Damir. Lily Rizk

evening, Damir. Can you come now?”

      About twenty minutes later, he was at the hotel.

      “Have a seat,” Alexander said, pointing to the chair across the table. Two men were sitting with him—one, a young stylish guy with a sharp haircut and a fashionable look, the other, around fifty, with an athletic build and piercing dark eyes. They looked at Damir with interest, and he returned the look. He shook hands with both and sat down.

      “Mr. Gregory and Mr. Edmond,” Alexander introduced them. Damir nodded with a slight smile.

      “These men have the connections and skills to untangle your case,” Alexander explained. “They’re also familiar with the Saidi family—especially Mr. Samad.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes, but that’s irrelevant. They worked briefly on a joint project. Nothing more.”

      “I’d be grateful if they could help me,” Damir said, his voice full of hope.

      “That’s what we need to discuss,” Alexander said.

      “What do I have to do?” Damir asked.

      Alexander pulled out a pen and scribbled something on a napkin. Then he turned it toward Damir.

      “If they succeed—and they will—you’ll need to pay this amount for their services.”

      Damir looked at the napkin. “Five hundred thousand US dollars?” he said, his voice hoarse.

      “It’s not a large sum in your situation,” Alexander replied calmly. “Given that you’re new to the family and your resources are limited, this was deemed sufficient. I suspect this won’t be the last time you’ll need our help. We’ll settle the rest later.”

      Damir was stunned. Just a guy from Bolgar who once risked prison for a lousy grand, now discussing a half-a-million-dollar job with the mafia?

      “I agree. If I can raise the money, I’ll pay every cent.”

      “You’re the son of a very wealthy man. You’ll find the means. Just don’t double-cross us,” Alexander said flatly. “You’ll pay one way or another. Better to know what kind of game you’re in, than to guess while you’re already losing.”

      His strange voice, like some ghost from the 18th century, made Damir shiver. He understood now—he was dealing with some kind of crime syndicate. He had no choice but to say yes.

      Fear and hope now churned inside him, cracking a hole in the wall that had trapped him for weeks. Damir started smoking again—two packs in a week. Once he had sworn off all vices. Now here he was, with gangsters and cigarettes again. What next? Damn Samad!

      The next day, Emine’s mother and sister visited. She begged them to come home, saying the house felt lifeless without them. Omer and Samad barely showed up either.

      “It’s just Saher and me now!” she lamented, crossing her arms like a child who had lost her toy.

      Saher, too, looked heartbroken. She and AAliya were sitting together, hands clasped like inseparable twins. Over the last few months, they had become close friends. AAliya’s kindness made it easy. Zulfiya silently wiped away tears, her head bowed. Damir stood in the middle of them, unsure how to stop the emotional whirlwind.

      “Alright!” he said loudly. Eight teary eyes looked up. “We’re going out. All of us.”

      They hesitated in shock, but his firm tone had them moving quickly. Fifteen minutes later, AAliya sat in the front seat beside him, the two mothers and Saher in the back.

      They went to a restaurant first. Omer hadn’t cut off Damir’s credit card, not wanting to upset his wife. For now, Damir still had access to enough money to support the whole family.

      He hated depending on Omer, but what choice did he have? So he told himself he’d pay it all back one day, even if he had to join the mafia to do it. At the restaurant, Emine began reminiscing about Iran. Zulfiya joined in, and soon the women were deep in conversation. AAliya, though, remained quiet. Damir felt guilty—he had been neglecting her. He reached over and took her hand, making her jump a little.

      “Sweetheart?”