by Sadie Black
"Your mic is going to go live any second now,” the assistant whispered. “Go out there and have fun. Remember that we're live."
"Son of one of the most well loved men in New York's history, the Italian heartthrob of every voting age woman's dreams, welcome Luka Belmonte to the show!"
Irritation crawled over his skin, Luka had to keep his hands inside his pockets to conceal his balled fists. No matter what, tonight he had to come across as relatable and down to earth. Votes were on the line. If he failed to get elected, he'd tarnish the Belmonte name, and there was no way he was gonna do that to his father.
The applause was loud, but not rambunctious. It was time to go on stage and make things right. Luka strolled forward, doing everything in his power to leave his ruffled feathers behind.
The bright lights of the stage blinded him momentarily, and as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the studio audience for the first time. Breece really knew how to pack 'em in. But as he saw the audience for the first time, they also caught their first glance of him. Several guests whooped, the sounds largely feminine.
If Breece hadn't drawn attention to his appearance, the audience wouldn't be catcalling him like a stripper. It would be an uphill battle to get them to take him seriously.
Tucking away his aggravation, Luka managed to unclench a hand and held it up in greeting to the crowd as he strolled across the stage. Ryan Breece stood from behind his desk and shimmied around to receive Luka as he approached. A firm handshake was exchanged, and Breece cupped Luka's hand before he had time to pull away.
"Welcome," he said. The mics were off, and Breece's band was playing along with the applause. "Let's have fun tonight. Sit down and we'll get started."
"Don't make me look bad — let's keep it about the politics," Luka replied, but there was no response. Breece gestured towards the couch, and both men settled back into their seats as the applause died.
"Welcome Luka, and thanks for joining us here tonight. It's hard to believe that a decade ago, it was your father sitting on this very couch... Honestly, we'd have him sitting here again tonight, but he refused our invitation to interview, so we had to go with the next best thing."
Peals of laughter burst from the audience, and Luka felt his face heat up. Beneath the makeup they had him in, he was sure it wouldn't show, but he felt red anger heat his cheeks. The tie around his neck tightened, the urge to yank it free growing. What was Breece doing?
"No, but seriously, it's good to see young people getting involved in politics. Every election we hear about how young voters skip the polls, but with someone their age to identify with, I'm guessing that we'll see an increase in the youth vote. 'Go to the polls to get a shot at Belmonte's pole', am I right, ladies?"
“Yow! Woo!” Another round of feminine catcalls before laughter took over. Luka clenched his jaw.
"It's good to be here, Ryan. Ever since I was a little kid watching my dad, I knew that I wanted to make something great of myself so I'd have the chance to follow in his footsteps. It's an honor to say that I'm finally making good on that dream."
"You know, it's interesting you should say that," Breece said. The man pulled at the jacket of his gray suit and turned a little in his chair to better face Luka.
Dark, slicked back hair gleamed beneath the stage lights. The sleekness of it reminded Luka of a fish's smooth scales. "Your father ran for mayor well in his forties after a long career as a defense attorney. Not only was the wisdom of age on his side, but also an understanding of the justice system and a good idea of government workings. What skills or qualifications do you have to show, apart from a last name your father built from the ground up?"
A question like that was well anticipated. Even before he'd announced his candidacy, his father had told him to expect it. As young and inexperienced as he was, Luka had little more than his father's reputation to prove his worth. A positive spin on an otherwise uninspired career history had been prepared.
"As any child of a politician will tell you, the job doesn't stop just because you're out of the office. Ever since I was little, my father would come home and keep working. Even from a young age, I assisted him in any way I could. I grew up in this life. Even when my father retired, we'd talk about political happenings and decisions as they occurred, and often times I'd arrive at better solutions than the party in power. When my dad saw what I was capable of, he advised me to start gathering signatures for candidacy. And now here I am, talking with you."
"So, the real answer is 'nothing'. Gotcha."
The audience laughed again, and hot rage crept up Luka's spine and spread through his skull.
"With all due respect," Luka said, voice wavering with the effort it took to reel himself back, "I'm here to talk about my platform. I'm not just some pretty boy with a famous last name — this is what I'm passionate about."
"I'm a little Luka-warm about that," Ryan said among chuckles of laughter from his guests. "It seems to me that as recently as three months ago, you were passionate about staying out late every night to party. There's been more than one instance where a reporter has taken pictures of you blacked out or unruly after a late night on the town. Why the sudden urge to settle into a boring political career? Or do you intend to make partying one of your political mandates?"
Luka had prepared himself for tough questions, but he had expected Breece would engage him in polite conversation. Instead, the man was on the offensive, slamming Luka's name with every chance he got. The laughter from the audience was almost non stop, and Luka wasn't sure how much more he could take. Lips set tight, hands trembling with rage, he knew he'd blow if Breece didn't stop with the jabs.
"There comes a time in every man's life where he realizes that there are things more important than his selfish vices. My father encouraged me to think of the future and invest in myself."
"Ahh," Ryan said, the corners of his lips turning up in a cruel, impish smirk. "I understand. Mr. Marcello Belmonte is telling you it's time to Marcell-out so you can cash it in for the future."
The limit had been broken. Luka could tolerate being made fun of, could tolerate being hooted at based on his appearance, but he would never tolerate a jab made at his father. He rose from his seat on the couch, hands visibly clenched into tightened fists. The way he grit his teeth caused his neck to jut out and his jaw to broaden. Luka's brow sloped in abject rage.
"My father is a good man," he hissed. The sound picked up on the mic and was equalized, making it just as audible as his regular speaking voice. The Italian accent he stripped from his voice in his professional life bled through clearly, stirred to the surface by roiling emotions. "My father did more for New York City than any other man has ever done, and I will not sit here and allow you to shit on his name like he's some kind of skeezeball!"
Higher thoughts were no longer accessible — all Luka knew was rage. With a ferocious swipe he grabbed Breece's coffee mug and swung it against the floor. Black ceramic flew in all directions, and whitened coffee splattered across the stage alongside it. The audience gasped before growing dead silent. Breece remained planted in his seat, gripping the arms of his chair. Breaking the shithead's belongings kept him from breaking the shithead's face.
"When you're ready to talk about politics, and not about what I look like, then maybe we can have a conversation. But I swear to God that if you ever talk about my pops the way you've been talking about my pops tonight, you'll never talk to any Belmonte ever again. You piece of shit," Luka snarled.
The tiny microphone clipped to a buttonhole on the front of his shirt had been deactivated, so no one in the audience heard. "You goddamn piece of shit, making fun of the Belmonte name. If you think runnin' for mayor is so fucking easy, then why don't you run against me next time? Because there's gonna to be a next time. I'm Luka fuckin' Belmonte, and I'm going to show you that I have what it fuckin' takes."
Security rushed the stage, Breece's eyes were widened, stunned into silence. When the first of the big men grabbed at Luka's arm
to pin it behind his back, Luka turned his head sharply to look back at him.
"Time to go, punk," the guard grunted. With a forceful shove he cleared Luka away from Breece's desk and pushed him towards the wings. A second security staff member followed closely beside in case Luka got unruly. The escort was unnecessary — Luka had been prepared to storm offstage himself in the seconds following his spiel.
"Well," Breece said as Luka was cleared from the stage, "Luka Belmonte, everyone. That was a wild ride, wasn't it? It's going to be an interesting election, that's for sure."
The election. As the weight of the word sunk in, Luka realized his mistake — he'd made a fool of himself on national television. The eyes of New York City had been watching, and he'd given them a show they'd never forget. Come election time, who was going to vote for 'the guy who blew up at Ryan Breece'?
"Shit," Luka murmured. "God fucking damn it, I can't believe I did that."
But there was no going back now. What was done was done. Luka would either be forgiven for it and never let it happen again, or he'd suffer from the outburst for the rest of his public career.
Whatever the outcome, it was time to switch gears into recovering his public image, and fast. Another gaffe would sink him. It was time to shake some hands, kiss some babies, and leave this mess behind him where it belonged.
* * *
Ciara
Not far from TCD's office was a stouter, older building that had begun to show its age. Below a broad overhang, the glass doors leading into the lobby had been painted with the number 473. A quick glance to the paper in her hand confirmed she was in the right place. Luka Belmonte's campaign headquarters waited for her inside. The first step of Ciara's journey was underway.
A doorman in a fine suit pulled open the glass door for her and bowed his head in greeting.
"Good morning, ma'am," he bade her. For all its rough edges and tougher neighborhoods, Ciara still hadn't lost her appetite for New York's charms. Although she knew he was paid to do so, she found herself flustered as the doorman greeted her. The attention made her feel like the celebrity she one day hoped to be.
"Good morning, sir," she replied politely. Their paths crossed, and Ciara entered the lobby. The age that ate at the outside of the building was not present here. Beautiful marble floors stretched out to a hallway lined with elevators located at the back of the space. Beautiful potted plants, leaves long and tropical, lined the walls on either side of the hall. The Belmonte family spared no expense when it came to headquarters.
The invitation Ciara had received asked her to meet her campaign manager on the fifth floor. As soon as the elevator doors opened onto the first of many offices, chaos reigned. Ringing phones and bodies moving furniture created a symphony of noise. Beyond that, people hurried back and forth, passing documents and exchanging messages. Had Ciara not known better, she would've thought she'd entered a miniature stock market.
After the antics on Ryan Breece's show last night, Ciara wasn't surprised that the headquarters was in a state of panic. What Luka had done was a potential career ender, and his career was still in its fledgling stages. Fallout had to be dealt with urgently, or Belmonte would be out of the race before it began in earnest.
"Excuse me." Ciara caught the arm of a man rushing past and held him in place for a minute. Frazzled wasn't the right word for how stressed he looked, but it was close. There was a haunted cut in his eyes that spoke of little sleep and far too much to do.
"What? I'm busy." Curt, but to the point. Ciara's lips tightened, unwilling to back down.
"My name is Ciara Simmons. I'm a volunteer. Lisa Olsen told me to find her when I got in this morning, but I'm not sure who to talk to. Can you point me in her direction?"
"Christ almighty," the man murmured. "A newbie. Just what we need right now. Lisa's right there, the lady with the gray hair and the pajama pants."
Pajama pants? Ciara looked where the man had pointed. A heavy set woman rifling through a stack of documents was wearing thin pink cotton pants decorated with small, white rabbits on her lower half. Above she wore a loose graphic t-shirt featuring a peacock. The t-shirt was covered with a woman's suit jacket that was a few sizes too large for her. On her feet she wore fuzzy pink slippers. Despite the juvenile fashion choices, the woman's hair was coiffed in a short, respectable style. It was messy, but at one time it had been carefully curled and set in place. If she was dressed better Ciara thought she would have looked like an actress from old Hollywood.
"Marcello's campaign files," she called out to the office, "does someone have Marcello's campaign files?"
"Good luck," the man said as Ciara dropped her hand. "It's busier than a Chinese restaurant in Brooklyn on Christmas day here. You might be better off coming back tomorrow — or next week – or maybe not at all."
But the warning was not enough to scare Ciara off. There was reporting to be done and a deadline to be reached, and she refused to waste a second of what little time she had.
"Thanks. Good luck to you as well." Everyone in the office was going to need it, and maybe Ciara would, too. If Luka sank himself before the election ended, she'd be out of a story. As the man hurried away, she approached Lisa.
"Anyone? Am I talking to an office of the deaf? Marcello's campaign files, people. I need them!"
"Excuse me," Ciara cut in. Lisa turned to her, revealing the shoddy makeup she wore. Smudged eyeliner and sticky mascara darkened her eyes, and the lipstick she wore had rubbed away in places.
"You have Marcello's files?"
"No, ma'am. My name is Ciara Simmons, and I was supposed to report to you at 8:30AM today. I'm a new volunteer."
"Good lord," Lisa breathed. "Thank you for getting here on time. I'm just about blind and crazy from dealing with this mess, and I need a break. You're a small blessing on an otherwise hellish day."
Well, that was unexpected. Ciara smiled, relieved that the insane looking woman was glad to see her despite all this mess.
"You couldn't have come at a better time. We're going to need all hands on deck to recover after the stunt Luka just pulled. I take it you saw last night's Late Nights With Ryan Breece?"
"I did."
"Well, just goes to show that we need all the help we can get with this boy. He's every bit his father. Now come along; let me show you around the office." The suit coat she wore slipped down her shoulders a little, and Lisa sighed loud and long as she hiked it back up.
"I should start your introduction by telling you I don't usually look like I belong panhandling in the subway. Most days, you'll find I am a respectable woman with a gift for making buffoonish men look like good candidates for positions of power — bless the patriarchy and all that. Today, I look like I belong in a mental asylum because the campaign has been reeling after Luka's outburst on national television. As soon as the segment was over, I got up off of my couch, kissed my adorable Jack Russell farewell, and hauled ass back to work. No time to get dressed. No time for shoes. One of the lovely ladies we work with lent me her jacket, but I am starting to feel that it only serves to make me look more ridiculous. Thoughts?"
"It does look a little over-the-top," Ciara admitted with a wry smile. "I think you can pull off sleepwear fine on its own, throwing business into the mix adds an extra dimension of insanity."
"Point taken." With a flap of her arms, Lisa shed the donated jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. "Michelle? Someone tell Michelle that her jacket is on the back of my chair. I'm taking a break. If anything else goes wrong, for the love of God, call my cellphone."
A few mumbled affirmations were her reply, and Lisa turned to Ciara in full. The deep wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and lips spoke of happiness. It was a comfort to see that even facing one of the worst days, Lisa was able to smile.
"This is the fifth floor, known as Center HQ. This is where all general business is done. My office as campaign manager is here, so are the official plans, tour dates, contacts, et cetera. When either Mr. Belmonte co
mes into the office, they have quarters here. Father and son are welcome, and are to be respected like any boss would be. What they say, goes. Unless it's Luka and the idea seems harebrained, then what he says goes until I'm able to correct him and set him straight. Seems good so far?"
Ciara nodded, letting her eyes wander from Lisa to soak in the room. Beyond the swarm of office members and the constant noise, she made out order. At the back of the room were several closed doors she assumed led into offices. Among them was Luka's room. What she wouldn't give to get a good look inside of it, and maybe a candid picture or two of what a party boy kept on hand.
"Seems great," Ciara said with a nod. "So is it safe to say that this floor is largely for the campaign's paid staff?"
"You've got it," Lisa replied. "The upper floors where the volunteers work are for more straightforward tasks. On floor six there's the field department, where our volunteers make cold calls to seek funding. The seventh floor, where you'll be working, is the communications department. You have no idea how thrilled all of us are that we have a recent journalist graduate on the force. If you do a good job for us in the next few months, we might ask you to come on full time as a paid employee. There are so few good bloggers and social media presences out there, and for a man like Luka Belmonte, you have no idea how important that is."
"I feel like I understand." Although he'd been charming and polite on the streets, Luka had shown just how unstable he was to the world. A good handle on communications was essential — Lisa was right.
"Then we've got our fundraising department above that, and the legal department following. Law students will do just about anything for free, if you give them the credit they deserve. I've got a great co-op going with some of the local universities, and it's saving the Belmonte family a fortune."
"And on the last floor?" Ciara asked.
"The last floor is PR. They're paid, and they're paid well, but we've also sent them a slew of volunteers to take some of the edge off. I haven't gone to visit since last night. I'm going to keep sending food deliveries up until one of them sends correspondence back down to let me know how many are still alive up there."
