2. Deniz
Chapter 2
Deniz
I t should be harder to appear attracted to her.
I don’t forget my rage; that would be impossible. But I let it fuel a different fire burning inside me. She is beautiful, with springy curls dusting her shoulders and golden skin shining with warmth, despite the chill outside. It’s easy to pretend I want to wrap my hands around her throat for a reason other than killing her.
She’s shaken off the false pretense of bashfulness, a cat-like smile gracing her face. I know she’s brilliant—perhaps not as book smart as some of her Costa cousins, but by far the sharpest and most assessing.
“Thank you for the drink,” she says simply. Her voice is higher than I remember. I’m so used to listening to her through microphones and recordings, I almost let the surprise show on my face.
“It’s my pleasure,” I reply, watching the way she rolls her lips inward to hide her smile.
She doesn’t respond, and neither of us seems to mind the silence between us. I use it to remind myself of my plan. Charm her, drop enough hints about my business that she’ll consider me as an option for marriage, and finally have the entrance I need to avenge Kerem.
The bartender places two glasses of water in front of us, and I watch Clara check her phone as she downs half her glass in one go. She doesn’t seem the type to text someone who left in the middle of a date, but I’ve been unable to crack the encryption on the messaging system she uses, so there’s no way for me to know.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I ask, letting my eyes drift to the darkening sky. A sliver of a moon, and of course, no stars. She flinches, and I suppose it isn’t a beautiful night for her. To be fair, it didn’t take a lot of convincing to get Delilah out the door. A subtle threat and a quick virtual perusal through her phone to delete all of her communications with Clara was all it took. Each time it’s been a little different, but regardless of if I’ve used bribery or intimidation, they’ve all kept their word. No one has contacted Clara after I’ve gotten ahold of them.
“You want to talk about the weather?” she asks, exuding sultry confidence. She takes a sip of her drink, and I’m caught a little off guard by how forward she sounds. I may have never experienced it firsthand, but I know she’s usually analytical and focused. Right now, she seems uncharacteristically relaxed.
“If it keeps you by my side, I’ll talk about the weather all night,” I say, raking my eyes up and down her frame. It’s an odd feeling, hating something so beautiful. It’s like being mad at the moon hanging in the sky.
“You’re lucky I like terrible pick up lines,” she says, turning her body so she’s leaning into me. Under the sweet scent of her drink, there’s something amber and earthy, and for some reason, it reminds me of mornings at home in izmir.
Being close to her is disorienting, perhaps because I’m battling an instinctual response to catch the prey I’ve been stalking. My blood thrums in my ears, the adrenaline of the chase begging me to sink my teeth in, to rip her to shreds now that I finally have her.
“I don’t doubt that luck is on my side tonight.”
She laughs, and the sound is so much sweeter up close. I didn’t know that someone so burdened with the souls of the dead could sound so free.
“So what brings a man from Türkiye all the way to the City of Angels?” she asks, finishing her water and leaning back in her chair. I hate how honest the amusement in my smile is.
“Is my accent that obvious?” I watch the way her cheeks flush. She likes that she got it right.
“Siamo gente dello stesso mare,” she replies with a shrug, raising her glass as she waits for my reply. We are people of the same sea. Her southern Italian accent is much more prominent when she speaks the language, and I find myself wondering what her voice would sound like in the other languages she speaks—French, Spanish, Portuguese, our shared tongue of Arabic.
“I’ve lived here most of my life, but I can’t seem to kick the accent,” I joke, earning another one of her laughs. “And you, signorina?”
“My home is still in Italy, but Los Angeles has its charms,” she replies, her eyes slipping over my shoulder to the last bit of sunlight setting over the hillside.
“It certainly does,” I agree. I’ve never wanted to leave this city, even less so since Kerem died. Nearly all of my memories of him are here, embedded in every grain of sand along the shore, and seeping into the familiar cracks in the sidewalks.
We both slip into our own worlds, but eventually Clara’s eye catches mine before glancing down to her lap.
“Apologies, it’s my brother,” she says, genuine regret in her eyes. I haven’t been keeping as close of tabs on the other Costa family members since I set my sights on Clara, but I know her brother Charlie is the muscle of the family. His new wife, Guinevere, seems to have taken a liking to the Costa brand of violence as well. I can only imagine what the newly minted couple are up to tonight, if they’re reaching out to Clara.
She types quickly, reading and reacting to the messages coming in, before her shoulders relax and she beams up at me.
“Everything okay?” I ask, threading my words with false concern. A significant part of me hopes that the secondborn Costa falls victim to his own hubris and gets caught in the crossfire.
“Everything’s perfect. You have my undivided attention,” Clara assures me, picking up her drink. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
It’s easier than I thought it would be, dropping hints for future Clara to ruminate on. We trade our favorite locations to visit in the Mediterranean, hidden gems we don’t tell the tourists about. When we talk about our jobs, I keep things vague, mentioning my education in computer science and my background in security. It’s false humility that could be seen as flirtation, but I watch Clara pick up every crumb, gathering them to follow their trail when she has more time and privacy.
The conversation flows, and soon I’m thinking less about what I need to tell her, and more about how to match her wit and banter. Everything with her is a clever turn of phrase or challenge. It’s both exhilarating and unsettling, knowing how easy it is to trade quips with her. It complicates the vision I have of her, but I don’t let it deter me. Plenty of beautiful things in this world can kill you if you don’t keep your guard up.
Eventually, the night runs dark, the pretty pinks and blues of the skyline fading into bruised purple and black. The bartender places two more waters in front of us as he hands me the receipt for the tab I’ve already paid, subtly letting me know they’re closing up shop. Clara pushes her hair over one shoulder as she licks the last water droplets from her lips.
“I think I better ask your name,” she says, knee brushing mine beneath the bar. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, and I bite back my body’s natural reaction to the touch.
“Deniz,” I offer, tilting the bottom of my glass toward her. She taps hers against it, the sound of the glasses clinking inching her smile wider.
“Aren’t you going to ask mine?” she asks, a slight flush inching up her skin as she leans closer to me. The bar is almost empty, but I return the motion anyway, like I need to be closer to hear her.
“And why would I do that?” I press, feeling drawn in by her scent and the way her pupils are eating up her irises.
“Because I don’t intend to let a stranger take me home.”
Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this. I’m stunned silent, unable to understand how we got here. I wanted to give her enough information to encourage her to research me, to take the bait and figure out if I’m an option. To let me into her life so I can tear it apart by its foundation.
But that doesn’t stop me from holding my hand out for hers. It’s the first time I’ve touched her, and the sensation strings my entire body like a bow.
“Tell me,” I demand, my blood coursing through me with unexpected ferocity. I already know her name, of course. But something inside me demands to hear it from her lips.
“Clara.” So simple, clear, and bright.
I can feel a muscle tick in my neck as she slips on her jacket. I can’t stop this. Rejecting her might push her away, which I can’t risk. She clearly sees this as a one-night stand, but I can use it to my advantage. Give her further insights into my life, enough that she truly considers me.
But I don’t know how to do this. To pretend she is not a Costa. To touch her like I haven’t thought about killing her. I knew I would eventually have to, especially as her husband. But I thought I would have more time to get used to the idea, to humanize her as something more than the object of my grief and rage.
Flickers of Kerem’s life and death cloud my vision as we leave the bar. The pure joy on his face when he hit his first home run in little league, his teammates crowding around him in celebration. The way his skin crumbled beneath my touch as I cleaned his still corpse. The feeling of his tiny fingers gripping mine when he was newly born, a protectiveness I’d never felt suddenly consuming me. How helpless I felt when I watched him turn back into that building, thousands of miles away and hours too late.
As we make our way down the glass stairwell and onto Sunset Boulevard, I swallow down the memories, forcing my vision to clear. This is my best opportunity to set off the first domino. One step closer to providing my baby brother with the revenge and rest he deserves.
Los Angeles never really gets cold, but compared to the heat of her body, it might as well be freezing. Her hand is warm and soft in mine as I lead her down the street, dodging defunct newspaper racks and light posts. Clara shifts against me, and I pretend not to notice her moving her gun from the small of her back to the inside pocket of her coat.
By the time we arrive at my building, I’ve made my decision. I wanted to find a way to make her think that choosing me as her husband was her idea, and while this may not have been my original plan, I’m not going to turn down such an opportunity. And while it doesn’t exactly make me comfortable to fuck her under less than honest circumstances, I understood I was going to have to compromise my morals at some point for this.
I pull her into my building, nodding at the doorman as I make my way toward the elevator bank at the end of the hall. Clara’s gaze sweeps the lobby, eyebrows raising at the layout.
“Seven elevators seems excessive for a seven story building,” she murmurs, her voice muffled against my shirtsleeve as the last elevator at the end of the hall opens for us.
“They’re private, for each unit,” I reply, letting her step in before me. Her brow quirks, but the expression doesn’t hold, because I’m crowding her to the back of the elevator as it climbs to the top floor.
They say there is a fine line between love and hate, so the same must hold between lust and rage. Because when I look down at her, with her walls a little down and her pupils blown, I can almost convince myself I want her. My fingers trail over her hip and up her side, catching on the hem of her blouse. The warmth of her skin is intoxicating, and I slide my hand higher until my thumb is tracing the underside of her bare breast.
She hums, like a moan she doesn’t want to let go of, and drops her head back against the stainless steel wall. Her eyes are closed, and that’s fine with me. Maybe if I can’t see the way she looks at me, it’ll be easier to remember the line I’m treading.
She’s objectively beautiful, there’s no sense in denying it. Especially as I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, watching her face pinch in pleasured pain. She arches her back harder, forcing herself closer to my touch, and I wonder if that’s what will do it for her. Not soft and sweet, but carnal with an edge that heightens the sensation. Maybe, if I’m lucky, that edge will cut both ways.
Not lucky , I shake myself. I shouldn’t, won’t, can’t think about her stoking any sort of flame inside me. I’ll give her what she craves because it’s one more step in my plan to take down The Syndicate. That’s all this is.
The door to the elevator slides open silently, but I know it will hold as long as we’re still inside. So I press her harder against the wall, gliding my teeth over the skin of her exposed neck and gripping her hip with my free hand.
“Would you like to come inside, Clara?” I ask, pulling hard on her peaked nipple until she can’t help but cry out. Her hips lift to press against me, and I yank her leg around my waist. I feel her nod as I kiss up her neck, and I nip right under her ear.
“Words, Clara,” I whisper, shifting so I’m gripping her ass, holding her off the ground. She’s tall anyway, a few inches shorter than me, so she’s fully gazing down at me when she opens her eyes.
“Can I please come in, Deniz?” she asks, her voice so low and sultry and filled with false innocence, I can’t help but grow hard beneath her. That voice is a challenge, a red herring. She’s luring me into a trap, a sense of false comfort that I’ll be the one making the decisions tonight.
It’s laughable how quickly my imagination runs away with itself, but I fight for control over my own mind as I pull her away from the elevator wall and bring her into my condo.
I don’t stop to acquaint her with my home—there will be time for that later, and right now blood is racing through my veins. I walk her from the entryway, down the long hallway that splits my home down the center. Hesitating in the living room long enough for her to shrug off her jacket and drop it and her bag on my couch. Her eye catches on the view through the wall of windows, the Hollywood Hills shrouded in darkness past the sunken pool on the balcony. But I don’t want her distracted.
Her fingers thread through my hair as I close my lips around her nipple through her top. I let myself slip a little further into this unrestrained lust, justifying it as she grinds down against me. I want her to feel this level of desire, want her to think about me tomorrow and the next day. I need her to need this again, and the best way to ensure that is to make her believe it’s mutual.
And I won’t think about how easy that might be.
I hear her shoes drop to the floor as I turn down the hallway to my left, passing my office and kicking open the door to my bedroom. I don’t hesitate, tossing her on my bed and stepping back to observe her.
I didn’t expect to be affected by the sight of her in my bed. Maybe it’s because no one else has ever been in this room before. Or maybe it’s that she’s the unknowing villain in my story, looking so painfully perfect with her mussed hair and disheveled clothes. I wonder if it would be better to kill her here. Maybe it would slake my wrath, soothe my grief. Maybe her blood soaking my home would bring Kerem the rest he’s owed.
But the thought of her dead in my home pinches something in my chest. I need her alive to infiltrate The Syndicate to find out who ordered the hit on Lucia, and was therefore responsible for Kerem’s death. Losing Clara would be a blow to their operations, but they would just put her younger brother in charge. It may even make them stronger, fortifying their ties to those who would empathize with a family continuing their mission through their grief.
So instead, I push the rage from my mind and focus on my goal. Every summit requires a first step, and right now, that step is getting Clara to fall apart beneath me.
“Do you have a preferred safe word?” I ask, standing at the foot of the bed and running a hand up her calf. Her answering smile is wicked.
“Does what you’re going to do to me require one?” she asks. I grip her leg tighter, pulling her to the edge of the bed.
“I have a feeling just kissing you would require a safe word,” I say, drifting my hands closer and closer to her waistband. I won't be kissing her, though. It’s a line I can’t cross. Not only intimate, but personal. I’m afraid she’ll taste the lies on my tongue, the deception on my lips. “And who says I won’t be the one needing it?”
She likes that. Watching her and listening in on her conversations has paid off, because I can tell when she’s putting on a front and when she’s truly engaged. And she likes that I know she’s dangerous.
“Red works for me,” she says with a smile, shaking her hair off her shoulders.
“Red then,” I repeat, tapping at the exposed skin right above the waistband of her jeans. “Now why don’t you take these off for me?”
I see the challenge in her eyes immediately, and my cock hardens in response, grating against my zipper. Clara props herself up on her elbows and lifts an eyebrow, making no move to undress.
“Why don’t you do it for me ?” It’s less of a request and more of a demand, and I imagine most people would do anything if she asked in that tone. I almost forget myself and lean forward to follow her instructions—but I cross my arms and step back, trailing my gaze down her body and categorizing every angle and curve.
“Maybe I like to watch.”
It’s more of an admission than she knows, on about a hundred different levels, but I see how her cheeks heat in response. She reaches down and fiddles with the button of her fly.
“Maybe you should ask nicely then.”
The give and take is more addictive than it should be, drawing me in like gravity. I brace my arms on either side of her hips and press my lips to the exposed skin beneath her belly button, nipping lightly .
“Strip for me, Clara, and I’ll give you what you need.” It’s not exactly what she wanted, but I think it makes it even more tempting for her. She undoes the button with one hand and slides down the zipper, somehow making the motion of kicking off her jeans seem graceful. She stops there, dragging her fingers over her cotton-covered pussy, heat climbing up her chest.
“I don’t think you’re done,” I say, brushing her hand out of the way and taking over her soft touches. She lifts her hips a little, chasing the sensation, but I pull away enough that the touch is feather light.
“I don’t think you asked nicely,” she retorts, her voice thin with need. This, I can work with.
“Pity,” I tsk, pressing down on her clit on my next stroke, watching the muscles of her legs clench in response. “I suppose I’ll have to work like this.”
Before she can give me whatever smart retort I know is coming, I yank her so her ass is perched on the edge of my bed and drop to my knees. I press my mouth to her cunt, the thin layer of black cotton barely a thought as I find her clit with my teeth. Surprise and undiluted pleasure coat her cries as her legs fall open. I pull one over my shoulder. It’s not teasing or building, the way I fuck her with my mouth. It’s a leap, guessing that rough and mad will be what she needs, but I immediately know I was right. She’s lifting her hips, grinding against my face and soaking her underwear as she cries out for more. She sets a demanding pace, using the leg across my shoulder to pull herself closer. I could make her come like this, but I push her as close to the edge as I can, needing her to break for me.
“I need…” she stutters as I flatten my tongue against her clit and press down hard, letting her grind herself against my face. “I need more.”
“And I’d enjoy giving it to you,” I say with a grin against her thigh, pressing my thumb against her entrance, the cotton stopping me from giving her any real release. “But you haven’t stripped yet.”
I know she has a cutting response ready, but I go back to my ministrations, pressing her further open with my shoulder against her thigh. I can almost feel her fighting herself until she finally sighs and pulls my head away by my hair.
“Fine,” she grumbles, still breathless as she slips her hands under the waistband and bares herself to me.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Dark, trimmed hair. Smooth, warm skin with not a hint of a tan line. I want to drown in her pretty cunt already, which is a dangerous realization for a man who's supposed to want to kill the woman beneath him. She tries to drag me back down, but I shake out of her grasp to lock eyes with her.
“Almost there,” I say before I take the hem of her blouse in my teeth and pull it upward. Maybe she sees it as a concession—me helping her out of her clothes, even the smallest amount—because she crosses her arms and pulls the scrap of silk over her head.
I can’t help but stare. Dusky, pink nipples that are already pinched into points top small, round breasts that I need my hands on again. Her chest rises and falls, the dove tattooed onto her ribs almost fluttering as I pull one peak into my mouth, grazing my knuckles over her now-exposed pussy. She’s so fucking wet, I could slip inside her without another thought. But she pulls at my hair by the roots again, and I can’t deny her anymore. Not when I need to taste her so badly.
All pretense is out the window. I’ve fallen hard into base need—my year of isolation and lack of human touch likely pushing me further into this instinct than I would otherwise fall. Another thing to hate her for, a failing of mine that I will add to her list of sins. Her taste, her sounds, so sweet and wrong. I drop my head between her legs and press a bite, harder than strictly necessary, into her thigh.
“Come on my tongue,” I say into her skin, inching my mouth closer to her soaking cunt.
She’s loud, so fucking loud and gorgeous, as I suck on her clit. I barely hesitate before sliding one finger, and then two, into her, listening to the sound of her pleasure ratcheting higher and higher. Her hands move between her own hair and mine, like she can’t settle on where to touch, before she grips the sheets as she rocks her hips into my rhythm, slamming herself against my face and fingers like she needs more. And I give it to her, harder and faster until she’s on the edge of something overwhelming. She pulses around my fingers as I grind my hips against the foot of my bed, trying to relieve the need climbing up my spine. When I feel her barely start to tip over the edge, I pull my mouth away from her and stand, pressing her legs wide open and fucking her hard with my fingers.
Her mouth is wide open, silent cries pouring from her as she realizes what’s about to happen. Her head tilts back, and her voice finally cracks as she comes. She gushes against my hand, soaking the sheets beneath her as her pussy grips and pulses against my fingers.
I don’t give her time to come down, gripping her hips and flipping her onto her knees. I palm her ass before sliding my head underneath her, laying flat on my back. I pull down on her thighs to press her cunt against my face again. I need to taste the come coating her thighs, need to see her break again and again. She grips the headboard and resists my pull, staring down at me.
“Again?” she asks, and I almost laugh. And again and again and again , I want to say. But I pull harder, and she sinks down onto my face.
This time, I let her ride me and set the tempo. It’s still demanding, but she lets herself build. When I can hear that little whine—the sound I’m learning means she needs more —I grab her hips and slide down the bed, so she has to lean forward to maintain her grasp on the headboard. With her hips tilted like this, I can wrap my hands around her ass and barely slide two fingers into her sweet cunt.
It’s enough, though. She rides harder, chasing her orgasm until it catches her, and I make sure to fuck her through the last waves of her pleasure. She tastes so fucking good, sweet and salty with sweat. I continue sucking and licking her pussy as she comes down, reveling in the way her body flinches with pleasure every time my tongue strokes her clit.
After she returns to earth, she shifts her weight back so she can see my face. Her eyes are hazy, sweat sticking the wisps at her hairline to her face. Despite the fact that I’m painfully hard, possibly more so than I ever have been in my life, a sudden clarity overwhelms me, and it takes significant effort to keep it from showing on my face. I didn’t merely give into some sort of instinct—I wanted her. Still do. The feeling pairs so perfectly with my desire to watch her suffer, to see her lose everything the way I did. Kill her, kiss her, destroy her, unravel her. I knew they’d all get wrapped up together in my head as soon as I touched her, but I didn’t realize how those desires would compliment each other. One flame stoking another.
I run my hands up and down her thighs as she catches her breath, and pulls her hair into a high bun. She’s slight but powerful, with narrow hips and strong legs still wrapped around my head. And she seems to be enjoying herself, perhaps enough that her pleasure will nurse the seeds I planted tonight.
“I may have ruined your sheets,” she says finally, her voice a little rough around the edges. A thread of pride sneaks through the tumult, and my cocky smile isn’t strictly a performance.
“Never a more worthy reason to do laundry.”
Her laugh is almost tinkling, and I’m again struck by how much deeper and darker her disposition is through a camera lens. She shimmies off, not hiding an inch of her body as she gestures at the open bathroom door.
“Mind if I clean up a bit?”
I wave her off, staring at her high, tight ass as she slips into the ensuite. I have to wash the taste of her from my mouth or I won’t be able to focus. I must keep laying pieces for her to pick up, or compromising my morality will be for naught.
Still fully clothed, I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen, making as much noise as possible so Clara knows where I am. I pop open the laptop sitting on my counter and open it to a random client workup—one of the few I can keep on an unencrypted and unprotected device—before rinsing out my mouth in the sink. Even as I splash water on my face, I can still taste her. It’s like her sweetness is burned into me.
I pull ingredients out of my pantry as I hear Clara’s bare footsteps come down the hallway. By the time she’s made her way here, I’ve got a pan heating on the stove.
“Dinner at midnight?” she asks, leaning her hip against the island counter. She’s put on my robe, like she already owns pieces of my home. I know I should be glad that she feels in control here, but all I can think about is how I’m going to have to throw away that robe once I rid her of my life for good.
“I thought we might like a little more fuel than whiskey and ??i,” I reply, whipping the crepe mixture together. She doesn’t much like crepes—she prefers pancakes, based on her breakfasts with her driver and her cousins—but I thought it might be too suspicious to have her favorite at the ready.
“You call it ??i?” she asks, joining me on my side of the island as I pour the mixture in the pan. Steam rises as the butter sizzles under the weight of the batter. Her eyes flicker to the laptop screen, and I pretend not to notice as I take berries from the refrigerator.
“I first had it with a good friend who is Armenian, and he gets rather hostile when I call it raki.” As planned, I tell her as much of the truth as I can. Chase did, in fact, introduce me to the drink. Actually, he introduced me to alcohol in general. My parents weren’t religious, but they were reserved, especially when it came to their children.
“It was introduced to me as ouzo,” she says, plucking a raspberry from the bowl and placing it on her tongue. Blood surges to my cock again, and I remind myself that I would react this way to anyone so sensual parading around my kitchen in my bathrobe.
“Greece is beautiful this time of year.”
The corners of her mouth tick up.
“Greece is beautiful any time of year.”
We go back and forth like that, Clara giving almost nothing and me giving barely more. We eat standing at the island, and she tells me about her job at her family’s non-profit organization. I wash dishes, refusing her offer of help, and I expound a little more about my work than I did at Skyline. She asks questions—innocent ones, if not spoken from the lips of the future matriarch of one of the world’s most prolific crime syndicates. Simple things like how long I’ve been working there, if it’s a family business.
She wanders into the living room while I’m drying the last plate and stares at the long wall of photographs. Annem, Babam, and I when I was young, standing under the red-tiled ceiling of the Grand Bazaar. Chase, Taf, Bashir, and I, caps askew and arms around each other’s shoulders at university graduation. Annem alone, her back to the camera as she stands on the Santa Barbara shore, watching the sunrise. She stops at a picture of me and Kerem. Not the only one, but my favorite.
He’ s about nine—more than a decade ago now. He’s standing on the hood of my car, chin tilted toward the sky as he watches the Fourth of July fireworks at Dodger stadium. My arm is wrapped around his legs, keeping him balanced so he can stand as long as he wants. I’m looking at the photographer, Taf, my mouth half open to remind him that traffic is going to be a bitch.
It’s my favorite, though, because of Kerem’s face. We’d just watched the Dodgers take down three Cincinnati batters in a row in the top of the ninth, but all he could talk about was the fireworks. Bashir and Chase had been there too, and Kerem made sure we all knew we were staying in that parking lot until the last spark died.
Seeing Clara stand in front of his photo, tilting her head to take in his image, dredges every ounce of pain back to the surface. In so many ways, she is the reason I can’t watch baseball. Can’t be in a bar or restaurant while it’s on TV. She is the reason I don’t get texts asking why someone must learn calculus to be a geologist, or photos of airplanes late in the night.
I stand next to her, letting my grief engulf me. I imagine his soot-covered eyelashes, remembering how long it took to clean his face. I let the weight of her responsibility fuel every movement as I brush her hair gently off her shoulder.
“He looks like a happy kid,” she says quietly.
“He was.” It’s all I can say. She doesn’t look at me, but leans her head against my shoulder, like we are providing each other some kind of solace. But I’m no longer here. I’m holding my mother upright as she sobs in an airplane hanger, her baby boy’s body smuggled overseas instead of properly cared for. I’m pulling the cloth Kerem was wrapped in from my father’s hands, promising him I’ll bury his son properly. And I realize that maybe it won’t be so hard to kill her after all.