Render unto Kyzer: Chapter 1

[Rōnin 453]

The Golden Mare

"Power isn’t taken. It’s given by those who think you work for them."

 

Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus – 1991

 

Beneath the moonlight, Kyrenia was ancient and electric. Harbor lights burned in reflections across the water, painting the sea with false colors that promised safety. To a tourist, it was perfect, postcard beautiful, the kind of place you told friends you’d found by accident. But the real Kyrenia lived in the places no one photographed. In the backrooms of silence and smoke.

 

The air was so thick with humidity it wasn’t your clothes that clung to your skin, it was the air itself, heavy with sea salt, exhaust, and the faint sweetness of citrus drifting down from the hills. Waves lapped lazily against the worn stone harbor, brushing against a city caught between centuries, conquered by many, owned by none. From the heights of the medieval castle that loomed above, Kyrenia unfolded in winding stairwells and alleyways, its narrow streets threading through it like veins in a long suffering body.

 

By day, it wore its mask well. Tourists wandered sunlit lanes with cameras slung around their necks, sipping Turkish coffee beneath whitewashed buildings trimmed in cobalt blue. Fishing boats bobbed at the marina, and the air buzzed with languages from every corner of Europe. It looked like paradise. But when the sun dipped low, Kyrenia shed its skin. The colors dimmed and the laughter thinned. The truth emerged as weathered, watchful, and wired tight. Northern Cyprus was a country that did not officially exist. A state unrecognized, a dotted line on a map drawn in dispute. And in places like that, men like Kemal Söze didn’t just survive. They thrived.

 

Kemal Söze wasn’t born into power. He built it, brick by bloody brick, in the cracks of a broken nation. His name was rarely spoken aloud, not out of respect, but because those who said it too freely often disappeared. Some believed he came from a line of smugglers. Others swore he had ties to the Turkish deep state. He moved best in fog and controlled ports without ever holding a deed, owning men without putting anything in writing. His reach stretched from Kyrenia’s waterfront to the far side of Nicosia, with lines pulling through Istanbul, Tripoli, and Moscow. Politicians, police chiefs, and judges owed him favors. Those who didn’t, owed him fear.

 

But it wasn’t his wealth that made him dangerous. It was his patience. Kemal never shouted. He never threatened. He let others underestimate him, let them believe he was just another well dressed ghost in the casino crowd. He waited. Always. And when it came time to strike, he did it the only way he knew how... cleanly, and without hesitation. And tonight, he was going to take everything.

 

On the waterfront, vacationers stumbled in drunken cheer, the smell of grilled bass, lemon, and raki drifted on the night air. Sunburned expats made their way to taxis, wallets lighter from a night at The Golden Mare. A Turkish jeweler laughed as he bartered with a French couple, though his eyes never left the sapphire on the woman's finger. They came for the illusion and they never noticed the watchers. Men who didn’t smile. Men who belonged here. Men like Kemal.

 

Kemal passed them all. He had long since learned that you only acknowledged what you could afford to own. This wasn’t a postcard. It was a machine. A place with no flag. No gods. Kemal walked the harbor’s edge with the knowledge that everything here answered to him now. Above, the castle loomed. The Byzantines had claimed it. So had the Venetians. The Ottomans. The British. All had held Kyrenia, and none had kept it. And yet, tonight, it was his. He paused at the edge of the dock and looked down into the dark water, its surface rippling. The sea erased all names in time. That was the truth of power. You could carve an empire into stone. Build a legacy in blood. But the tide always rose without mercy. One day, it would wash everything away. 

 

But not tonight. Tonight, Kyrenia belonged to Kemal Söze. And tomorrow, someone else would learn what it meant to kneel in the land of ghosts.

 

***

 

Inside The Golden Mare Casino, the interior was littered with golden elegance. Chandeliers cast an amber glow, and the air was ripe with the smoke of Cuban cigars and Turkish Samsun tobacco. At the tables, men leaned in close, whispering in Turkish, Greek, Russian, the languages of survivors and dealmakers. Here, in this forgotten corner of the Mediterranean, the law was little more than a rumor. A dealer flipped a king of spades at one of the high stakes tables. A waiter crossed silently across the floor in a black waistcoat, placing silver trays of bread, olives, and meze in front of guests who barely noticed. Across from him, a man exhaled sharply and pushed forward a stack of euros and lira. No one flinched. Money never stayed still in a place like this.

 

But above them, in a private salon, the real game was unfolding...

 

Kemal Söze sat across from his adversary, Alihan Demir, his presence composed. He wore a gray suit tailored so precisely it moved like a second skin. His dark eyes were dangerous not because they stirred, but because they didn’t. His face, clean-shaven, bore no emotion, yet his stillness spoke volumes. Every movement he made, adjusting a cufflink, lifting a glass, was deliberate. He was not the kind of man who demanded attention. He was the kind who made silence louder, the kind who, even in stillness, made others lean in. And tonight, he was staring down the man who had ruled Kyrenia’s underworld for over two decades. For now.

 

The private salon atop The Golden Mare Casino was a room designed to whisper wealth rather than shout it. The walls were draped in deep red Ottoman silk, an antique Persian rug, its edges frayed by age but still magnificent, sprawled beneath their feet. A single brass lamp separated them. Between the men sat two crystal glasses, half-filled with raki that caught the lamplight like water laced with fire. It was the only thing between them now. Not trust or loyalty. Just glass, alcohol, and a history soaked in blood.

 

Alihan looked worn. The kind of tired that came not from age, but from the erosion of living too long without fear. His once imposing frame had softened, his black hair receded, and his mustache had surrendered to white. Yet what had truly aged him were his eyes, dulled by time and compromises, and by knowing he’d become too comfortable in a world that demanded hunger. Still, he managed a grin, showing off gold capped teeth as he swirled his glass. His rings clicked against the crystal as he watched Kemal the way one might watch a blade in someone else's hand. "Tell me, Kemal," Alihan began, his Istanbul accent thick and rough, "What does a man want, in the end?"

 

Kemal didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his glass, every movement unhurried. He sipped the raki. The flower burned cold in his throat. His suit, cut to perfection in Milan, clung to his shoulders like armor. Understated cufflinks caught the light but there were no logos or crests. Just undeniable wealth. Kemal set the glass down, gently, and looked across the table. "To be remembered," he said simply.

 

Alihan chuckled, the sound dry and knowing. He tapped his ring against the glass in a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt like a heartbeat about to fail. "No," he said, shaking his head. "A man wants to own something no one can take from him. His own corner of the world."

 

There it was. The test.

 

Kemal knew it well. He’d spent years in Alihan’s shadow, wearing the mask of the loyal protégé. Silent when others spoke. Observing when others postured. Letting the old man believe he was just another clever student of the trade. But patience was a blade, and tonight, it would draw blood. Kemal's gaze didn’t waver. "Is that what you want, Alihan?" he asked, voice like velvet over steel. "To own something no one can take from you?"

 

Alihan's grin twitched. His fingers tapped the table twice, delicate but unmistakable. A signal. A relic of the old world, when his word meant life or death. "I already do," he said slowly.

 

Kemal picked up his glass again but didn’t drink. Instead, he turned it slightly, watching the liquid catch the light. Then he placed it back down, "Not anymore."

 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The air grew heavier. Then, without ceremony, the door opened. Three men stepped in. Their presence spoke volumes. They had once answered to Alihan. Now, they belonged to Kemal. Below them, the casino carried on. Laughter, dice, the rustle of chips. But up here, everything was still. Alihan didn’t turn to look. He didn’t need to. His eyes stayed on Kemal as he slowly exhaled, then ran his tongue across his teeth. "You know what I admire about you, Kemal?" he said, calm but tight. "You never ask for permission." He raised his glass again, swirling it, the liquid inside trembling with the motion. "But I wonder… Are you ready for the weight of this chair? It’s heavier than it looks."

 

Kemal leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table, "I’ve been carrying it for years."

 

There was a pause... tense, brittle. Alihan laughed, brittle and bone-dry, "I should’ve had you killed six months ago."

 

***

 

By dawn, Alihan Demir was gone. 

 

There was no spectacle, no bloodstained floors, no screams echoing through The Golden Mare. That was not Kemal Söze's way. Alihan had been escorted from the private salon with the same courtesy he had once commanded in life. Two of Kemal’s men flanked him without a word. No one in the casino turned to look. The silence was part of the theater, and a choreography of erasure. Outside, the city had fell into the stillness between night and morning. The humidity had softened, and a Mercedes idled at the curb, its windows tinted to keep the world out.

 

Alihan entered without resistance. There was no struggle. No final insult. He simply buttoned his coat, adjusted his collar, and stepped into the back seat as though it were a carriage bound for another meeting. He knew where they were taking him. The road wound south, away from the city, up into the cliffs that framed the edge of Kyrenia like a crown. Below, the sea shone in silver ribbons, vast and endless. Alihan sat in silence, the leather of the seat groaning beneath him. The driver said nothing. Neither did the two men beside him. Finally, Alihan spoke, "He was always going to do it this way," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Like pulling a thorn." He laughed once, bitterly. "You know, there was a time I thought he might actually ask for my blessing. Thought maybe he had that much sentiment left in him."

 

No one answered.

 

The car turned off the road onto a gravel path that led to the cliff’s edge, a stretch of land known only to fishermen and men who didn’t need to be found. The sea beat gently against the rocks below as they stepped out. The air was cooler here, touched with wind. The moon hung low over the water, bright and indifferent. Alihan looked out at the horizon, hands tucked behind his back. "It’s beautiful," he said. "I never looked at it long enough." The wind tugged at his coat.

 

Behind him, one of the men stepped forward. No ceremony. A single suppressed shot.

 

Alihan staggered once, like a man trying to remember a step in an old dance, then crumpled to his knees and pitched forward. No cries. No final words. Just the slap of his body against the stone. The men moved quickly. His pockets were emptied, his coat removed. No rings or wallet, no trace left behind. His body was dragged to the edge and tipped without pause. The sea took him as it had taken kings, warriors, and forgotten sailors. The Mediterranean did not mourn. Kemal believed in many things. Elegance, order, patience. Mess was not one of them. Alihan would not be buried, as that would suggest legacy.

 

The Mediterranean had consumed greater men, and it would do so again.

 

 

(2079 words)

Edited Sunday at 07:07 PM by Rōnin