Next to the sprawling bed that sat low to the ground upon a plush area rug patterned with stone veins, Erdem Aktas stood with his arms crossed.
He lifted his gaze, taking in the master bedroom he had always wondered about but had never been allowed in. Minimalistic and aloof, it wasn't much different from what he had imagined, with every detail whispering understated elegance. He sighed in awe. But as he withdrew his wandering eyes to the bed that centered the room, his smile frosted.
Snuggled under the crisp white linens and soft gray throws, the girl mewled in her sleep. Mist formed and dissipated on the ventilation mask with each breath she took, while IV drips flowed slowly, percolating into her vein.
"I've worked for him for seven years and was never allowed inside his room until you happened," grunting under his breath, he squinted at the pert nose still visible behind the mask, and the coveted long lashes that seemed to whisper. "You're not that pretty," he snorted, jutting out his chin to blow off the tight curls straggling over his rolling eyes. "He changed women like he changed clothes, and you are nothing special."
A crimson shaft of the dusk sliced through the balcony. Erdem looked out at the setting sun beyond the undergrowth afar. Outstretching his elbow, he checked the time. Five fifty-one flashed in digits on his watch. His lips pinched to a seam, his eyes frowning. He went over to the balcony and closed the sheer curtains.
"He got injured with a bullet, he didn't get any sleep, and now he needs to run the damn press conference because of you." Grousing to himself, he checked all the monitors to make sure of her vital signs. "You'd better be worth it."
Rolling his eyes, he exited the bedroom. The door closed behind him with a brittle click. Propping on the railing as he half turned, he slid down the banister of polished redwood and found a wine glass from the cabinet. Over the kitchen bar, he hunched on a stool and swiped a forefinger along his watch. The live press conference came on the left pane of his glasses. He poured the wine and put in the earpieces.
As scripted, Dr. Murong Kai announced the findings from the NGS blood test and confirmed to the media that the suspected virus outbreak was, in fact, a severe case of allergy reaction. With Warshon towering on his left and Custom Security Officer Kovács Dolma on the right, he looked scrawnier now without all the protective gear.
Erdem turned his focus on the man with a chevron mustache. Kovács Dolma. The Konstinbul Customs put the sailors in quarantine, and naturally, Dolma's presence was expected. That said – Erdem sneered, flicking the rim of the wine glass – a high-stakes move for them whenever Dolma was in presence.
He glanced to the right.
In a black shirt under a knee-length trench coat of the same color, Warshon Qusbecq presided over the two trolls like a god who held his religion, and to whom he felt forever in debt.
Erdem lowered his head.
Son of a high roller, he was initially scouted at the age of thirteen by a talent agent from Serhat's company. Since then, he had been sent to too many carouses, and parties, and soirees than he could count, and the things they did to him still kept him awake at night in cold sweat. All these, they said, were to pay his family's debts, and should he try to go back on his contract or attempt to escape, he would have a real taste of hell. They would let him rot in jail, where he'd suffer all the things he had already suffered ad infinitum without being paid.
Until that night, at a New Year's Eve party, Serhat came up with a game to spice things up. A guest should read out a long list of cocktail ingredients, and if Erdem messed up the order or missed one ingredient, he would face the punishment of the guest's choice.
Never made a cocktail that complicated, he begged Serhat to have a different game. And when Serhat snickered and told him to wing it, he decided that he could put an end to it. All he needed was to be brave for once. The knife to chip the ice for the cocktails was sharp enough to bleed him dry.
"How long have you been bartending?" Deep and measured, a man's voice pulled him out of his trance.
Erdem glanced up and met those eyes as obsidian as though the dead of the night, deep-set between a sculpted, straight nose that cast a shadow on a face chiseled like a diamond. Sinewy and tall, he wore a sleek, tight suit that flattered his build so well like the fitting crown that adorned the head of Alexander the Great. His pale complexion under the flashing ballroom lights set a foil to those lips burgundy red.
Erdem skipped a breath.
When the man learned that it took him no effort to remember all the lists, however long they sounded, he paid off the rest of his contract.
The wheel of fate turned for Erdem when the clock struck midnight. In the next seven years since then, Warshon Qusbecq had been a mentor to him, a brother he never had, and a crush about whom he could only fantasize.
He sipped the wine.
On the left pane of his glasses, Murong wrapped up. "It's unlikely that everyone on board would have the same allergy unless there are conditions they share. And we believe that's what we need to look into."
As anticipated, the journalists raised questions like bots. As if he had not heard the man saying, one of them asked, "And what do you think are the conditions they share?"
The scrawny man fidgeted. "We can't be sure yet, but from the information shared by Customs Security, we suspect it may have something to do with the vaccines they had received in the past. Mr. Dolma?" He turned to his right.
Coughing into a clenched fist, Kovács Dolma cleared his throat before turning on the mic. "Thank you, Dr. Murong," He nodded to the cameras. "Call it the grace of God or a coincidence, whichever you prefer, on the same ship, there was a boy, an illegal trying to trespass our borders. And being an illegal and all, obviously, he had not been inoculated with the vaccine mandated by the Commonwealth. And he showed no sign of the allergy during the three days he was put in quarantine with the rest."
"Where is he now?" asked a journalist.
Dolma snickered. "We kept him with all the others at first, of course. When his initial blood report came in before the NGS, we let him off the ship to make a pro forma inquiry. But on the same night, we experienced a hiccup." He took a teasing pause. "The DEA asked for our assistance during their operation to arrest the Phantom Lord, and we responded, of course, putting out all our best men, which, unfortunately, gave the boy a chance to escape. I'm sure he won't get far, and we will catch him in no time. That said, I think we have a bigger fish to fry here." He shifted his eyes to the left. "Before the chase that had led our valiant DEA agents to the Port, they initially spotted the Phantom Lord at Telesphore Pharmaceutical, co-owned by Dr. Warshon Qusbecq. Do you have any comment on this, doctor?"
"Son of a bitch!" Erdem banged his fist on the marble counter.
Lowering his gaze, Warshon plastered on his face a similie of a smile. "I'm not sure about the allegation here, Mr. Dolma. It's no secret that I co-own the pharmaceutical plant. And let's say, for the sake of argument, I was indeed involved with the Phantom Lord. Wouldn't I try to avoid being seen rather than make an appearance at the port only a few hours later?"
"Why did you show up at the port, then?" Dolma wasn't to budge.
"Minister Taylan Dinc made a personal request for me to assist Dr. Murong," Warshon intoned, his voice unhurried, languid, even. "Anyone can look into my itinerary and have me framed. Given the upcoming election, dirt on me wouldn't reflect well on Lord Arslan Qusbecq or the Conservatives, would it?"
Dolma pursed his lips, his smile strained. "Nobody is trying to frame you, Dr. Qusbecq."
"Of course," he shrugged. "But since you've dropped the hint, it falls on me to defend myself. Like you said, I'm the co-owner of Telesphore Pharmaceutical. And if the DEA had found anything they shouldn't during their operation, do you think I'll still be standing here, holding the this coversation with you?" When the other failed to respond, a smirked played on his burgundy red lips. "I think we've digressed," He turned his eyes to the scrawny. "This conference is for Dr. Murong and his team. They're the ones on the front line when nothing was certain. They're the Republican heroes."
"And so are you!" shouted a woman journalist from the crowd.
"Thank you, but I was only an assistant who bore witness to their valor and resolve. Doctor, is there anything else you would like to share?"
"Th-thank you, Dr. Qusbecq. That was, eh," stumbling through his voice, Murong Kai averted his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he looked up again at the cameras. "Thank you all for coming today, and for your concern. All the sailors are recovering as we speak. And the alleged outbreak is not due to any unknown virus but because of some common health conditions that have made them prone to allergies. We'd much like to work with the Commonwealth to get to the bottom of it. Thank you, again, and good night."
The image was cut into a detergent commercial.
Erdem tugged off his glasses and finished the wine in a draft. He swiped down the contact list on his watch.
"Can we talk?"
The voice message was sent to Guiliana Cafaro with a swoosh.