34. Father/2.

Arslan had put up with many nuisances throughout his life, his stepson being one of them. 

The worst scenario he prognosticated was to find the brute dropping on him at his office. So, he called in sick the first thing in the morning. But as he was leaving the villa, a call from the nuisance made his eyebrows arch. 

"Morning, Serhat," he answered, waving goodbye at Mustafa as he stepped into the leather backseat of his black sedan. 

"Can we meet?"

"Sure, how about you meet me at home?" he said, his voice easy. "At the atrium if you wish for some privacy."

"What time?"

It'd take him over an hour to arrive home in good traffic, Arslan thought, and he wouldn't want Serhat to have any clue to even speculate where he stayed the night. "Let's meet at noon," he said.

"See you then, father."

Arslan rolled his eyes and hung up. 

"Are we not going home straight away, sir?" Yakov Baranov, his chauffeur, glanced at the rearview mirror. 

"We are," he replied, putting a leg up across the other knee as he dusted his pants. "But I also need some peace and quiet before dealing with my trouble." 

Yakov didn't comment another word. Like a plant, he knew his place in the world. Arslan appreciated that. Removing the trilby, he ran a hand through the thick grizzle and let his head incline to the backrest. His eyes closed, a silent sigh parting his lips while Mustafa's words kept bouncing in his head. 

Like Mustafa, he, too, had revered Prof. Alec de Armas – a handsome man of versatile talent, whose wife's otherworldly beauty was so striking that one look upon it was to last a lifetime. But the brilliant man didn't deign to ally with them and threatened to oppose them openly should they carry on with their plan. Brilliance that isn't mine to wield is a lethal threat to keep around. Knowing this, Mustafa called the shot not without guilt. When he went to the Commonwealth to adopt their daughter, Arslan joined him but for a different purpose. 

The violin. 

Known by the name, Eternity, the instrument was a dream of a marriage between artistry and mechanics the professor made for his wife, with interlocking golden gears and spiraling metallic that resembled a clock face underlying the theme of time. Far removed from a traditional violin, the design exuded a celestial beauty never meant for this ugly world. 

Before they left, Arslan went to the music academy the Professor visited on his last trip to the Republic. A deal was struck. The principal flew to the Commonwealth on the next flight and went over the residence of the professor during the police investigation. With a written agreement Alec de Armas had signed for the violin to be put out on a three-month exhibition at the academy, the man took it back across the Huron Sea. Two weeks later, Eternity went missing after a heist at the academy and didn't resurface until two years later at an auction. Arslan bought it, and the sum went to the principal. 

But it wasn't until after Arslan finally got to keep the violin that he stumbled upon why they said it was never meant for the world: The strings always snapped when he tried to continue playing more chords after just one. Rumor has it that Alec de Armas designed it this way for the irony of eternity. 

Arslan opened his eyes, cussing in silence at Mustafa for being right about men like them being the same, that they would stop at nothing until they got exactly what they wanted. 

When the car pulled up by the driveway, he didn't so much as bother to change or speak to anyone except Ezio Pagnotto. After briefly instructing the butler to bring Serhat to him upon arrival, he strode through the foyer into the atrium – an inner courtyard he referred to as the sky garden, with a pond adorned with water lilies at its center. Lounging in a cushioned chair woven from bamboo strips, he watched the rain fall tirelessly through the open roof all the while planning the next moves with the cards in his stack: The death of Kovács Dolma on one hand, and the DEA Commander on the other, whose interest that bound him to them was about to evanesce. Once they offered a transplant to the wife, the husband would be free from their leash. While the crimes he committed on their behalf would keep him from speaking out, the same oath of omertá Serhat swore, it was no easy quest finding a reliable handyman in replacement. And before the replacement could report to duty, they'd have to count on Warshon… again. 

But is there a better way that wouldn't put them in such a passive position? Arslan brooded. He always hated the verbal phrase "have to" when "I" or "we" were the subject. Should there be anything that he had to, it wouldn't be desirable. Mustafa had kept Dolma's corpse lest he might find use for it in the future. Arslan wondered how they could avail of the dead man. A plan began to form in his head when Ezio Pagnotto ushered in Serhat. 

Arslan hoisted the corners of his lips. "Hello, Serhat," he said, lounging in his chair with one leg upon the other knee, his hands clasping upon his stomach. 

The stepson bowed and had yet to work up the guts to meet him in the eye. 

"You sounded distraught when you called," Arslan continued, gesturing to Ezio to bring up the refreshment. "Anything I can help with?" 

"Forgive me." Serhat dropped to his knees. "I should never have done what I did."

"Is that so?" Arslan mused, lips pouting, "And what did you do exactly? Ah, you sabotaged your own brother and nearly got him killed. Remind me again, when was that?" Another rhetorical question he didn't have the patience for its answer. "You disappeared for a week, and it never occurred to you to come to me. Now that Mustafa had your allegiance, you think it's a good time to cry for my forgiveness?" 

"No", the man denied, panic laced in his voice. "It wasn't my intention to hurt Warshon, I was, it's just…"

"You find it unfair that you're making more sacrifices this time," Arslan chuckled as he leaned to an armrest and stroked his chin. "But let me ask you this, do you wish to swap roles with Warshon? Or to put it differently, can you do what he does should there be such a swap?"

Ezio returned with hors d'oeuvre and a pot of dandelion tea flanked by two glazed bowl-shaped cups on a silver tray. 

"Thank you, Ezio," said Arslan, motioning the man to leave them with his eyes. 

As the butler obliged, and whose clacking soles on the floor faded into the foyer, Arslan poured one for himself. "You run a company of a considerable size yourself, Serhat. You tell me what's the first thing you consider when you put someone to a job." He nipped from the bowl-shaped cup and then put it back on the tray. 

"Suitability," the stepson ventured a glance up, his voice no louder than the splashing rain. 

"Good," Arslan favored him with a half smile, his brows arching, jaw moving sideways. "I don't dare imagine what it'd be like if you're in Warshon's position, but I can see him getting bored of playing matchmaking from the big leather chair in that penthouse office of yours, so bored it'd only be a matter of time before he did something truly reckless. So, I tasked him for his job, and you yours, when you both agreed to work for the family." He held the cup up again to his lips. "Ah, yes, family, have you forgotten your name, Serhat? It's Qusbecq! Mine! Not the blighted Effendi! And certainly not the thug who impregnated your mother!" 

Serhat jolted when the teacup was smashed into bits on the flagstone before his knees. 

"And let me tell you what family means," Arslan resumed. "I rise, and so do you, maybe. But if I tumble, I'll be damn sure you're the one who cushions my fall. Cross me again, give me any reason to suspect that you wish to see me fall, don't crawl back here again and expect leniency. Run. Run fast. Run far. But I will catch you, and grind you. Are we clear?"

"Yes." 

"Good," Arslan snorted. "On your feet."

Serhat did as bid. "I didn't just come here to beg, though," he said, more spine in his voice this time than a bucket of seaweed. "Vittorio Lorri will announce his endorsement tonight. But when do you want me to release the scandal? I figure timing is key here." 

The effort for his approval at this point was laughable. Arslan stifled his laugh. "Good thinking, Serhat," He clasped his hands just over his face to shield his rolling eyes. "There's indeed a better timing, and I'll let you know when it happens. In the interim, be ready. You may very well receive the order the next day." 

The man who had reaped all the benefits of being a Qusbecq nodded in submission.

"Well, then, that settles it," Arslan rose from his seat, his feet crushing the pottery shards of the teacup he smashed. Proceeding to his stepson, he patted him on the shoulder. "I'm glad we can move past this."

The other nodded, keeping his head low – a dog on the leash. "One more thing, Father," he croaked under his breath. 

Arslan looked him sidelong over the shoulder, his brows quirking as he motioned him to go on. 

"Like you said," Serhat obliged. "Nowhere I could run you wouldn't hunt me down, and I wouldn't be so stupid to try. You have me on your leash, and rightfully so. But have you considered that perhaps, it's never my allegiance you want?" 

There, the dog bared his teeth. 

"You're also right about family. One rises, and so do others. I need your name more than you ever need me. But not your other son. Without the Qusbecq, he'd still be Dr. Warshon. Doesn't it keep you up at night wondering why he does your bidding when he doesn't need any of this, or us?"

Pivoting on his heel, Arslan turned to face the other, his patience rubbed raw with rage. Always he despised stupidity, disgusted by it. But when stupidity dared look him in the eye and claimed the upper hand, he croaked with a dry cackle devoid of mirth. The same yearning to strangle the man before him returned. But what's the point? Not even his death would undo the damage, and Arslan had no interest in explaining his plan, or Warshon's sacrifice, to an idiot who saw only himself in the world and the world in him. Dousing out his rage that would get him nowhere, Arslan waited for what the other had to say now. 

"With all due respect, Father," Serhat took the opportunity and went forth. "I might have done all of us a favor had I succeeded. But I understand, he's your son, and you'd have done anything to avoid getting that far. That said," he paused again, taking his time with a long sigh meaning to mock, and for the undertow of menace to register. "If you don't know where his heart lies, he's a threat to us all. You shouldn't have taken that whore away from him all those years ago. Rather than using her to spy on me, you should let Warshon keep her so we still have some measure of control."

"You think a woman can harness my son?" Arslan clipped his words, his face a sneer, his voice dripping in menace. 

Serhat tensed, averting his eyes. "I offered my humble opinion only to serve you, Father." Sketching a bow, he bid him good day and fled. 

Alone in the atrium with the pottery shards under his feet, Arslan clenched his teeth, as did his hands at his sides, disgust coiling in his stomach. He didn't need anyone to tell him what he had always known—not Mustafa, and certainly not his cretinous stepson. And how dare that cretin suggest he might have erred? Did he though? Could any father look at their son fall for a whore and do nothing? 

The rain tapered, the clouds thinning. He stormed inside and found Yilmaz in the

kitchen, hunching over a bowl of cereal with a tablet spreading next to it. 

"You look pissy," commented his eldest son with Chiara.

"Watch your tongue, young man!" Arslan waggled a forefinger in his direction. "Give me a better adjective."

"Like shit?"

"Glum!" He scowled, his hands bracing on the kitchen island across from the boy. "And what're you doing at home so early? Don't you have school?" 

"I'm in college." 

"So?"

"So I don't have classes every day!"

"Then stay on campus and socialize! Do you think I'm paying that much just for you to attend some bullshit class anyone can watch gratis online? College is an exclusive club! It's the people you meet there that matter!" Arslan jutted out his chin, his head shaking, a long sigh hissing out. Little expectation he had for his three younger children, too blessed with their wealth, their name, their genetics, and a mother who cared enough to act caring and kept telling them that they were enough while their mediocrity was insufferable – too blessed it became a curse. Had Yilmaz been fat or ugly or both, all the girls who stole glances at him wouldn't deign to be in his presence, and he would have to read and learn and live that which would render him genuinely interesting. Arslan heaved another long sigh, flicking his eyes to the tablet. "And what is it you're wasting your life on?" 

 "I'm socializing, like you asked," the boy countered. 

"By looking at some glorified, animated women?"

"This is a simulation game, old man." Slouching on the stool, Yilmaz tossed over a lazy glance. "I get to choose the women I like, and with each one, there is a different plot to experience. So much more satisfying."

You fucking faggot! Struggling to keep the words down, Arslan felt his throat bob. "You'll never be satisfied unless you set out and conquer. What exactly have you set out for, let alone conquer, by clicking on some animated boobs? And may I remind you that animation of women aren't really women?" 

"So what if they aren't? Who cares when they're so much better than what real women can offer?" Cocking his head, Yilmaz slumped. "You've seen Rosario Jarquin. You really think I want a girlfriend like that? But I know my place, and what is expected of me. So I did my part. I took care of House Jarquin for you. Wouldn't it count as some sort of conquest? Don't I at least get some credits for that? Is it better for her to catch me with a pretty girl who busts table, or find me seeking refugee in some games?" 

The volley of angry questions or accusations turned Arslan at a loss. He wanted to tell the boy that he might very well go out and be with as many pretty girls as he wished so long as he played his cards right. That said, it was better to learn this kind of lesson from experience than words. "You're old enough now," he observed at length. "I suppose a night out with your brother won't hurt. Put down the damn tablet and meet him. I'll let Serhat know you're coming." 

Yilmaz raised a brow. 

"Call Serhat Qusbecq," Arslan said to his watch and left it on speaker. 

The other picked up. "Hello." The greetings came after a moment of hesitation. 

"I'm with Yilmaz, and he's coming to your place. Take him out for the night." 

Another instant of pause. "Tonight? You sure?"

"Yes."

"No, I mean Yilmaz. Bro, you there?" 

The boy stared up from across the counter, "Yes, Serhat."

"Do you want to come out with me? Does Mom know?"

"I'm a grown man," Yilmaz taunted. "I'm coming with you, and Mom doesn't have to know." 

A sigh rippled through the speaker. "Okay. Drop by whenever." 

Yilmaz slipped off the stool and left when they both hung up. 

"Have fun," Arslan shouted after him, his voice ricocheting along the foyer. When he heard the boy's car leave the driveway, he went to change and withdrew to his meditation room. 

Watering the plants that lined the russet wall, he brooded over the desperation to seek alternatives when effort didn't match the reward, when reality seemed to disappoint so much and offer so little. To young men like Yilmaz who had never learned real hardship, and young women too, they never had anything at stake, nothing they needed to fight for, which in turn left them in such ennui they'd gladly take any poison to salve. The simulation games could be the next new drugs no less addictive than the Ice Warshon produced.

Padding across the jute rug, he plopped on the circular pouf on crossed legs; the back of his hands rested on either knee stretching out. Of all his sons, none brought him peace of mind. He heaved a long sigh, his eyes closed. 

He didn't come out of the mediation room three hours later and went directly to his office. He had misspent the day. Now he must make up for it. Six messages from Kieren Zaman awaited him to discuss the final debate with Mustafa tomorrow. He apologized for having missed out on the last day, and it was an effort to feign enthusiasm when he already knew that they would win, and their victory wouldn't look nice on the man claiming it. A smirk narrowed his gaze. 

Poor, dear Kieren. 

When all the back and forth of calls and messages wrapped up well past dinner time, he poured himself a glass and lounged in a rocking chair next to his desk that faced the balcony. He had tried to call Guiliana the night before. But the whore dared hang up on him. A sneer cocked his brow while he tried dialing again. It went through this time, and she was as spicy a woman as she had always been. Arslan mused, reflecting on what Serhat said in the morning. The wine made him queasy, as did their bargain. 

As Guiliana said, he could very well ask Warshon himself, but the favor would be too costly. Besides what he told her that the gesture wouldn't look good on the Conservatives, Arslan didn't wish to give Warshon another reason to resent him if he hadn't resented him enough. Asking him to treat the wife of the man who got him shot wouldn't exactly serve the purpose. All things considered, he needed Guiliana for the task also because he wanted to test how Warshon would take the request after all these years. 

He got up to finish more work by the desk while the night thickened. Hours past midnight, Arslan logged into his proxy account and found a new message from Nikita Ozal reporting on the exchange of words he just had with Warshon. 

On hold until after the debate when the target leaves for the airport.

Arlsan squinted. He let Ozal on Kieren Zaman's schedule after the man reported Warshon's plan to him. A window of opportunity opened tonight as Kieren went out of town to visit his mother. But Warshon declined it, insisting that action be taken only after the debate. 

He's waiting for the scandal of Kadin Bashara with Vittorio Lori, so Kieren's accident that is to follow can appear framed as retaliation from the Globalists – Arslan pored it over as he leaned back in his chair. Warshon had planned everything out, now it's up to him to time it. Should Serhat leak the scandal now, it would look forced – as if it was intended by the Conservatives to sabotage the debate. No. Arslan moved his jaw sideways. It must come after. A smirk thinned his lips. While he never wanted children but had them anyway only for a statement that aligned with the party's mantra, the conservative value, Warshon did make him proud in a way no money could buy, or power procure, a way unbeknownst to him. And it gave him a headache as he recounted the same warning from his running mate and stepson. Men like them were alike, whose stance was shaped by their interest, and the same interest bound them to a group, a party, a nation. Warshon, however, was built different, a perfect weapon no one could harness. Money, power, women, he had them all but found treasure in none. 

Was Serhat right about him being wrong? Could the little witch still have sway over his son? Whether Guiliana was still of interest to Warshon, Arslan had to wait for his test to run its course.