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Wondered where I’d been for almost three decades.
Wondered if I was truly Cem’s son.
Not that there was any denying it.
I was my father’s heir. You only had to see us in the same room together to be sure of that. I could be his younger twin. A clone he’d commissioned and designed. A son that’d returned to him with so many flaws. Flaws that he’d spent years eradicating.
Scents of hash and tobacco made the air heavy and misty as the small congregation of my father’s most trusted generals all watched me warily. They’d heard about me no doubt. One or two I remembered from their part in breaking me into the man I was today.
The past five years had been...
I balled my hands and struggled to find a word.
An English word. A Turkish word.
What word could describe what I’d endured?
In the end, I gave up because there was no such description.
I’d survived, barely.
I was alive, mostly.
Yet I wasn’t me.
My soul had died, and in its place I was empty.
The tricks he’d played. The tests he’d given. The torture he’d wielded.
I’d endured as much as I could.
I’d endured until I broke.
Now, my empty mind was pliable.
I was exactly what he needed me to be.
A man with a bushy black moustache and equally bushy black eyebrows came to stand before me where Cem and I waited on a small dais in the southern alcove of the smoking room. Royal-blue velvet curtains draped on either side of us, muting the light coming in from the moody stained-glass window.
Bowing at my father, the man shifted closer to me. His shiny shoes nudged against the carpet-draped podium.
His dark, cruel eyes met mine.
His thin, malicious lips tipped up.
And with a suave bit of showmanship, he reached for my hand that wasn’t clutching my cane and brought my knuckles to his lips.
I was empty.
Hollow.
Forsaken and devoid of any emotions except the ones Cem had programmed into me.
“It is an honour, efendim, to finally kiss the hand of the pure-blooded son of my patron. My knife is yours, my death is yours, my loyalty is yours until the end.”
The familiar dialect of my native language swirled inside my head.
I hadn’t heard English in so very long.
Efendim echoed over and over. The Turkish word for my lord or master.
I was no longer a refugee.
I was a lord.
And my father was the boss. The patron of these cutthroat dealers and traffickers, killers and criminals. But also in the room were members of parliament. Two men who’d risen up the ranks thanks to Cem lobbying their parties and buying their souls in the process.
Cem watched us closely.
Watched his generals pay homage to the man who would lead them if he died.
He watched me.
My skin prickled, and more fear percolated in my belly.
I wouldn’t give him any reason to put me back down there. To turn on that machine again. To give me another lesson I might not survive.
“I accept your knife, your death, and your loyalty,” I said firmly. “We are bonded until the grave.”
My mouth worked.
My tongue formed Turkish words.
And another general came to swear his allegiance.
I accepted his pledge. I gave one of my own.
I repeated the ceremony until the twelve men in the room had all given me their lives and loyalty, and Cem nodded silently in approval.
Only once everyone had lined up below our dais did Cem come toward me, place his hand over mine on my cane, and say to his generals, “My son, my lion. I call to each of you to teach Aslan how my empire runs. His education will begin in earnest with every operation from the lowest of drug runs to the most expensive female trade. He will learn the languages of politics, he will become fluent in the darkness where we hide our other wares, and through your guidance, you will inherit a worthy leader for when I am gone.”
Cem faced me, smiled, and kissed my freshly shaven cheek.
He’d told me about this part.
He’d schooled me on what was expected between the current boss and the newly crowned master.
I held out my left hand.
Taking a delicate jewelled knife from his breast suit pocket, Cem sliced my palm from thumb to pinkie.
Blood welled.
Dark and ruby.
But I didn’t flinch.
I barely even felt the pain.
It was nothing to what I’d learned to endure.
Without a word, Cem handed the pretty dagger to me. Shifting as best I could and resting my lionhead carved cane against my thigh, I took his offered hand and cut him with the exact same slice.
His nostrils flared.
He sucked in a breath.
He showed a greater reaction than I did, and the men watching us noticed.
Some frowned a little. Others looked at me with greater appreciation. And I held their curious stares as I clamped my bleeding hand to that of my father’s. Our blood beaded and dripped onto the carpet below, squeezed out by the savage grip we used.
