Politics requires sacrifice.
Serhat doubled a fist under his nose, his jaw clenched, glaring out of the window to his private suite at the rooftop bar a hundred floors above the ground.
And by sacrifice, never had he thought it should mean his, or him!
Recalling Lord Qusbecq's assignment, he banged the tumbler on the rosewood table. The ice inside rattled, sending up spills that wet his sleeve. He hurled it at the wall. It caromed with a loud clatter and cracked on the floor.
A gentle knocking came on the door.
"Yes?" he snapped,
The callow waiter on his first week gingerly pushed the door ajar. "Yo-your guest arrives, si-sir," he stammered with a lisp as if the stammer had not lost him enough tips.
Behind him in the corridor well lit by ornate scones stood a voluptuous woman in her late twenties. Wearing the claret lipsticks that matched her cocktail dress, Guiliana Cafaro styled her blond hair in a loose chignon on the side.
"Thank you, Baris," she said, her hazel eyes smiling at the poor waiter who kept his head bowed. "You may leave us now."
Baris obliged, closing the door for her.
"You know the idiot's name?" Sparing a glance at her, Serhat turned his eyes back to the window.
"Unlike you, I care about people," she jested; the tip of her suede stiletto skimmed the shattered glasses.
A snort came hissing through his nose. "Save it. We both know he's not gonna be here for long."
"Who said I was talking about Baris?" She giggled and took her seat across the table. "I wouldn't come if I didn't care about you, Serhat."
"My god! You do?" Rolling his eyes skyward, he waggled both hands, his fingers splaying for the theatricals.
"So, what's up?"
He slumped, putting a foot up while throwing his arm over the back of the upholstery couch. His brows furrowed, and his lips pursed. Once he took the step forward, there would be no going back. Unlike the callow waiter who fidgeted because of his unawareness of the world, Serhat knew very well the consequences. He couldn't understand, however, why those who were responsible for the consequences were seldom held responsible for it. And the people would always hate and only hate the renegades as if by default, as if it were impertinent to question what provoked their betrayals.
"You know Vittorio Lori?" he asked in reply, his forefinger stroking his upper lip.
"Your new demi? Who doesn't? All the women in the First World scream his name, and some men, too."
"Next week, he's gonna endorse Mustafa Agca as the Republican candidate for the First World Premier."
"Your father knows about it?"
Throwing back his head, Serhat guffawed. "He's the one making the call."
"Why are you telling me this now?"
The guffaw died out into a sneer. "You didn't ask why Father wants my demi to endorse his running mate's opponent?"
"Aren't you too old to raise a question like that?" Guiliana cocked her head. A lock of her wavy, blond hair sprang from the chignon. She tucked it behind her ear. "You know how the game is played. Routs and smoke screens to secure victory. I'm sure Lord Qusbecq has a plan after the endorsement that would only wreak havoc on Mustafa's campaign. You shouldn't be spiteful about practical tactics. And more importantly, I don't want to be involved."
"Then why did you come?"
"Haven't I told you, Serhat my dear?" A smirk parted those claret lips, behind which her pearl-white teeth loomed. "I care about people."
Putting down the leg as he leaned forward, Serhat raised a brow, his elbows propping on his lap. "What do you know already?"
"Nothing," she teased, picking out from a lowkey designer handbag a black vape with a matte finish that was juxtaposed nicely with the glossy red of her lips. "But judging from what you're tempted to do by calling me here, I have a daring conjecture." A bloom of mist veiled her perfect face.
Serhat lowered his head while the raised eyebrow went even higher. "And what may that be?"
"Oh, Serhat," Guiliana chuckled, her head shaking. "I don't join forces with the losing side."
Serhat leaned back. His lips stretched, miming a grin. "Is it wise to tell who's the losing side before the battle even begins?"
"The result of a battle is always decided before the battlefield. I read it in one of those books you used to decorate your office. Art of War, I believe, by godlike Tamen general from the antiquity some millennials ago." Blowing on the vape, she pouted, her voice dismissive. "You wouldn't attempt treachery if you hadn't already been discarded."
His hand doubled upon the armrest. "Strike two, sweetheart. Don't pretend that you know me."
"Oh, but I don't, my dear. Like I've said, it's only a conjecture for your entertainment." She smiled, her legs crossed, her arm draping from her knee. "But I suppose you didn't go through all the hassle to set up a private meeting with me only to be entertained, do you?"
"It's no hassle." He rose to his feet, towering over her; his hand held up her chin. "If people see you, we're on a date. Who says we can't?"
Those claret lips tasted familiar and sweet. And in the moment, Serhat allowed himself to lose in his fury, about how Lord Qusbecq casually tossed him away like a used-up condom.
Long before Vittorio Lorri rose to fame, he had been scouted and tasked to seduce potential candidates for the senate by working at the bar frequented by those men. Among them was Senator Kadin Bashara, a family guy known to the public and happily married, but most importantly, the chief running mate of Mustafa Agca.
Shortly after the pretty boy released his endorsement, videos and photos of their affair would surface, exposing how Mustafa's campaign exploited and manipulated demi influence.
Little qualms did Serhat hold for the pretty boy. No man or woman became a demi without paying the debts, and the time simply had come for Vittorio Lorri. He didn't anticipate, however, that he, too, was among Qusbecq's fodder! Following the foreseeable downfall of Kadin Bashara, Serhat's company would be hacked, as per what the old Qusbecq meant by upending the dustpan, cutting a swath through Mustafa's campaign that firing the running mate simply wouldn't fix. But no achievement comes without sacrifice. Serhat's company was mutually responsible, and as the one at the helm, he would have to announce his resignation in the aftermath. While Lord Qusbecq promised him a comeback when everything died down eventually, and his running mate, Ayub Zaman, was elected the Premier, he, Serhat, was the casualty! The fodder! The bloody sacrifice! And all the while, Warshond stood unscathed! He would continue living his life as the renowned Dr. Qusbecq and released the Phantom Lord's client list, including all the higher-ups in the Commonwealth, only when Zaman's campaign was in the final stage of the election.
Serhat savored the bitter contrast.
He didn't expect Lord Qusbecq to see him as a son, but to ask so flippantly for him to step down from the company he built from day one and take the blame for all Quesbecq's dirty work?
He groped Guiliana's tits, making her groan, and yanked up her dress from the hem. His eyes peeled open, one brow jutting over the other, amused to find nothing under.
"Slut."
"What?" She tongued his lips. "Baris needs a tip."
"Slutty whore."
Guiliana laughed and held his head from her neck. "No hickey."
"Why, you are afraid of Taylan Dinc?" he grunted, his eyes drilling into hers. "You're thinking about the weasel even when you're having it with me?"
"No, my dear." She held his gaze; a knowing smile rippled across her face. "It's you who can't stop thinking about the weasel. Didn't you call me over because you want to find out through him what Mustafa wants?"
He parted his lips, his back heaving. While Taylan Dinc held a neutral stance in the election, he was deeply involved in Mustafa's Eternal Project, a longevity health program Qusbecq's running mate denounced as a sacrilege to humanity. "You're too clever by half, you know that?"
"That said," Declining to address his remark, she threw her arms around his neck. "You're wasting your time with Dinc if it is indeed Mustafa you want."
"Thought you didn't want to join forces with me."
"I said I don't with the losing side," she cooned, the tip of her nose caressing his. "So, take my advice. A pledge of loyalty needs no middle man."
***