He gripped the glass tighter. Every mission he took to protect his son, Sinan, every lie he told Bahri Umman, every time he pretended to be a "bad man" to do a "good thing"—it was another crack in the glass. He felt like a walking mosaic of failures, held together by nothing but cheap tea and Shakespeare quotes.
He looked at her, the woman he had died for a thousand times. He realized then that the song wasn't about the glasses that broke; it was about the heart that kept pouring more even after the shards cut deep.
But in Poyraz's world, beautiful things didn't just break; they shattered.
He didn't need to look up to know it was her. The scent of her perfume always reached him before her voice did. Ayşegül sat down, her eyes tracing the exhaustion etched into his face.
"" (How many glasses have been broken in my drunken heart...)
He remembered the first time they danced to this song. He had stepped on her toes, making some absurd joke about how his feet were actually secret agents trying to sabotage the evening. She had laughed, that bright, bell-like sound that made the darkness of the Mafia world he inhabited feel like a distant bad dream.
"Is it?" he asked, his voice a jagged edge. "Because every time I breathe, I hear the sound of something snapping inside. This life... it's a graveyard of broken toasts."