Warshon could almost see the sardonic smile on Guiliana's face when she paused for a moment.
"I'm glad you've kept my number," she said at last.
"Is this what it's for? To remind me to delete useless contacts?" He rose to his feet, his hands sliding into his pockets.
"Very funny."
"You don't sound amused."
She huffed a sigh. "I wouldn't call if it wasn't serious."
No – he thought – and you're out of options. But he said nothing and waited.
"I have a friend here who has stage-four liver failure, but because she can't get the transplant –"
"A transplant is her only real shot at this stage."
"I know, but," she took a longer pause this time. "You did wonders with your patients before. Any chance you can try it on her?"
"That'll have to depend on many factors." He sauntered into the kitchen, his eyes going through the scotch collection.
"I thought you treat all patients the same."
He let out a dry laugh, his hand clutching around the neck of a single malt. "I do, but not all patients put the same faith in me as you. Does your friend want to be treated? The will to live makes a great difference."
"So, you agree to see her?"
"Why not, I do treat anyone who comes to my door. But I can't promise anything, so to be clear." The amber liquid gurgled, splashing into the tumbler.
"You don't even ask who she is?"
"Have I not made it clear that all patients are the same to me?"
Silence ensued as he nipped his drink. Smoky and smooth, it singed his gullet and gave him the buzz he needed to endure another hour, perhaps two.
"You want to know when she can come?" he asked in her stead.
"If you aren't too busy –"
"Any day this week during lunch hour is fine. Just give me a heads-up. We'll see what we can do from there."
"Thank you."
"Thank me when it works."
He cut the line, the heels of his palms propping on the edge of the marble counter. His shoulders were hunched as if he were pushing out of a pool, his brows clasping.
When he returned from the north, beaten scarred, and at his lowest, he found Guiliana Cafaro, whose smile was his salve, her quip his light, her curves the bed on which he took his time to heal. He didn't care what they called her. He listened to her stories, of how her mother practically sold her to the agency after her father's passing, and how he passed on because they couldn't afford his treatment. Warshon wanted to offer her his whole heart where she could take refuge. For her, he would have discarded the rest of the world.
Yet it was all but a lie, with some glitters of irrelevant truth here and there perhaps, but it didn't matter now. It hadn't mattered since the second she let the Lord stick his tongue down her throat. Every memory of their moments together that used to bring smiles to his eyes made his gorge rise.
As he hesitated before answering the call, he anticipated his fury, if not rancor, or both. It took him aback that he felt absolutely nothing now.
Cocking a brow, he brought the tumbler to his lips, his eyes traveling upstairs; his feet followed.
Halting before his own bedroom, he chewed on the inside of his cheeks. An ineffable guilt gnawed at his throat. He gulped. A new message came, vibrating his watch. He whirled to the stairs and leaned on his back, his elbows bracing on the banister. Unfastening the screen from the leather wristband, he unfolded it to about the size of half an open book. It was from Erdem, with a fake profile he made for Mira.
I left the last name blank. He texted. Has she decided on one for it yet?
Warshon chuckled as he could nearly hear the mocking scoff dangling on the question mark. Good job. He texted back. How's your getaway?
Just sent her father what you asked for. Why don't you just shoot me instead?
Can't be that bad…? He teased.
Do your job now and get me the fuck out of here! The young man replied.
Warshon let out a quiet laugh. Returning to the main interface, he switched to the encrypted account registered on a different IP address. The message to Dr. Murong Kai, stipulating what he must do in the upcoming week to get his daughter back was first sent to a proxy account, then to the intended receiver.
Once that was done, he texted Nikita Ozal.
?
The laconic man replied in an equally terse manner a minute later: two emojis, one of a window, the other the night sky, meaning there was a widow opening tonight.
He narrowed his gaze at the time in the top right corner of his screen. Vittorio Lori had announced his endorsement of Mustafa Agca at the concert an hour ago. According to Lord Qusbecq's plan, the scandal surrounding the demi and Agca's running mate should surface in the upcoming days.
Stand by, Warshon ordered. He needed the accident for Keiren Zaman to come after the scandal so it would appear as retaliation from the Globalists – another extra step to put himself in Lord Qusbecq's grace, as if he were indeed a good son always keeping his father's best interest. Whatever opportunity Ozal saw now, its timing was off.
Stick with the old plan. He added another text, and OK was all he got in reply, no more or less than needed. Aside from his betrayal, Nikita always got things done. Washon narrowed his gaze, his thumb twiddling the ring on his forefinger. Going back to his message with Erdem, he asked the boy to sit tight, then folded the screen and reattached it to the wristband.
His eyes roamed again over the door to his bedroom, his feet followed, arms about his chest. Flexing his hand, he faltered, fearing that the knock would wake her had she gone to sleep already. But he also needed to check on her, to see her, to explain even though he didn't know what was there to say. He turned the knob and found Mira on the floor.
Panic seized him.
He loped up to her. Gathering her in his arms, he checked her pulse. But other than her wheezing breath, everything else seemed fine. Heaving a long sigh of relief, he sat on his heels, his hand holding her cheek.
"I left the only bed in the house to you, and you decided to sleep on the floor?" He chuckled, shaking his head. As he lifted her up, pain tore from the wound in his back and made him wince. He sank his teeth in his bottom lip and put her down in the bed softly as if snow coming down from the sky, his hand grazing unintentionally along her leg. He tucked her in, his throat dry.
Sitting on the floor where he got a good angle to watch her sleep, he drew up a leg, the side of his brow propped on bent knuckles while his elbow braced on the raised knee. Somehow, he could still hear the Waltz, with each of its notes gyrating between his ears. No, he thought, she didn't just play a little. Quite a virtuoso, she had years of training and practice – talent, no less. But she didn't want him to know that among other things, such as how the prehistoric world held dear in her heart, perhaps. A well-brought-up girl who got a sudden change of script for her fate, he brooded, imbibing each flicker of the lashes that dreamed and every inch of the porcelain smooth skin. His eyes fell on her chest, his mouth compressed. Questions about the cigar burn resurfaced as if he could see behind the white shirt she wore. Guiliana had a lot of those, and he knew very well how they befell her.
But where did you get yours, Mira? What did you do to get the nasty scar?
Pain spread from his back. He shut his eyes, his brows clasping. Bracing an arm on the edge of the bed, he pushed to his feet, his head groggy. It dawned on him in the moment how much the two resembled each other. Be it Guiliana or Mira, there was perhaps nothing they wouldn't do to get what they wanted and survive, nothing, which included making him the sacrifice.
A sneer passed his lips.
Perhaps he should draw some distance.
He left his room, closed the door behind him without making a sound, and went downstairs to the bathroom to change the dressing on his wound.