The dimly lit warehouse reeked of blood and cigarette smoke. The only source of light flickered from the single overhead bulb, casting ominous shadows on the damp concrete floor. The air was thick with desperation, the kind that clung to men who knew their fate was sealed.
Ozan leaned back into his sleek black leather chair, the scent of nicotine mixing with the metallic tang of blood in the air. His sharp, calculating eyes flickered toward the three men kneeling before him, their faces drenched in sweat, their hands bound behind their backs.
"P-Please, Ozan Bey... it was a mistake! We swear, we—"
The loud flick of his lighter silenced them as he brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a slow, taunting stream of smoke. His grip tightened around his favorite knife, its blade gleaming under the dim light.
He let out a humorless chuckle, his voice dangerously low. "Mistake?" He tilted his head, his smirk chilling. "No... the mistake was thinking you could betray me and live to regret it."
One of the men let out a muffled sob. "We didn't mean—"
Ozan moved fast. Too fast.
In a blink, his knife plunged into the man's thigh, twisting mercilessly. A guttural scream ripped through the air, echoing off the cold walls. Blood gushed down, staining the already tainted floor.
"Shhh," Ozan cooed mockingly, pressing a gloved hand against the man's mouth to muffle his pathetic cries. "You're being too loud."
The others trembled, their eyes darting between Ozan and the array of weapons laid out on the table before him—knives of different sizes, a hammer, a set of pliers, and of course, his gun.
Ozan pulled the knife out slowly, watching as the man convulsed in agony. "Tch. Not deep enough, huh?" He wiped the blood off on the man's own shirt and sighed, before turning his gaze to the second traitor.
"You," he said lazily, flicking the ashes off his cigarette. "You thought I wouldn't find out? That you could sell my information to my enemies and walk free?"
The man shook his head violently, his lips trembling. "Ozan Bey, I swear—"
Before he could finish, Ozan reached for the hammer and brought it down onto his kneecap with a sickening crack. The man's scream was raw, his body writhing in pain as his bone shattered under the force.
Ozan exhaled slowly, as if bored, before crouching down beside him, gripping his jaw harshly. "I hate liars," he whispered against the man's ear, his voice ice-cold.
He reached for the pliers next. "Let's see how well you lie without a tongue."
The final man, barely able to hold himself upright, was trembling so hard he could barely breathe. Ozan turned his attention toward him, his gaze dark and unreadable. He could see the fear in the man's eyes, the silent plea.
Ozan smiled.
A slow, terrifying smile.
He reached for his gun, twirling it effortlessly in his fingers before pressing the barrel under the man's chin. "Tell me," he murmured. "Do you believe in mercy?"
The man frantically nodded, sobs racking his body.
Ozan cocked the gun. "I don't."
A single gunshot rang through the air.
Silence followed.
Blood pooled onto the cold, unforgiving floor.
Ozan sighed, standing up and rolling his shoulders as if disposing of human lives was nothing more than an inconvenience. He tossed his cigarette onto the ground, crushing it beneath his expensive leather shoe before turning to his men.
"Clean this up," he ordered, his tone indifferent. "And send a message to anyone else who thinks they can cross me."
With that, he walked away, as if nothing had happened—like the devil himself, leaving behind nothing but death in his wake.
Ozan stepped into his mansion—silent, vast, and as empty as his soul. The darkness welcomed him like an old friend, the only company he had ever truly known. Unlike others, he didn't seek comfort in a family's warmth. To him, attachments were nothing but distractions, and he had no patience for distractions.
The moment he entered his bedroom, he reached for the buttons of his black dress shirt, unfastening them one by one with slow, deliberate movements. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the sheer power of his sculpted body—taut muscles, sharp definition, and abs carved with precision, each ripple a testament to his discipline. Scars marred his skin, faint reminders of the past battles he had fought and won.
Tossing the shirt aside, he exhaled deeply, running a hand through his tousled black hair before leaning against the edge of his bed. His fingers absently reached for the cigarette pack on the nightstand, but he hesitated. Something was different tonight.
He should've been thinking about his next move. His next kill. His next deal.
Instead, his mind drifted somewhere it never had before.
Leyla.
His jaw tightened at the realization. A woman had never occupied his thoughts before—never been significant enough to linger in his mind after an encounter. But Leyla… she was different.
A smirk ghosted over his lips.
Leyla İskender.
Princess by birth. Warrior by nature.
Dangerous. Untouchable.
And he wanted her.
For the first time in his life, Ozan found himself intrigued. Not by power, not by control, but by a woman who burned brighter than the fire inside him.
And that was dangerous.
Because Ozan Aslan didn't crave.
He took.
Would she still hold her head high if he had her trapped against a wall, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him? Would she still glare at him with that sharp tongue of hers if he leaned in close—so close that she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin?
Would she fight him?
Of course, she would.
That's what made it so intoxicating.
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. He didn't chase women. He didn't even think about them past the moment they served their purpose.
But Leyla…
She wasn't just a passing distraction.
She was a challenge.
A storm he wanted to tame.
A fire he wanted to consume.
And Ozan Aslan?
He always got what he wanted.