Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Elizabeth

I was so busy for so long once I got into the office that it was impossible to think of anything else.

I may or may not have insinuated that my ‘medical emergency’ was of the lady problems variety, which, blessedly, made everyone too uncomfortable to ask me any questions about, so I didn’t have to lie to anyone’s face.

As much as I may not have bought into Michael’s politics like a lot of the people who worked for him did, I liked them all as people, and it didn’t feel right to lie to their faces. It was hard enough not to blurt out that this man they almost idolized was owned by the Bratva and was helping them get away with exploiting women.

Everyone seemed to be congregating in my office, so overwhelmed by the damage control we needed to do that they wanted to be close to me to make sure whatever wording they used on social media or to answer emails was crafted in such a way that no one could twist it into a different narrative.

That was my specialty after all.

For once, I was happy to have all the buzz around me, the crowd making me feel safe. Even if the energy in the room was frenetic and overwhelming.

Hey, at least it made the day fly by.

Especially because all I wanted to do was slip into a ride-share and go home to Elian. Maybe have a repeat of the little tub scene. And more.

“You okay?” one of the staffers asked, making me realize I’d grumbled aloud about my ever-present desire that was a constant dull ache in my core, no matter how busy I got.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling hard. “How did his interview go?” I asked, waving toward the TV where several of the others were still gathered. I couldn’t bring myself to watch him use my words to get himself out of trouble for using his own.

“Great, actually. Better than we could have hoped. Even the interviewer was agreeing with him at the end, and she’d started off coming for his throat.”

“Nice,” I said. “Alright. What is he up to now…” I said, talking to myself as I tried to find my notes where I’d scribbled his schedule.

“He’s coming back here to be coached a little, then he has that one late-night show to do.”

Right.

That was the one we had to be the most worried about. That particular host was smart and very quick with comebacks and facts. Who would fluster and piss off the senator if he didn’t keep his cool and take his time to answer, staying on message.

“Okay. Perfect. We can all head out as soon as he does,” I said. “He won’t come back here after. And we’ve had a busy day.”

They all nodded, looking as tired as I felt. Shirts that had been buttoned up all the way were looser, their clothes wrinkled, their hair mussed. And I was pretty sure someone had gone on no fewer than five trips to the local coffee shop to keep us all energized and going.

I was sure Michael would be just as tired as we were, so he was likely to be grumpy and short-tempered when he came in, but I was still going to try to use the opportunity to get the confession out of him.

It felt like a good time, actually. I could put it in a ‘we just put out one fire, and I need to know if there are any more that could be coming’ way.

He’d been so close to telling me the last time.

I just had to get a few moments alone with him before he had to leave again.

Then all of this would be over.

For all of us.

No more running for my life through buildings or getting attacked in my own home.

And, for the staff, no more working their tails off on a campaign that wasn’t going to go anywhere.

Of course, the end of this also meant the beginning of my new life. Which included leaving Brooklyn, my apartment, and, well, Elian. Who was probably the first real connection I’d made since my grandfather passed.

True, he said I could stay there as long as I needed to figure out my next steps. But I was pretty sure he didn’t mean indefinitely. No matter how much I wanted that.

“He just pulled up,” one of the staffers said, coming in with another desperately needed coffee for me.

“You’re a god amongst men,” I told him, taking a moment to enjoy my first sip before the senator made it up here. “When he comes in, let everyone know I want a couple of minutes alone with him before we all gather,” I told him, getting a nod.

“Beth,” the senator said, coming into my office looking a little bleary-eyed.

“Senator,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you stop somewhere on your way back from the last interview?” I asked.

“Stopped to have a drink,” he said, shrugging.

From the looks of his eyes, it wasn’t one drink. Three at least. And liquor worked one of two ways on him. One, it made him horny and handsy. Or two, it made him short-tempered.

I was silently praying for horny and handsy. The late-night host was male. So that wasn’t likely to be as big of a problem.

We had about two hours until the show. Hopefully that was enough time to sober him up.

Until then, maybe it was time to try to take advantage of his lowered inhibitions.

I clicked on my recording app, then moved over toward where he was sitting on the couch, yanking at his tie.

“You did great today,” I told him. “I think polls are going to show things turning back in our favor. But I think we need to revisit that conversation we were having a few days ago,” I said, heart starting to hammer, some part of me knowing that this was it, that I was finally going to get what I needed to prove his connection to organized crime.

“Refresh my memory,” he said, lounging back, looking like he was ten minutes away from a nap. And that might be the best thing for him.

But first…

“About possible skeletons in your closet,” I reminded him. “Anything at all that, if it got out, might lead to bad press,” I told him. “Any other affairs…”

“Just the one,” he said.

“Or unsavory connections…”

To that, he sucked in a deep breath, seeming lost in thought. Like the Russians weren’t even at the forefront of his mind.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, pretending like this wasn’t even related. “We got a call today from a man who wanted to speak to you. He had a really thick accent. Maybe Ukrainian… or Russian,” I said, throwing a hand up at my pretend eureka moment.

“Russian?” Michael asked, sitting up, posture going stiff.

“Is that someone important?” I asked, tone pure innocence.

“Fuck,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands.

“Senator, what is it?” I asked. Then, at his silence, “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

There was another, shorter pause. And then, finally, he started to speak. “I think I got myself in over my head,” he said, shaking his head.

“With whom? The man who called?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“He’s… the head of the Russian mob.”

This was it! Finally. I just needed him to admit the bribe to do their bidding and it was all in the bag.

“Okay,” I said, tone suggesting this was no big deal, that I dealt with this sort of thing all of the time. “Why is he trying to contact you?”

“Because I haven’t done what he needs me to do.”

“What could he need you to do?”

“It involves someone in his organization that is going to trial.”

“I see. Why would that have anything to do with you?”

“Because I might have… accepted a campaign contribution from them.”

“From the Russian mob,” I clarified.

“Yes,” he said, voice a harsh whisper.

“I know sometimes contributions mean favors. Did you know when you accepted the money that they wanted you to help with this trial?”

“Not this in particular, no.”

“What then?” I asked.

“Just a general understanding that they might need something from me some day.”

“But you knew at the time that they were the Russian mob?”

“Yes.”

“Have you pulled strings for them?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“A few.”

“On this case?” I asked, discreetly sliding my phone a little closer, so it didn’t miss anything.

“No. Well, yes.”

“What is the case?”

“A human trafficking case. I’m trying. It’s not as easy as they would think.”

“I see.”

“But I’ve done other things, smaller things,” he said, clearly on a roll now that I got him talking.

“Illegal things?”

“Yes. Fuck, my head,” he said, rubbing his temples.

I turned off the recording app, making sure it saved the file, then slipping my phone into my pocket as I stood.

“Let me get you some painkillers,” I said, going to my drawer to grab some of my acetaminophen and the glass off the desk. “Here,” I said, dropping them into his hand. “Let me just get you some water,” I added, heading toward the bathroom to fill the glass.

I glanced at myself in the mirror as I waited for the water to get cold.

I saw excitement and relief in my eyes. But under that, disappointment and fear.

Because there were no more excuses now. It was all over. I had to hand this over to the police. Then I had to figure out where I was moving next, how I was going to afford it all, what life was going to look like from now on.

“Shit,” I said, the water overflowing the cup and pouring down my hand.

Those were problems to think about another time.

Now, I had to keep playing my role as an unconcerned campaign manager.

I flicked off the light and was starting out of the door when I saw something in the hall that had my stomach lurching.

A man in a black hoodie.

“Michael,” I hissed, heart hammering. “Get down,” I added as I watched, vision going into slow motion as my gaze landed on the flash of metal.

“What’s—“ he started, catching the look of horror on my face, and moving to stand, to turn and look where my gaze was frozen.

“No,” I cried as the man’s arm raised, aimed, at me.

Just as Michael took a step to the right, not realizing he was standing right in front of me. Right in the path of the bullet.

Instinct had me dropping down to a squat.

Just as the popping sound of the silenced gun broke out. As the bullet flew. As it struck the senator.

The gunman let out a string of Russian as he moved inward, trying to get a clear path to me.

Feeling like a monster for leaving Michael alone, shot with a bullet meant for me, I rushed into the bathroom, slamming, and locking the door, then scurrying to hide behind the sink cabinet, praying that if he shot through the door, there was enough between us to slow down the bullet, to make it less deadly if it did lodge in me.

Bile rose up my throat, knowing Michael was out there, shot, alone, likely terrified. But there was no way I could go out there when my own body was vibrating in fear, my heartbeat punching against my ribcage, a cold sweat trickling down my back.

There was a thunk, closer than felt comfortable. And before I could remind myself to stay hidden where I was relatively safe, I peeked out from behind the sink cabinet and saw a hole in the wall across from it.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

I had to do something.

I had to call for help.

With shaky hands, I drew out my phone, closing the recording app, and hitting 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“There’s been a shooting,” I whispered, rattling off the address.

“Did you say there was a shooting? Was anyone shot?”

“My boss. Senator Westmoore was shot.”

“Senator Westmoore?” she asked, voice tight.

“Yes.”

“Is he breathing?” she asked. “Where was he shot?”

“I don’t know. I’m hiding in the bathroom,” I said as another bullet whizzed into the room, making my shoulders draw up near my ears, my whole body tensing. “I think he was shot in the chest.”

“Help is on—“

There was a yell and a loud slam outside the door, making me gasp.

“Ma’am? Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, pulling the phone from my ear to hear better.

“Grab the gun!” Niel, one of the staffers yelled as there was another loud slam and a groan.

Were they… fighting the guy off?

“Get his legs,” Niel yelled, sounding breathless, like he was struggling to hold onto the guy.

I couldn’t just sit in here, cowering, while the other staffers put their life on the line against an attacker who was here for me.

“I think the staffers are holding onto the shooter,” I whispered into the phone before ending the call, tucking the phone back into my pocket as I inched toward the door, ignoring the way my belly was wobbling as I reached for the door handle.

As soon as I opened the door, there was a loud slam, and I saw Niel landing on top of the shooter on my desk as another male staffer rushed forward to grab the man’s legs.

While, just a few feet away, a female staffer was kicking the gun under the couch.

“Michael,” I hissed, rushing forward toward where he was slumped against the wall on the floor, his hand clutching his chest, blood seeping through his shirt and covering his fingers.

He was pale and sweating, his eyes round, and his breathing coming in short, frantic bursts.

“Hey,” I said, rushing toward him, and pressing my hand against his. I didn’t know much about gunshot wounds but I did know that you needed to put pressure on the wounds, to try to keep as much blood as possible inside. “It’s going to be okay,” I said as my computer monitor crashed to the ground. Then my pen holder, pens and pencils shot across the room as the men struggled to hold onto the shooter.

“I’m shot,” the senator said, his shocked gaze settling on me.

“I know,” I said, trying to ignore the way his blood was coating my fingers, how the copper smell of it seemed to be filling the room. He was losing too much. He needed an ambulance. “The police are on their way,” I assured him. “Just stay with me, okay?” I said, my voice taking on a hysterical edge as more of his blood streamed down my hand. “You’re going to be okay,” I added, sniffling hard as I watched his eyes start to unfocus, knowing he was slipping away.

“You’re not getting away, fucker,” Niel snarled as he struggled with the shooter who was grumbling at them in Russian. I didn’t speak a word of it, but it all seemed to be threats.

My belly plummeted at the idea that he might make good on those threats, that these innocent bystanders who were just trying to be Good Samaritans were going to end up targeted because, again, of me. Well, to be fair, because of the senator.

The senator whose eyes were slowly closing.

“No no no. Stay awake,” I cried, pressing my other hand into his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was there, but it seemed weak to me. “Michael, come on,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “Wake up,” I said as his hand went slack under mine, making me press harder as a few tears started to stream down my cheeks. “Don’t die,” I pleaded as I heard several feet running down the hall.

“Police,” they called.

Niel sprang into action then, explaining what happened as the police took control over the shooter, wrestling him to the floor, and cuffing him as the officer’s radios crinkled with static and faraway voices.

It felt like hours before the paramedics arrived, pushing me out of the way when I didn’t move aside by myself.

I fell on my ass against the wall, elbows on knees, wanting to bury my face in my hands, but they were covered in blood. Michael’s blood.

A sob grew in my chest as my office became a flurry of activity, the EMTs shooting off stats to each other, the clink of the stretcher as it was lowered to the ground, their grunts as they lifted Michael’s body onto the thin mattress and strapped him in before rushing out with him.

“Ma’am?” a voice called, sounding like it was coming from far away. “Ma’am?” he called again, but this time, he dropped down to a squat in front of me. “I need to ask you some questions,” he said as I spied the notepad in his hand.

“Okay,” I said numbly.

My own voice sounded like it was coming from a distance as I answered the officer’s questions, without giving too much detail, without admitting that the bullet was meant for me.

They seemed to assume that this was some sort of political assassination, especially since the last shooting out front of the building, and I just didn’t contradict them.

What did it matter who the intended target was?

He’d shot Michael.

If it came out in questioning that the shooter admitted the target was me, well, then I could deal with that if or when it came to pass.

I imagined that the Bratva had top-tier lawyers at their disposal. The man would likely not say a word until he had counsel. And I imagined the Bratva would rather find a way to kill this guy than to let him implicate them in his actions.

Eventually, the officers handed the case over to a detective who asked me many of the same questions that I answered in a robotic voice that didn’t seem to faze the detectives as they made me go over the scene a few times, giving them as many details as I could remember before they walked off to talk to the others.

I stayed there on the floor, oddly detached until I glanced over and saw the large pool of blood on the ground where the paramedics had lowered Michael to the floor to work on him before they got him onto the stretcher.

The sight of that seemed to knock the numbness loose, making tears well up in my eyes again, then stream down my cheeks.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” one of the female staffers said, coming up near me. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Can I call someone for you?”

“There’s no—“ I started, before cutting off, realizing there was someone I could call.

I reached with my cleaner hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone, and toggling through my contacts to find his name. “I’m okay,” I told her, even if the sniffling pretty quickly contradicted my assertion.

I found myself crying harder at the sound of his voice, “Is every—“

“Elian?” I cut him off on a small sob.

“Where are you?” he asked, tone soft but no-nonsense, wanting the facts, ready to jump into action.

“W…work. You didn’t see?” I asked, figuring this must be all over Brooklyn, the city, the country by now.

“See what?” he asked, and I could hear the sounds of traffic.

He was already on his way. I just had to try to hold it together a little longer.

“News,” I said, sniffling hard.

“No, baby, I didn’t see the news,” he said, making my heart squeeze. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m… alright,” I said unconvincingly. “He’s shot,” I went on, knowing he needed to know what he was getting himself involved in.

“Who’s shot?” he asked.

“The senator,” I said, voice breaking. “It was supposed to be me,” I admitted, thinking if I’d just been a second earlier, or if Michael hadn’t moved exactly the way he had, that it would have been me with the hole in my chest, with my blood streaming out. Too much, too quickly. That I could be in the hospital fighting for my life right now.

“Someone shot the senator?” Elian asked.

“He was aiming for me,” I said in a whisper. There were too many people around. In the hall, talking, crying, hugging, and consoling one another. “Michael accidentally got in the way.”

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, voice tight.

“No. I… I ran into the bathroom,” I admitted, feeling every bit the coward. “And called the police. It didn’t look good,” I said, closing my eyes tight, feeling more tears stream down my cheeks.

“My concern is you right now,” he said, a chorus of horns in the background.

“The paramedics took him away. But he wasn’t conscious,” I went on. “The police got him.”

“Got who, baby?”

“The shooter.”

“The police have the shooter?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes. My coworkers attacked and held onto him,” I admitted. “While I tried to stop the bleeding.”

“Michael is in the best hands right now,” Elian insisted. “Fuck, this place is a zoo,” he said.

“You’re here?” I asked, hope rising.

“I am. I don’t think I can get in, though. There’s cops and news everywhere.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, hearing the defeat in my voice.

“I need you to come down to me, okay?” he asked. “Are you done talking to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Then you can leave. Just grab your things and come down. No one is going to hurt you, not in this mess. Just go outside and turn to the left. I’ll meet you just a couple dozen feet away from all the news crews.”

“I can’t just leave,” I said, looking at the staff.

“Yes, you can. You need to. Dismiss the staff, then come down here to me. Let’s go home.”

Home.

That was maybe the only thing he could have said to force me to stand on my wobbly legs and walk over to my desk to find my purse stashed under it.

“Okay,” I agreed, ending the call as I stared at the mess of my office, feeling like I should clean it up, set things to rights.

But I just turned away from it and into the hall.

“Everyone,” I called, forcing some strength into my voice. “We should all go home,” I said, getting nods from a few of the women who were red-eyed and scared-looking. “Spend some time with our loved ones,” I added. “Say a little prayer for Michael,” I went on. “Don’t talk to the press on the way out,” I added, getting nods from everyone who, by working here, knew how important it was not to leak to the news.

Several of us made our way out at once, and as the cops tried to keep the press back, I slipped away from the crowd, keeping my head down and walking in the direction Elian instructed me to.

Until I felt an arm wrap around me, lips pressing into my temple, then helping me into the backseat of the car before moving in with me.

“I’ve got you,” he said as the driver pulled into traffic. “You’re alright,” he assured me. “We’ll be home in just a few minutes.”

I curled into him, feeling his arms wrap me up tight, holding me together as I fell apart for what felt like the millionth time since I’d met him.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said as the car parked, and the driver climbed out, giving us a second of privacy. “We’re home. Everything’s going to be alright now.”

I never wanted to believe anything so badly.

But there was a knot in my stomach that I couldn’t deny as I followed him into his building, then up into his condo.

Something inside of me was sure that this wasn’t over.

That it never would be until I was dead.