the same way again.

Ankara’s biting cold had settled over the city, accompanied by that notorious silence that seeps right into one's bones. The pale lights filtering from the windows of the Police Headquarters looked like dying lanterns amidst the darkness. The rhythmic sound of boots echoing in the corridors, that unsettling static crackling across telephone lines, and the wail of sirens tearing through the belly of the night from afar... Everything heralded the approaching storm.

Branch Chief Alparslan Varol was in his late thirties. The lines on his forehead and the premature graying at his temples were the legacy not just of the passing years, but of sleepless nights and unresolved knots. He had managed only three hours of sleep in a week. As his eyelids struggled to close—feeling as heavy as tons of lead—he rubbed his face vigorously. The file before him seemed less like a stack of papers and more like a bottomless pit.

"Masked killers," he whispered with parched lips. "Silent emissaries of a holy wrath, a dark executioner army from the heavens..." These descriptions running through his mind felt like legends concocted by those who had read the file. Alparslan gritted his teeth. "It’s like we’re in Texas, for fuck’s sake; this was the last thing we needed," he thought to himself. There were no fingerprints, no eyewitnesses. There was only a raven card—in the deepest shade of black—left on each victim's chest, bearing a name etched in elegant handwriting: Andrea Moretti.

Who was this man? How could he orchestrate this bloody spectacle right in the heart of Ankara, under the very nose of the state? Everyone remained silent. Fear had erected a thick wall standing between them and justice. Everyone, that is, except for one man. Alparslan had volunteered to step into the fire, determined to prove himself worthy of the position he had clawed his way up to achieve. Yet, what he discovered after a week of investigation was enough to make his stomach churn. Moretti wasn't merely human; he was a demon in the flesh.

The door flew open without the courtesy of a knock. Commissioner Tevfik Bülent burst in, breathless—a sight that made Alparslan furrow his brows. "You could’ve at least said 'by your leave,' my friend! Has knocking on doors gone out of style?"

Tevfik looked sheepish, yet excitement gleamed in his eyes. "Sorry, brother... I mean, Chief. It’s an emergency. We’ve just had a report of a new 'Raven' case!" Alparslan’s fatigue vanished instantly. The fatherly smile he’d worn moments ago gave way to a steely seriousness. As he holstered his weapon and radio, only one word escaped his lips: "Where?"

"Near Eymir Lake."

Half an hour later, as they stepped out of the car he had shared with his team... The lights of Ankara lay far in the distance, like flickering memories. At midnight, the shores of Eymir were surrendered to absolute darkness. Upon reaching the end of the dirt road, Alparslan hesitated, struck by the desolation of the surroundings. There was no crime scene investigation team, nor any sign of activity.

"Did we come to the wrong place?" he muttered. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone and turn on the flashlight, but his hand grasped at empty air. His phone was gone. Frowning, he turned toward the team that had been behind him. Yet, he was met only by a vast emptiness. "Tevfik? Kadir?" There was no answer. Behind him, nothing remained but the howling wind and pitch-black darkness. His friends, their breathing, their voices—everything had vanished in an instant. His heart began to pound violently against his ribcage. "Tevfik! Ceyda! Pars! Kadir!" he shouted. His voice echoed off the lake's still waters and bounced back.

Just then, he heard that icy, metallic rasping sound coming from behind him. Tensing like a steel spring, he drew his weapon and spun around. The sight that greeted him was the most devastating blow of his entire life. Muttering a loud "Fuck," he gripped his weapon even tighter.

Ten people... Maybe more. They wore impeccably tailored black suits with gold embroidery. And on their faces, those damned raven masks with beaks pointed toward death. The figure at the very front stepped forward, accompanied by a youth who was little more than a child. A deep, authoritative voice from beneath the mask cut through the night: "Don't waste your breath, Varol. Your friends took the money and went home," he said with a laugh.

The gun in Alparslan's hand trembled. No, not from fear—but from the crushing weight of the betrayal piercing his soul. He couldn't even swallow. His own team had lured him into a trap. He had known this might happen, of course, but he had never imagined the blow would come from his friends. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and thought: Kadir, whom he called brother; Ceyda, whom he regarded as a sister; Pars, his childhood friend and blood brother; Tevfik, who looked up to him with admiration... How could they have done it? While he would have thrown himself in front of a bullet for them without a second thought, had they really sold him out for a pittance? Had they felt no pang of conscience when they sat at the bargaining table? The price of a lifelong friendship shouldn't have been so cheap.

But there was one thing they didn't realize: they had sold not only him but also themselves into a darkness from which they would never escape.

In that moment, he understood: he was going to die alone here by the lake, in this dark and silent place. His eyes filled with disappointment and rage. Yet, the emotion he felt most acutely was fear—though God knew, his fear was not for himself. For he knew... Kuzgun wouldn't just kill him; he would also kill the two sons he loved more than life itself and his stunningly beautiful wife. For that was Kuzgun's rule: he would eliminate anyone related to his victim so that no one would stand in his way or dare to defy him... Yet, Kuzgun didn't like leaving things to chance. That was why, for the first time in his life, he was going to run—he would run for the sake of his wife and children.

The man in front held out his hand to one of the men beside him. The man instantly drew a gold-plated gun from his waistband and placed it in Kuzgun's hand. Kuzgun then turned to his thirteen-year-old son and handed the weapon to him. Despite his fear, the boy took the gun without a moment's hesitation. "Go on, son—kill him," he said.

Alparslan Varol’s eyes widened in horror. Was this man actually putting a gun in a young boy's hand to make him kill someone? Had he lost his mind? Then again, judging by the crimes he had committed, he could hardly be considered normal. Who knew what else he had forced that poor child to do? The boy gripped the gun tightly to hide his trembling hands, but his father noticed. Upon seeing his son's shaking hands, Andrea Moretti gritted his teeth. "Marco, you know exactly what will happen if those hands keep trembling," he said in a ruthless tone.

The boy swallowed hard, filled with a mix of anger and fear toward his father, but he said nothing. For he knew exactly what his father was capable of if defied... The most harrowing example of this was what his father had done right before his eyes: raping his older sister and then brutally murdering her.

That was why he didn't hesitate for a moment to draw his weapon. Just as Alparslan was wondering how to escape, a black car screeched to a halt in front of him. His eyes widened in astonishment at the figure he saw through the open window. Pars, who was behind the wheel, leaned over and yanked the passenger door open to snap his friend out of his shock. "Get in the car—now! We have to go!" he shouted.

Alparslan shook off his surprise and got in. The car sped off the instant he was inside. Hearing the shouts of the man behind him, he took a deep breath and asked his friend in a cold voice, "What was that all about? Why did you come back?"

Pars swallowed hard at the icy tone of his friend's voice; he had turned his head away, unable to meet his gaze out of shame. His silence only fueled Alparslan’s anger. "Answer me, damn it! What kind of person sells out a brother for money?" he finally roared, unable to contain himself any longer. Pars flinched slightly but composed himself at the last moment and turned to his friend. With a look of deep contrition, he said, "I swear to you, brother, I didn't accept the money at first—but they threatened my children. I had no choice, but I swear I didn't sell you out. I had it all planned to come back and get you. And here I am." Hearing this, Alparslan’s anger subsided, if only a little.

He gave a bitter smile. "And the others?" Pars said nothing when asked. Yet, that silence spoke volumes.

What was it Caesar had said? "Et tu, Brute?" For Alparslan, those three words were no longer merely a historical footnote; they were a shard of marble driven straight into his chest. Caesar had struggled to remain standing despite the twenty-three knife wounds surrounding him; he could have endured the agony of the steel piercing his flesh. But the moment he saw Brutus—the man he regarded as a son and to whom he had entrusted his life—holding a dagger, Caesar had effectively died right then and there. It was not the first stab wound that drained the life from him, but that final, devastating gaze.

That was exactly what Alparslan was feeling, too. His team had become his "Brutus." Caesar’s famous cry—"Down goes Caesar!"—was not an act of surrender, but an acceptance. It was the most dignified way of saying, "If the world keeps turning while betrayal lurks this close to me, then this world is no longer a place for me." In that moment, he understood: a wound inflicted by an enemy might callous over, but a wound inflicted by a friend bleeds fresh forever.

Now, Alparslan searched for the eyes hidden behind the masks of Tevfik—who looked at him with admiration—and Kadir, whom he called "brother." He whispered to himself, "Caesar collapsed onto marble, while I have fallen onto this barren earth... Yet the chill of betrayal remains the same; it never changes, no matter how many millennia pass." The dagger was no longer in Brutus's hand; it was in the hands of the men to whom Alparslan said "good morning" every day, the men with whom he shared his meals. And in that instant, he understood why Andrea Moretti had laughed. Moretti hadn't killed him; Moretti had cast him into the fire at the hands of his own friends.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the police housing complex, tires tearing at the asphalt. Before the door had even fully closed, he had flung himself out and was sprinting toward the house. He could hear heavy footsteps following close behind him, but he didn't even look back; neither pride nor revenge mattered to him now. There was only one truth: they had to leave this city immediately.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, and he would save that meal for later. For now, his priority was his family—the ones he had shielded from everything.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the police housing complex, tires tearing at the asphalt. Before the door had even fully closed, he had flung himself out and started sprinting toward the house. He could hear the heavy sound of Pars’s footsteps behind him but didn’t even look back; right then, neither pride nor revenge mattered. There was only one reality: they had to leave the city immediately.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, and he would save that meal for later. His priority now was his family—the ones he had shielded from everything.

When he reached the entrance of the apartment building, he pressed frantically on his own doorbell, breathless. As his impatient fingers trembled against the metal, seconds felt like centuries. Finally, the awaited "click" sounded. He shoved the door open with his shoulder and burst inside. Realizing the elevator was out of order again, he silently hurled a vicious curse at the building superintendent. He had no other choice; he headed for the stairs. He practically flew up the seven flights, taking the steps three or four at a time. By the time he reached his apartment door, his lungs were burning and his heart was pounding violently against his ribcage.

The door opened. Standing before him was his wife, completely unaware of the situation. She froze at the sight of her husband’s disheveled state—his sweat-streaked face and the wild panic in his eyes. Her bewildered gaze was filled with questions she was afraid to ask.

"Alp... what happened? What is this state you're in?" The anxiety in Firuze's voice echoed through the quiet hallway, but Alparslan did not answer. He stormed inside without even bothering to leave his muddy boots at the threshold. His eyes scanned the house—not like a hunter, but like a lion driven into a corner; he seemed to be searching for an enemy in every shadow and a threat in every nook.

When he turned his trembling gaze toward his wife, his voice emerged like a sob caught in his throat: "Firuze... where are the children?"

Firuze had never seen her husband in such a disarrayed state before. Though her heart raced with fear, she tried to keep her voice steady as she said, "They're asleep, Alp." "It’s two in the morning—what are they going to do? Why are you in such a rush?"

Alparslan didn't even hear his wife’s reproach. His steps led him straight to the children’s room. When he pushed the door wide open, the sight before him turned the ache in his heart into a searing fire. Despite having separate beds, seven-year-old Yıldırım and his sibling were asleep in a single bed, locked in each other's arms as if seeking refuge from all the evils of the world.

Alparslan sanki onto the edge of the bed. His eyes welled up, and his vision blurred. In that moment, a vow formed within him: "If I have to, I will breathe my last right here on this threshold, but I will not let them lay a hand on you."

His hand trembled as it reached for Yıldırım’s hair. He shook his son gently, a gesture born of a mix of tenderness and desperation.

"Yıldırım... Wake up, my boy. Come on, my brave lad, wake up."

The little boy was pulled from the depths of a heavy sleep by his father’s whisper. His eyelids slowly parted, and his drowsy eyes met his father’s tear-filled ones. Upon seeing the strange, dark expression on his father’s face, Yıldırım’s sleepiness vanished instantly.

"Dad?" the child whispered, his voice piercing the silence of the room. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

Alparslan hadn't even realized he was weeping until his son’s tiny fingers touched the wetness on his cheek. As Yıldırım’s trembling hands wiped away his father’s tears, new ones—hotter and more stinging—took their place. The little boy’s eyes welled up too, as if in sympathy with his father’s silent anguish.

Alparslan tried to find his voice, swallowing the massive lump in his throat. His voice was spent, as if he had exhausted all his strength the moment he stepped through that door: "My son... my brave boy. You’re going to get up right now and put on the warmest clothes you have—okay? I’m going to get your sibling."

With his child’s intuition, Yıldırım had already sensed the ominous scent permeating the house. He didn't question it at all. With that unsettling feeling growing inside her, she sprang quickly from the bed and headed toward the wardrobe. Alparslan, meanwhile, turned his gaze to his four-year-old son. The little boy was fast asleep, his face—resembling an angel's—untouched by the world's filth. He was oblivious to what lay ahead, or to the terrible storm raging in his father's heart...

Alparslan wrapped his son tightly in his blanket—as if guarding a treasure—and cradled him against his chest. Just then, Yıldırım, having thrown on his coat, stood looking his father straight in the eye like a soldier ready for duty. "Son, grab your brother's coat, too," Alparslan whispered. Yıldırım nodded without a word, snatched up his brother's coat, and fell in step behind them.

When they stepped into the living room, the atmosphere felt even heavier. Alparslan looked at his friend, who was pacing back and forth in the middle of the room like a restless lion. His eyes betrayed the absence of one particular person. "Where is Firuze?" he asked, his voice echoing through the empty hallway. His friend paused and, averting his gaze, replied, "She went to the room to get ready. I gave her a quick rundown of the situation... She understood."

When Firuze emerged from the room, she stood before Alparslan wearing a coat she had hastily thrown on and holding a small bag of unknown contents. Her eyes were red from weeping, yet that familiar, unshakable Black Sea stubbornness still shone in her gaze. She stepped closer to her husband and placed a trembling hand against his cold, grimy cheek.

"So, we're leaving..." she whispered. "We’re heading down a path of no return, aren’t we, Alp?"

Alparslan didn’t answer; he simply took his wife’s hand and kissed her palm. It wasn’t a farewell—it was a promise. Outside, Ankara’s notorious biting cold lay in wait. Pars cracked the door open and checked the hallway. The silence of the apartment created the sensation that thousands of eyes were upon them. "Come on," Pars whispered. "We’re running out of time. We need to circle around through the woods before Andrea’s men seal off the city’s entry and exit points."

As he descended the stairs, every step echoed like the blow of a sledgehammer in Alparslan's heart. His four-year-old son, cradled in his arms, murmured softly in his sleep and clung tighter to his father's neck. Meanwhile, eight-year-old Yıldırım stayed close at his father's heels, gripping the small jacket in his hand as tightly as a flag. That night, Yıldırım left his childhood behind on the cold concrete of those stairs.

A black vehicle was waiting in front of the building, its engine running. Pars took the driver's seat, while Firuze and the children settled into the back. As Alparslan sat in the front passenger seat, he checked the safety on the gun at his waist. As the vehicle silently merged into the darkness of the street, Alparslan glanced in the rearview mirror at the house they were leaving behind—their home of ten years. The lights were out. They no longer had a key to open that door, nor a sanctuary to return to.

"Where are we going?" Firuze asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. "To the border," Pars replied, jerking the steering wheel sharply. "First to Istanbul via Bolu, then overseas by sea. Alparslan has connections, but we need to make it out of this city alive first." Once the city lights were left behind and they reached the deserted highway, two pairs of headlights appeared in the distance behind them. They were far off, yet moving at a speed far exceeding that of an ordinary traveler. Alparslan’s eyes locked onto the rearview mirror. "Step on it, Pars," he ordered, his voice cold as ice.

"I see them, brother," Pars said, downshifting and slamming his foot onto the gas. The roar of the engine tore through the silent night.

The vehicles behind them accelerated as well. Flashing their high beams on and off, they seemed to be playing a game with Alparslan. Just then, a figure rose from the roof of the lead vehicle. Alparslan instantly recognized the metallic glint in the figure's hand: an automatic rifle.

"Get down!" Alparslan shouted, turning toward the back. Firuze pulled the children into the footwell and shielded them with her own body.

As bullets shattered the rear window into a thousand shards, Pars wrestled with the steering wheel to keep the car steady. Alparslan rolled down the window and leaned out. The wind cut at his face like a knife, yet he didn't even feel it. He aimed his weapon. In that moment, he saw the raven mask on the face of the man opposite him. Moonlight illuminated the blood-red detailing on the mask's beak.

"You asked for this," Alparslan muttered. He pulled the trigger. The first bullet struck a tire; the second hit the masked man square in the chest. The vehicle behind lost control, slammed into the guardrails, and burst into flames with a massive explosion. But their relief was short-lived. The other vehicle swerved past the burning wreckage and kept coming toward them. "Brother, it might have hit the fuel tank—I can smell it!" Pars shouted.

Just then, static crackled over the radio—the team radio Alparslan had left in the glove compartment. A voice emerged—mocking, deep, and reeking of death. It was Andrea Moretti. "Flight is the only solace of cowards, Alparslan. But remember, ravens don't just kill their prey; they drive them mad by watching them from the sky. Take good care of your wife and children... They will be the rarest pieces in my new collection." Alparslan grabbed the radio and squeezed it so hard it nearly shattered. "If you lay a finger on them, Moretti," he said through gritted teeth, "I will bring hell down to this earth and burn you myself!"

"Brother! They've blocked our path!" Alparslan looked up at Pars's shout. Three black vehicles were parked sideways across the road, their headlights aimed straight at them. Dozens of gun barrels were locked onto the approaching car. Alparslan glanced at Pars in the passenger seat, then at his family huddled together in the back. There was neither fear nor hesitation in his eyes—only the fire of a never-ending reckoning.

"Pars," Alparslan said calmly. "Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop. We’re going to smash right through them."

"Brother, don't—we'll be torn to pieces!"

"I said we're going through them!" Alparslan roared. "Firuze, cover the children's ears!"

Pars squeezed his eyes shut and floored the accelerator. With only seconds left before the collision, a single image filled Alparslan's mind: the final look Caesar cast at Brutus as he fell. But Alparslan would not fall. He would rise—not upon marble floors, but by stepping over the corpses of his enemies.

At Alparslan's command, Pars didn't turn the wheel; instead, he slammed harder on the gas. The roar of the engine was like a symphony of approaching death. Just as they aimed for the narrow gap between the vehicles, Alparslan drew his backup weapon from his waist, gripping a gun in each hand. "Pars!" Alparslan shouted, his voice drowning out the engine's roar. "You know that folk song we used to sing as kids—the one where we’d drown out our fear? Sing it, man! Sing it so even the Angel of Death hears us coming!"

Gripping the steering wheel with trembling hands, Pars parted his lips in a bittersweet smile. Amidst the biting Ankara chill and the whizzing of bullets, that soulful melody began to rise:

"Çökertmeden çıktım da Halil'im,

Aman başım selamet,

Bitez de yalısına varmadan Halil'im,

Aman koptu kıyamet..."

As they wove through the vehicles, Alparslan leaned his torso out the window. Both his guns were spewing fire. When the masked men opened a barrage of gunfire, Alparslan’s bullets were shattering their raven masks one by one.

"Burası da Aspat değil Halil'im, aman Bitez yalısı,

Ciğerime ateş saldı, aman kurşun yarası..."

While struggling to control the steering wheel with one hand, Pars pointed the gun he’d grabbed from the glove compartment out the window with the other. As the two friends raced toward death side by side, their voices echoed through the darkness of the night. Bullets riddled the car body with holes, and shards of glass rained down on Firuze and the children. Yet, Alparslan did not stop. One magazine ran dry, and he slotted in another; his fingers moved like a machine on automatic.

"Kolcular gelirse, Halil'im

Nerelere gaçalım?

Teslim olmayalım, Halil'im

Aman, kurşun saçalım..."

With a final maneuver, they rammed the vehicle at the weakest point of the barricade, shoving it off the road. Sparks flew, illuminating the night as metal ground against metal. Alparslan fired his last bullet straight into the forehead of a sniper lying in wait by the roadside. They had punched through the barricade. Behind them lay screams, bursting tires, and burning vehicles.

Pars glanced in the rearview mirror at the hellscape they had left behind and took a deep breath. His voice trembled, yet he finished the folk song:

"Düşmanlar gelmiş Halil'im, aman kurşunlar keser..."

"We made it, brother... We made it!" Pars said, his chest heaving. Alparslan set his weapons down on his knees; his hands smelled of gunpowder. He turned around and met Firuze’s eyes—filled with terror, yet conveying that they were safe. The children were buried against their mother’s chest.

"It’s not over yet," Alparslan said, his voice barely a whisper. "Moretti won't give up. Pars, get off the main road; take the back roads."

Pars nodded. The adrenaline was slowly ebbing away, giving way to a profound exhaustion. As they entered a dark curve far from the city, everything seemed peaceful for a moment. Yıldırım looked at his father and asked, "Dad, is it over?"

Alparslan had just opened his mouth to answer when he thought two massive suns were rising from behind the hill ahead. A blinding, stark-white beam of light flooded the cabin. The terrifying, earth-shaking blast of an air horn reverberated, threatening to burst their eardrums. A massive semi-truck had completely veered out of its lane and was bearing down on them like a monster. "Pars, get out of the way!" Alparslan roared.

But there was nowhere to go. To the left lay a precipice; to the right, a sheer rock face. The truck’s colossal metal bumper was seconds away from crushing the small car like paper. Pars jerked the steering wheel in a desperate last-ditch effort, and the shriek of the brakes tore through the night.

CRASH!

The world turned upside down from the force of the impact. The sound of metal grinding against metal, the shattering of glass into a thousand shards, and Firuze’s scream, cut short... As the car tumbled and was flung into the void beside the road, the last thing Alparslan saw before his consciousness sank into darkness was the black raven emblem emblazoned on the truck’s door.

The pitch-black night grew heavy with the muffled growl of the truck’s engine and the acrid stench of burning wires. A wheel of the wrecked car still spun slowly in the air, emitting a metallic squeak with every rotation. The silence was broken by the sound of approaching black sedans crunching over the gravel.

The doors opened in unison. Andrea Moretti stepped onto the asphalt—now a pool of blood—in his handmade Italian boots. Beside him stood his son, Marco, his face as pale as chalk. Andrea buttoned his jacket and walked toward the wreckage. The rasping sounds of breathing from inside the car whispered that death had not yet finished its work. "Drag that dog out," Andrea said, his voice ice-cold. The men hauled Alparslan out by the scruff of his neck from the vehicle, which had a shattered windshield and a collapsed roof. Alparslan’s face was a mask of blood, and his left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. He was barely conscious, yet he managed to open his eyes as they forced him down onto his knees. At that very moment, a pair of a child's eyes were watching him from amidst the wreckage. Yıldırım... He had survived because he was wedged into the footwell of the back seat, though his vision was blurred by blood trickling from a head wound. The little boy held his breath, watching his father in this wretched state.

Andrea drew the gold-plated pistol from his waistband and held it out to Marco. "The time has come, son. Prove you’re worthy of the family name."

Marco’s hands weren't just trembling; it was as if his entire body were rebelling against the command. "Father... I can't. He's dying anyway; let's just go."

Andrea grabbed his son roughly by the hair and forced his face close to Alparslan’s. "If you don't pull that trigger, you'll be on the next plane to join your sister, Marco! Kill him!" Summoning his last ounce of strength, Alparslan lifted his head and looked straight into Marco’s eyes. The final words that fell from his lips were not a curse, but an expression of pity: "Don't do it, boy... Don't sell your soul."

CRACK!

The sound of gunfire echoed through the valley. Alparslan’s body was flung backward and slumped onto the asphalt. Yıldırım watched, second by second, as his father’s lifeless body fell to the ground. In that moment, Marco’s and Yıldırım’s eyes locked through the shattered glass of the wreckage. Marco’s eyes held an indescribable hatred and regret, while Yıldırım’s burned with a fire of vengeance that would never be extinguished. That exchange of glances marked the first second of a war that would span years.

Yıldırım’s vision began to fade into darkness. He saw his father’s blood trickling across the asphalt toward his own hand... And then, the world plunged into total darkness. The man who served as Andrea’s right hand approached the bodies and began checking for pulses one by one. First, he leaned over Pars; then, he let go of Firuze’s lifeless hand. Finally, he moved to Alparslan.

"What’s the situation?" Andrea asked, placing a hand on his son’s trembling shoulders. The man stood up and coolly brushed the dust from his clothes. "All four are dead, sir. The woman, Pars, and Alparslan Varol... The older child bled to death as well."

Then, he peered deeper into the wreckage. He spotted the small figure huddled beneath the back seat, wrapped in a blanket. He reached out and touched the child’s neck. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Only one is alive," the man said, turning to Andrea. "The four-year-old... The others are all gone."

Andrea Moretti smiled—like a raven hovering over the dead. "Leave him be. Let him live, so that this world may have a witness to tell the tale of an entire family’s annihilation. We are leaving."

As the vehicles sped away in a cloud of dust, nothing remained in the biting Ankara chill but the faint breath of that small child and three bodies growing cold on the asphalt.

Burası da Aspat değil Halil'im, aman Bitez yalısı,

Ciğerime ateş saldı, aman kurşun yarası...

"Caesar’s cloak has closed at last; those who hid their faces that night will wake up today in the cold embrace of a nightmare they cannot shut their eyes to. For there is now a man sworn to return, one by one, the daggers you concealed beneath that bloody cloak to their rightful owners—that orphaned man from whom, on that very night, you stole not only his father but his childhood, too..."