Istanbul Mafia

The prisoners in silk

Chapter Three: The Prisoner in Silk

Darkness again.

Zoya didn’t remember collapsing. She didn’t remember the way her knees gave out beneath her. The sea of strangers watching her fall, the haunting “Evet” from Burak Aslan’s lips, or the heavy silence that followed her fainting like a second shadow. Her body had shut down, but her soul — her soul had screamed.

When she finally stirred, it was to the scent of roses and something bitter.

Her eyelids fluttered. The familiar pain throbbed behind her forehead. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts foggy.

She opened her eyes.

Not again.

That ceiling — carved gold and ivory. That room — vast and royal. That bed — the same.

“I’m still here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The nightmare hadn’t ended. It had only paused.

She shifted, the soft fabric of her clothes brushing against her skin. This wasn’t the white wedding dress. She looked down.

Black silk.

A long, luxurious black nightdress.

Her heart jumped. Someone changed my clothes.

She sat up quickly.

And then she saw him.

Burak Aslan.

Sitting in the dark corner of the room, his face faintly lit by the blue glow of a laptop screen. His eyes, sharp and observant, were already on her — though he didn’t look up. His fingers tapped slowly on the keyboard.

Zoya froze.

Burak finally closed the laptop and set it aside.

The light shifted. His face was clearly visible now. Hair tousled. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. A silver watch glinting under the chandelier.

He stood.

With calm, deliberate movements, he picked up a small cup of Turkish coffee from the side table and walked over to the window. He pulled the thick velvet curtains open with one hand.

Golden morning light flooded the room.

Outside — the royal hotel. The Bosphorus Bridge. A quiet wave curling against the coastal road.

Zoya stared at him.

He didn’t glance back.

The man who had dragged her into this world was now sipping coffee like he didn’t just ruin her life.

She stood slowly, weak but steady.

She needed answers.

But first — she needed control.

Her fingers reached for a glass on the nearby dresser. It was simple, elegant, and heavy. The only real object in this surreal room.

As she touched it, her hands trembled.

The glass slipped.

Shattered.

The sound pierced the silence.

Burak turned immediately.

She flinched.

Their eyes met.

He didn’t move.

Zoya, startled by her own clumsiness, instinctively stepped back — and her bare foot landed on one of the sharp glass shards.

She gasped.

Blood bloomed on the floor like ink on paper.

Still, Burak didn’t react. He just watched. Cold. Distant. His expression unreadable, like he was watching a scene from a film.

Zoya winced and tried to move, but the pain stung deeply.

He finally picked up his phone and spoke one word.

“Gel.”

Come.

Moments later, the caretaker entered. Her eyes widened when she saw Zoya’s bleeding foot.

"Aman Tanrım," she whispered and rushed to her side. She helped Zoya sit down and began cleaning the wound gently. The antiseptic stung, but Zoya didn't cry. She was tired of crying.

The woman wrapped her foot and said something softly in Turkish — perhaps a comfort, perhaps a warning — before leaving the room.

Zoya leaned back.

Burak was sitting now on the royal armchair — legs crossed, expression thoughtful.

She stared at him.

“Why are you doing all this?” she asked quietly.

He said nothing.

Then she repeated, louder, “Why are you doing all this?”

He chuckled. A deep, low sound that held no warmth.

“You’re asking me that?” he said, his Turkish accent laced into every word. “After I saved your life?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Saved me?” she echoed. “From what? Who are ‘they’?”

But he didn’t answer.

He stood, brushing invisible dust from his black shirt, and walked to the door.

“Sleep,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

And then he was gone.

Zoya sat in silence.

Saved from who? she thought. Her mind ran wild. Was someone else involved? Was she caught between two devils?

Whatever medicine they gave her earlier was kicking in. Her body relaxed. Her heartbeat slowed.

The room dimmed.

And she slept.

---

The sound of seagulls woke her.

Bright morning light seeped in through the open curtains. The sky outside was a soft pastel blue. The Bosphorus sparkled like a thousand diamonds. Boats dotted the water.

She blinked, adjusting to the light.

Istanbul was alive.

The city she had dreamed of — now the cage she couldn’t escape.

She sat up slowly, her bandaged foot sore, but better. She looked around. The room was empty. Quiet.

Her breath caught.

"I am not a prisoner," she whispered to herself.

She moved to the edge of the bed and let her feet touch the floor.

"I am not a slave."

Each step was slow, careful.

She walked to the door. Her hand hovered over the golden doorknob.

Her fingers trembled.

Then she turned it.

It opened.

Zoya stepped into the hallway.

And froze.

What she saw would never leave her.