Beykoz, Istanbul — Aras Villa, 6:42 PM
The sky over Istanbul hung gray, as though welcoming the return of a nameless fugitive. A black car rolled slowly along a narrow cobbled road, descending the quiet slopes of Beykoz. This area was far from the city—silent, entwined with towering trees, and almost like a foreign world to those unaware of its existence.
Ahead of them, a grand white stone villa stood firm—silent yet proud. Its architecture was classic, limestone walls aged but solid. The wooden gate, carved with a crescent moon, opened slowly, almost as if to welcome a long-lost heir.
A breeze from the Bosphorus brushed against La Reyna's cheek. It carried the scent of salt, sea, and something deeper—memory. On her right shoulder, a leather bag filled with documents, a phone, and a small pistol felt heavy, not for what it contained... but because of why she had to carry it everywhere now.
Emir turned off the engine. He looked back, his gaze calm but tired. "This place is safer. No one knows you're here."
La Reyna scanned the surroundings. This wasn't Eminönü with its chaos and noise. Here, barking dogs and rustling leaves were louder than any engine. A residence that looked like a dream—or a carefully arranged trap.
"Who owns this place?" Reyna finally broke the silence in the cold car.
Emir opened the door and answered quietly while stepping out. "Aras Yildiz. One of the old leaders. He once helped your father."
He paused for a moment before turning back. "La Reyna... he's still loyal."
The villa door opened from the inside. A sharp-eyed woman with short hair and a stern face greeted them. Her body was petite, but her gaze was that of a hawk.
"This is Lara," said Emir. "She used to be Aras' bodyguard. Now she watches over this place."
Lara said nothing. She simply nodded and took the bag from Reyna's hand. "Dinner is almost ready, ma'am. There's a room upstairs, window facing the sea. I cleaned it."
La Reyna stepped inside. The wooden floor echoed under her heels. The scent of spice and oud greeted her—foreign, but not threatening. In the living room, an old man sat reading a newspaper, never looking at them. As if he knew they were coming, but chose not to care.
"He calls himself Enaz. Used to be an informant. Now he just makes coffee," Emir whispered.
La Reyna didn't smile. She simply nodded and ascended the stairs.
Inside the Villa — 7:10 PM
The house was quiet. But not silent.
There were creaks from the wooden floorboards.
There was a dim glow from the Turkish chandelier.
There was a feeling of being watched—but not with murderous intent. With protective intent.
La Reyna slowly stepped into the living room cloaked in silence. Every piece of furniture looked like a relic from the past—not hers, yet strangely familiar. Her hand touched an old photo frame on the wooden shelf. A bearded, stern-faced man stood beside Raezmir—her father.
"Aras."
The name now sounded like a ghost from the past. Someone she once only saw from afar, now a protector uninvited.
Emir stood beside her, his back to the light from the window. "They will protect you. But don't trust anyone too much. Not even me."
Those words cut slowly, like a quiet blade. Reyna didn't respond. She simply sat on the worn leather couch, letting her body sink into the stillness of the house. Emir slipped away without a sound, his faint smile fading with the night's shadow.
Why am I here?
The question echoed in her mind. The answer wasn't just about safety.
Because the gallery had been compromised.
Because someone had sensed her presence.
Yesterday afternoon, as she stood in the center of Ayra Gallery, admiring a newly displayed portrait, she felt something. Not wind. Not instinct. But a stare that struck her back—sharp, recognizing.
And she wasn't wrong.
Minutes after she left the gallery, Lara received an emergency alert from the security system: the back door camera had been tampered with. A masked man was seen in a narrow alley, then vanished without a trace. All CCTV on that lane was disabled simultaneously—a technique not just anyone could execute.
That same night, Emir grabbed her hand and forced her out of their rented apartment. "If he knew where you stood today, he'll know which bed you sleep in tomorrow."
Reyna didn't have time to pack. No extra clothes. No vital documents. Just a small bag and the pistol she kept close—Enzo's legacy from Milan.
Here, in this villa, she wasn't just hiding.
She was counting the moments—until Maeryss arrived with a new face and a quieter bullet.
And only three people knew the villa's location.
And only one of the three... wasn't blood.
La Reyna began to question in silence—was she being protected, or slowly entrapped?
Maeryss's Residence — Lyon, France — 2:12 PM Local Time
"She's relocated," one of the Council members said, standing upright as he opened a satellite photo file over a velvet-draped table.
The image was clear—a black car descending Beykoz's hills, a wooden gate swinging open, La Reyna's faintly identifiable face captured. Time-stamped: 6:42 PM Istanbul time, the day before.
Maeryss turned slowly from her tall glass window, her gaze fixed on Lyon's gray sky. The wind beat against the pane, whispering secrets she already knew.
"To Beykoz?" Her voice was low, but enough to silence the entire chamber.
"Yes. Aras Yildiz's home," the man replied, throat dry.
The name—Aras Yildiz—made Maeryss clutch the edge of the table with lace-gloved fingers. Her sharp nails tapped the wood like tiny blades tracing old wounds.
"That old traitor still breathes?"
"And... still believes in El'Raez blood."
Maeryss said nothing. She moved toward the bloodline sigil on the wall—two crossed swords and a fractured crown. Her hand reached for a red-sheathed ceremonial blade engraved with ancient Latin: Sanguinem non mentitur.
She unsheathed it slowly, slicing the air with quiet hatred.
"It's time to cut out the rotting roots. With blood."
Another, younger Council member in a dark coat spoke up—brave, but foolish. "But... that area's mafia territory. If we breach it, it will—"
"—awaken old fangs that have already fallen?" Maeryss cut him off with a cruel smile. "Aras is no longer a king. He's just a keeper of ghosts."
No one spoke again.
She stepped back to the table and placed the blade down softly. Her eyes locked on the hologram screen in the center. A red dot blinked over Beykoz's coordinates.
"No need for a grand assault. Send the best. The silent kind. The ones who kill without leaving shadows."
She paused, her voice turning venomous:
"Kill that girl in her father's bed. Leave behind nothing but stone walls and blood."
Beykoz — 10:47 PM
The fire in the hearth crackled, licking at old wood. Shadows danced on the villa walls, trying to say what words could not.
La Reyna sat on a dark blue velvet chair, a thin blanket over her knees. A pen rested in her right hand. On the small table before her lay a sheet of yellowed paper—empty, except for one line:
"Lucien, I wanted to tell you something… but I couldn't."
Her hand stopped. Her breath, too.
Something was wrong.
She lifted her eyes slightly.
The villa was too quiet.
Far too quiet.
Even the night sounds—crickets, wind, rustling leaves—had vanished. All that remained was the pounding of her heart.
Click.
A tiny sound. One that shouldn't be there.
La Reyna rose slowly, her hand moving behind her—fingers brushing the cold skin of the pistol tucked in her sash. She didn't inhale. Didn't blink. She stood motionless, a stone statue awaiting the storm.
The kitchen window creaked open.
Slowly. Very slowly.
As if someone knew this villa held old blood and wanted to spill more.
A footstep landed on the wooden floor—silent, but to the hunted, it was the sound of death.
A black mask. Black gloves. Eyes that never blinked.
An assassin.
He wasn't rushing. He assumed his target was asleep.
But La Reyna never truly slept—not since the night the El'Raez villa burned.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Just waited.
Only two meters separated them. The blade in his hand gleamed. Its shadow danced on the wall.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three seconds before blood would spill—hers or his.
Bang!
A gunshot tore through the night like lightning splitting a chest wide open.
The shadow fell instantly—twitching, knife clattering, warm blood pouring onto the faded carpet like a tiny river. La Reyna still stood, unfazed, eyes slowly turning toward the source.
From the dark corridor of the kitchen, an old man emerged. Broad-shouldered, in a grey robe, face hardened, beard steel-colored. In his hand—a weathered pistol, still smoking.
"Raezmir's daughter should not die in her sleep."
His voice was heavy. Full of history.
Full of unfinished vengeance.
Aras Yildiz.
Finally stepping out from the shadows he'd watched from for too long.
And the night fell silent again—but this time, not the kind that soothes. This was silence waiting for the next bullet.
Beykoz — 10:58 PM
La Reyna remained frozen in the living room. The thin blanket lay on the floor, stained by foreign blood. Her breath heaved—not from fear, but because adrenaline hadn't left her yet. Her ears still rang from the shot.
The assassin's body lay crumpled a few feet away. The small blade still gleamed, untouched by flesh.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Rushed footsteps echoed from the stairs. Lara appeared—hair disheveled, pistol drawn, eyes stormy.
"Reyna!" she called, voice sharp but laced with panic.
La Reyna said nothing. She raised one hand, slowly showing she was unharmed.
Lara swept the room, rifle aimed, then crouched beside the fallen man. She peeled off the mask—revealing a young face, scarred by war and vengeance.
"This isn't an amateur," Lara said quietly. "Look at the tattoo on his neck. A snake with one fang. This mark..."
"Council," La Reyna finished, her face unreadable.
Lara looked up. Their eyes met. There was something in Reyna's stare Lara hadn't seen before. Calm—but not surrender.
Calm born from choosing not to run anymore.
Slow footsteps approached from behind. Aras Yildiz reappeared, pistol still faintly smoking.
"Back door entry breached. CCTV wires cut before the alarm could sound. He knew the layout." Aras didn't even glance at the corpse. His gaze stayed on Reyna.
"La Reyna... this is no longer a guessing game," he said grimly. "This is a declaration of war."
Reyna nodded faintly. Her hand rubbed the back of her neck. She felt tired, but not weak.
"I know."
Lara stood. "We need to get rid of the body before morning. And we need to find out who leaked the location. Only three people know about this place."
Reyna didn't reply. But her mind was already calculating—who to call, who to silence, and who was watching... from the dark.
"Start with this corpse," she finally said. "I want to know who he is. Where he came from. Who paid him. And who sent him back in a body bag."
Madrid — Torre de Madrid — 3:15 AM Local Time
Madrid glowed in silence. Streetlights reflected off the windows of the luxury apartment on the 41st floor. From the balcony, the city stretched endlessly—sleepless, but not for Lucien.
He stood without a jacket, though the summer wind blew cool. In his left hand, his phone screen glowed—a message from Emir:
"She's safe. But not answering messages."
He had read it three times. It still didn't feel like enough.
Lucien exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the distant skyline. Not for the stars—but because his thoughts weren't in Madrid. They'd long flown—to Istanbul, to the quiet villa in Beykoz, to the eyes of a woman too hard to cry and too brave to hide.
His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Why isn't she replying?
Why is she silent?
Does she not trust me?
Or... is she doing it on purpose?
Lucien stepped back inside. His feet struck the hardwood like suppressed frustration.
In the living room, a map of Istanbul glowed on the massive screen—Beykoz marked in red. The secret tracking system he installed back in Milan was reactivated. He knew it was wrong... but didn't know any other way to ease the ache.
"Reyna..." he whispered.
He brushed the screen with his fingers. As if she could feel it across cities. As if his blood knew when her heart bled.
Lucien opened a new message. His fingers typed slowly:
"I don't care where you are. But if you bleed, I'll feel it. And I swear I won't let you bleed alone."
He didn't hit send.
He saved it in drafts—like many others that never got through.
Because he knew... Reyna would only reply when she was ready.
Or when the world was truly burning.