7. Serhat

The double door of ornate lacquered wood swung open at the sound of approaching footsteps to an opulently appointed lounge flooded with natural light.

Serhat Qusbecq marched in and threw his black velvet suit jacket on a plush, tufted circular ottoman flanked by matching armchairs in his choice palette of deep, rich blues. Contrasting the abstract patterned rug in the same color tones that complemented the seating was an ivory coffee table, round and massive, of polished marble whose glossy surfaces caught the distorted reflection of Serhat as he paced about under an intricate, spherical chandelier made of delicate glass orbs. A few heavy tomes he frequently quoted but never cared to peruse were placed atop the table as minimalist décors. 

He folded his arms before his chest, his head hanging forward while he stroked his chin with a thumb. 

 Ever since Lord Arslan Qusbecq was appointed the running mate by the Conservative Caucus, his only order to Serhat was to stay put and lay low. Glancing at his watch, Serhat entertained the likelihood should any change be made about that at the monthly Sunday meeting scheduled in an hour. A snort escaped his lips. 

Being only a stepson, Serhat knew his place. That said, he couldn't help ghashing his teeth. The lord everyone feared now was a bloody gigolo forty years ago, and a gigolo he would have remained had it not been for Mother and the House Effendi behind her! Serhat gnashed his teeth. A noble Effendi by blood notwithstanding, he had been treated the same if not worse than the gigolo's firstborn he had with some gold-digging Tamen woman from the Third World North! It was agreed that neither he nor Warshon should assume his mantle in politics – a low-key testament to his affected integrity. But more importantly, Arslan Qusbecq needed his eldest to set baits and play defense on the periphery. While Warshon provided narcotics to Qusbecq's adversaries and their offspring abroad and at home, Serhat ran the largest talent agency that traded sex for favors. 

Not that Serhat wanted to be in politics. Who in their right mind would anyway? To willingly spend the prime years of their youth in the shadow colluding with old prunes? For the first half of his life, Serhat had been happy, fostering cults of personalities around pretty young men and women who, too, boasted his ego. Poisoned by the lure of fame and the promises it seldom kept, generations of youths saw Serhat as a god and willingly put their necks into his leash. For twenty years, Serhat had indeed lived like a god, starring in major films himself with all the knockouts he wanted to have a way with, and invited politicians to play a cameo with the thespians who sated their lust. Little did he care about how much he helped the Qusbecq advance his career. He was having the time of his life. 

But things began to feel different as he got older. The persona of a wealthy, carefree dandy with little respect for rules and protocols he had prided himself on having crafted for all his life, one that got him all the adulation and limelight, had now turned him into a subject of ridicule. To keep the love and continue being the focal point of whichever room he entered, he needed a change. 

Sauntering over to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the tumbling blue of Lake Gök, he turned to a full-length floor mirror framed in lacquered sandalwood. His wheat-color skin seemed sallow, his russet brown eyes tired and out of depth. He looked how he felt. Huffing a weary sigh, he stroked his beard, which had taken the barber two hours to trim and oil only yesterday, then ran a hand through his meticulously pomaded hair. His brow elevated. 

"Galaxy," he intoned. 

"What can I do for you today, my lord?"

"Take a photo." 

The mirror snapped, capturing him brooding with a hand about his chin. 

"How do I look?"

"You could use a bit of color," the mirror replied. 

"Do that." 

The image of himself captured in the mirror added a subtle blush to his cheek and tuned the light so his thin face looked more sculpted than gaunt. 

"Anything else?"

"We can resize your waist."

"Are you calling me fat?" 

"No, my lord. You asked me for advice, so I offered. You could use a bit of toning." 

Serhat scoffed, waggling a wrist, his eyes rolling. 

"I'm sorry I missed that. Was it a yes?"

"Yes!"

"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?"

"Crop it with the background of my office," he ordered, stepping closer to the mirror as he examined himself closely. All the grizzle and wrinkles seemed to defy the expensive products and treatments he had been lavishing on himself for ten years even before he turned thirty. Strangling the urge to punch his reflection while his fist doubled, he grunted, "And position me before my desk stacked with scripts and files." 

"Got it." 

"Don't post it on Public Square until nine p.m., when people actually have the time to browse." 

"The photo is scheduled to be posted on Public Square at nine p.m."

Serhat turned sideways to the mirror and sucked in his belly, his brow furrowed. All the hours he spent at the gym paid off little, and all the money couldn't buy back the youth that seemed to be in his possession not so long ago 

Eighty years for a life give or take, it dawned on Serhat that all of humanity, rich or poor, ugly or beautiful, would spend only so few years sprouting into full bloom, and then the long rest of it toiling in decline. Had God ever been fair, it was the horror of aging he had equally inflicted on all. 

With a long hiss of a sigh, he recognized in his eyes something he had never noticed before, a sign of weathering only seen in old men. He panicked. 

A knock came on the door. 

He looked daggers over his shoulder. "Yes?" 

"Sir, it's time to leave," said the housekeeper, her voice even, her head bowed. "Your car is ready."

Serhat outstretched an elbow as he glanced at his watch. Ten to eight. Forty minutes before the Sunday meeting. Unlike most family meetings set during brunch, Arslan Qusbecq preferred to have it done early and cared little about the pro forma of keeping it casual. Serhat could respect the brutal honesty there. Between him and Warshon Qusbecq, it could never be casual. 

He checked his hair again in the mirror and swung up the suit jacket from the ottoman on his way out. 

***

The car drove up the familiar flagstoned driveway and pulled over before the wrought iron double door ornate with intricate scrollwork. 

Serhat leaned back and drew a deep breath; the leathered seat cushioned his neck well. 

"Sir?" said Armo Palermo, glancing at the rearview mirror. 

Serhat squinted at the round, bald pate of his chauffeur. A smirk skittered across his lips. "How long have you been working for me, Armo?"

The big man cocked his brow. "Since your mother passed."

"Yeah, no, I mean, before that. How long have you been working for House Effendi?"

"Since she was just a girl turning sixteen, your mother, I mean." the man intoned, his hands tapping the steering wheel. 

Serhat put down the leg that crossed upon the other and propped on his lap. "You remember her exact age then?"

"It was her birthday the day I started. Lord Effendi threw such a party for her to intimidate any suitor no man can easily forget." 

Yet much of a father's vigilance was proved of little use on a daughter's rebellion. Chiara Effendi got herself pregnant with a man Serhat had never met. Rumor has it that Lord Effendi ordered Armo Palermo to shoot him before her eyes and made sure that lesson was shoved down her throat. 

But what was the lesson there, really? 

A custodian of his house, Lord Effendi had kept outsiders from getting their hands on the family's wealth through his idiotic children. Until Arslan Qusbecq. Who gallantly offered his hand in marriage to redeem the damsel in distress, saving her from soiling her family's name, and adopted the baseborn son when he turned thirteen. He married the daughter, but it's the father's heart he captured. In only a few short years, Arslan Qusbecq rose in rank to prominence at the parliament. And bidding his time, he was patient. Never acknowledged the Third World wife he had divorced or the son they had together until Lord Effendi passed away, and until every dominant male figure who carried the family name – uncles and cousins Serhat grew up with, one by one fell from grace. The outsider Lord Effendi had spent half of his life to fend off usurped everything he owned at last, with his blessing. 

Serhat released a guttural chuckle dripping in sarcasm. 

"Anything funny?" asked the bald man in the driver's seat as he glanced over his shoulder. 

"Fate." Shaking his head, Serhat dusted his pleated velvet pants. "It's hilarious!" 

The car door slid aside at the click of a button. A few steps up the marble stairs brought him before the ornate door. His eyes narrowed at the medallion of a serpent circling a crescent moon centering the scrollwork. All the years he spent growing up here, was he happy? Did he even like Lord Effendi as a grandfather? He moved his jaw sideways, his brows raising. Truth be told, he didn't care. But should the Effendi medallion become just another meaningless scrollwork among others, he, too, shall become meaningless. And that, he cared a great deal. 

The door swung open from the inside. Ezio Pagnotto greeted him with a bow of his head. 'Master Serhat,' said the gaunt butler, turning on his heel. 'Lord Qusbecq is waiting.' Passing the sweeping staircase with balusters adorned with inlaid sculptures, he led him across the grand hall floored with gleaming marble. 

"Aren't we meeting in his office?" Serhat asked, cocking a brow as he stepped in the other's wake. 

The butler only looked over his shoulder, a subtle smile hanging on his thin lips. Without stopping, he turned his eyes to the front as they entered the sitting room adjoining the dining hall. Under a chandelier reminiscent of a constellation, with its many interlocking loops, stood a younger man, sinewy and tall. A military-style black blazer hung on his broad shoulder, revealing the full length of his enviable long legs. Upon hearing the footsteps, he glanced back, his sculpted profile silhouetted in the dappling sunlight filtering through the glass wall. 

"You're late," Warshon intoned. "You know he despises anyone who keeps him waiting."

"Do I need you to tell me that?" Serhat harrumphed, rolling his eyes as he met the other's aloof gaze. "And who says I'm late?" 

As if he didn't deign to respond, Warshon only thanked Ezio and headed upstairs. 

"And even if I was, I didn't ask you to wait for me!" Serhat snarled behind him. 

Tipping his head to the side, Warshon halted his feet. "Do I need to repeat to you how he detests waiting?" he asked, a discreet glint in the eye that meant to slight without for a moment appearing to deviate from the direct, his voice unhurried. 

"And do I need to tell you again I didn't ask you to wait!" Serhat retorted. "Be a good dog and bark at his feet if you fear him so much!"

Swiveling back, the sinewy man shifted his long legs as he sauntered over to him, a subtle smirk contoured his sharp feature like a whispery shadow. "Do you think he calls us here every month because he enjoys spending time with us? "Why do you think I know your dirty secrets, and you mine?" Towering over Serhat, he crossed his arms and edged half a step closer. "Do you think I'd wait for you if he'd like to see me get ahead?" he pressed on, his voice measured, tone uninflected. "He only needs us as his team of claws that contain each other. Neither should be too weak and completely useless, nor too strong that overshadows. So, hurry the fuck up, team." 

Serhat only glared. Despite his animus, his stepbrother got a point. Arslan Qusbecq met him and Warshon together, exposing their secrets to each other only to send a warning that any attempt to scupper the boat they were in together, any plot of betrayal, would be suicidal. 

Bumping his shoulder with the other man, he strode for the stairs. 

In the spacious office bright with the morning sun, Arslan Qusbecq leaned back on the couch with his arms crossed. His large eyes the color of dark amber lifted at his sons, acknowledging their presence. Sixty of age, he looked no more than fifty, with a headful of ash brown hair and a classic straight nose without a hint of a bump that threw women in awe.

"Sit," he said. 

Once they obliged, taking their seats in the opposing armchairs, the lord crossed his leg and hung an arm over the backrest. 

"I need a sacrifice," he said point-blank, flicking his amber eyes at Serhat. "All the dirt you have collected now is the time to upend the dustbin."