Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Elizabeth

The man I’d invited into my living room was a member of the mafia.

Now that was a thought I’d never imagined I’d think before. Let alone a reality I’d find myself in.

I had a mafia member sitting on my couch, drinking out of one of my coffee cups, and watching me with those lovely golden eyes that were offset by enviously thick black lashes.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so zoned out for so long I would have noticed it earlier.

I mean, just remembering how nervous and fidgety the doctor had been anytime he looked at or spoke to this man.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Elian said as he watched me process this information.

“Isn’t that what everyone says? Right before they hurt you?” I asked.

“Probably,” he agreed, taking a deep breath. “If it helps, logically, I have no reason to want to hurt you,” he said. “My interest is in the Russians and their business dealings. I was watching them today and saw what they were about to do. That’s why we are here. I just wanted to know why they wanted you dead.”

“Did you really think I’d be involved with the Bratva?” I asked, unable to stop my lips from curving up.

I mean, no one would ever have accused me of being something quite as exciting as involved in organized crime.

Growing up, I’d always been a glass child—invisible to my family because my older brother required so much more attention.

In school, I got the reputation of a goody-goody because I had perfect attendance, because I got good grades, because I never got in trouble. And, later, because they thought I was a complete prude since I had no interest in dating.

I’d been too busy trying to get into a good college, so I could get a good career, and get the hell away from my dysfunctional family.

In college, it had been more of the same. My roommate hated me because I didn’t want people in our room. Eventually, we ‘compromised’ with me spending pretty much all of my time in the library while she did whatever the heck she wanted in our room.

Sure, I dated here and there then. But I never took it seriously. It wasn’t in my five year plan, or even my ten year plan to get serious with anyone.

I mean, I’d never smoked weed, had a one-night stand, or even gotten stupid drunk.

So the idea of being involved with crime was both a little flattering and hilarious.

“In my defense, I had no idea who you were,” he said, giving me an odd look as I tried to flatten my smile.

“Sorry,” I said, a little laugh escaping me. “It’s just funny to think someone like me would be involved with crime.”

“Someone like you,” he repeated.

“Oh, you know. Someone who pays their bills on time, is nice to telemarketers, tells the stores if they forgot to scan an item…”

“Good people get involved with shady shit all the time.”

“I’m not offended,” I told him, “I’m actually kind of flattered, in a weird way.”

“You—“ he started, but was cut off by his phone ringing in his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he said after checking his screen.

He stood, moving closer to the door as he answered.

“Yeah, I saw. Up close and personally,” he added. “I got the target out of Dodge. Yeah. I know. No. It’s… somewhat what we thought,” he said, choosing his words carefully, aware that he had an audience.

My gaze slid down, catching sight of the blood on my shorts, darker as it dried.

I jumped up, worried for the chair fabric, but had lucked out. I moved down the hallway, going into my room, then my closet, sliding into a pair of yoga pants, then taking my shorts to the bathroom sink, wondering how ruined the dry-clean-only material would be if I spot-treated the blood.

It was probably a silly thing to focus on when someone had literally tried to kill me just a few hours ago, but, well, I had a very small wardrobe of nice items I mostly got secondhand. The idea of losing an important part of that wardrobe rotation made me anxious.

There was a soft knock at my door.

“Elizabeth?”

I moved back out, finding Elian waiting for me, Kevin slamming his little body against his pant leg, leaving a trail of black hairs on his gray slacks.

“You alright?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“I just wanted to get changed,” I said, moving back out of my bedroom. “So, do you have any more questions for me?”

“I guess I should ask what you plan to do now.” “What do you mean?”

“Sweetheart, someone tried to kill you today. Things can’t be business as usual.”

“Oh,” I said, shoulders sinking as I realized he was right. But also, what other choice did I have? It wasn’t like the world stopped turning because someone shot me. The electric company and my landlord wouldn’t care if I was a little afraid to go back to work. I didn’t have the luxury to just… stop going.

“I have to go back to work,” I told him, thinking of how much work I’d already missed out on. And I didn’t even have my phone anymore. The senator was likely losing his ever-loving mind.

“You can’t.”

“What choice do I have? I have a job to do.”

“For a man working with someone who tried to kill you.”

“If I want him to go down for this, I have to catch him talking to them.”

“You won’t be able to catch him talking to them if you’re dead.”

“I’ll be more careful.”

“How?”

“I’ll… order a ride-share to and from work, so I won’t be walking on the street. And I’m safe at work. There’s too many people around.”

“That’s incredibly risky.”

“I understand, but I don’t have the luxury of just not going to work.”

To that, Elian sucked in a deep breath that had his shirt expanding over his solid chest. “I understand,” he said. “But I don’t like it. And I’ll encourage you to think hard about it before you make a decision. Better to fall behind in bills than end up in an early grave,” he said.

“I will think about it,” I told him. I would be doing nothing but thinking about it for the rest of the day. “Thanks for, you know, saving me today,” I said.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he said, reaching into his pocket to produce his wallet, then pulling out a card that said nothing on it, save for a phone number. “Here. Take this,” he said, handing it to me. “If you ever need help, let me know.”

“Thank you,” I said, placing the card on my counter as we walked past it on the way to the door.

“Make sure you take care of those stitches,” Elian said as he moved into the hall.

“I will.”

“And, hey, Elizabeth?” he called after starting to walk down the hall, turning back to me.

“Yeah?”

“Try to stay alive, okay?”

He wasn’t waiting for an answer, though, as he turned the corner and disappeared.

Alone, paranoia had me locking my door, then adding the little alarmed door stopper that I brought with me when I traveled and had to stay in hotels. Not that it would be much help if someone tried to break in here. The door was the only way out. But it might, you know, alert the neighbors. Who might come to see what was going on.

I debated grabbing Kevin and taking myself to a hotel for a few nights. But, honestly, my building felt somewhat safer than a hotel. At least there was a doorman here whose sole job it was to make sure no one came in who wasn’t supposed to.

I grabbed my tablet out of my purse, shooting off a message to my team to get in touch with Michael for me, tell him that my phone was broken, and that I would be in touch as soon as I got a new one.

From there, I ordered a new one to be delivered to my apartment building.

Did I maybe also order some pepper spray and an ear-splittingly loud personal alarm? Yes, yes, I did.

Because as the hours ticked by, the reality of this seemed to settle in more and more.

Someone had tried to shoot me.

Kill me.

They would follow me, look for openings to try again.

Paranoid, I also placed an order for some heavy drapes for my apartment, not knowing enough about snipers to know if it was possible to shoot me from a rooftop across from the building or not, but not willing to take the risk.

“Thank goodness for same-day delivery,” I said when Brian brought my packages up for me. It wasn’t his job. But I learned from watching powerful men and women that if you gave the right people—doormen, cleaning people, concierges—a little more cash than they expected, they would often go above and beyond for you.

Brian was still thankful for his very handsome Christmas bonus. And I was thankful not to have to leave my apartment unless absolutely necessary.

I busied myself over the next hour by setting up my phone and hanging my curtains before, finally, calling Michael.

“Where have you been?” he snarled in my ear as I walked through my bedroom, feeling safer the deeper into my apartment I got. “There was a shooting out front of the building today, Beth, a shooting.”

I hated being called Beth.

I introduced myself by my full name for a reason.

I stopped in my bathroom, catching my reflection, still seeing drips of blood on my white shirt, and the gauze taped to my upper arm.

“Yes, I know,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“I had to do a press conference without you,” he ranted.

I imagine that had not gone well.

Without being given the proper talking points, he always ended up saying the wrong thing.

“How did that go?” I asked.

“Isn’t it your job to know that?”

“I’ve been too busy to watch TV,” I told him. “How did it go?”

“Well, I denounced the assassination attempt,” he said, making me squeeze my eyes shut. Clearly, it was not an assassination attempt on him when he wasn’t even in Brooklyn at the time. “I made it clear that we will not tolerate this sort of hate for us.”

Oh, lord.

He’d made it about his party. An us versus them thing. Which only sowed the seeds of more division. When we were trying to run on a campaign of unity, of working together, of overcoming our differences to work on the things that really mattered.

In one press conference, he’d undone months of work on my part. Not to mention the dozen or more staffers and volunteers who’d been clocking nearly as many hours.

“Was anyone shot?” I asked, realizing just how selfish I’d been, not checking the news, not finding out if anyone else caught a bullet meant for me.

“One man was grazed. One witness said a woman was bleeding, but no one knows who she was.”

“Did you happen to make a statement about them?” I asked.

“Why would I make a statement about them?”

Oh, because they were hurt when you were safely forty minutes away?

“Did you denounce political violence in all forms?” I asked, knowing by his silence that he hadn’t. He’d rather be made the victim, to rile up his support base.

Even though this literally wasn’t even about him.

I mean, it was, but only indirectly.

After a full day of thinking about it, my best conclusion was that someone had seen me leaving the office after Michael had already left. Then they’d, rightfully, assumed I had overheard the conversation.

“This is why you were supposed to be in the office!” Michael roared, mind likely racing about all the ways his press conference could be spun against him.

Really, it wouldn’t even take any spinning.

“I will be there first thing tomorrow morning. We will do damage control. Put out statements. Get you another interview, claim you were shaken up after the news of the shooting, and weren’t being as eloquent as usual.”

All the old standbys.

“You better fix this,” he warned.

The or else was silent.

But the threat of it wasn’t as upsetting as it would have been just a day or two ago.

It was hard to be worried about your professional future when your actual future existence was kind of hanging in the balance.

“I will get us back on message,” I said instead of claiming I would fix this. Especially when I didn’t know what he’d said, or how he’d said it.

“I won’t forget you leaving me when I needed you most,” he said before ending the call.

Politicians, especially spoiled ones who’d been in office, objectively, a little too long, all tended to be a little, well, childish. They blamed everyone else for their wrongdoings. Threw tantrums. I almost expected them to hold their breath until they went blue to get their way.

I stuck my new phone on the charger as I walked into my study to bring up the news conference, wincing my way through it, and jotting down notes on how we could fix it before sending out emails to the team.

It was easy to fall back into work, to let the rest of the world, and all my worries, fall to the background. Maybe it wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism, especially when I wanted to get my boss out of the race and in prison for his connections with human traffickers. But it helped me not to feel so overwhelmed.

If I stopped working for even ten minutes put together, the fear became a scarf around my throat, tightening and strangling with each passing second.

It was easier just to keep going, keep grinding, until my eyes were so heavy that it was impossible to keep going.

Done for the day, I took a comically short shower, jumping at every random sound from my neighbors or Kevin as he wandered around the apartment, wondering why we hadn’t gone to bed yet.

When I finally did climb into my bed, though, sleep was evasive. I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe I should have grabbed one of the big chef’s knives in my kitchen, slipped it under my pillow, or grabbed a bat to keep beside me.

I tried to remind myself that I was as safe as I could possibly be in my apartment.

There was no other choice anyway. Even if I’d gone to the police and told them that I’d been involved in the shooting, that I was the one being targeted, what were they going to do? Wasn’t it always a running theme in movies that women who went to the police got, at most, a cruiser that went around their neighborhood or parked out front of their home? As if someone couldn’t come in between shifts or slip in through the back.

Aside from hiring a bulky bodyguard or something like that, I was on my own.

Eventually, I worried myself to a fitful night of sleep, waking up constantly because I’d turned onto my side and rubbed against my stitches.

When I woke up, I was groggy and paranoid, gaze constantly going to my door and the windows with the drapes pulled closed, a moody Kevin swatting at the material, mad that he couldn’t sun in the morning rays like he always did.

“Sorry, buddy. It’s just for a couple of days,” I told him, even if I had no actual idea how long this might go on for.

I ordered my ride-share, and didn’t go downstairs until I knew he was out front.

I tucked my obvious blonde hair up into a baseball cap, then I ran out the door and into the car, praying that no one could pick me off through the window like they did in movies.

In the end, though, I made it into work, where I kept myself safely surrounded by as many people as possible as we worked on the messaging we had to put out.

Then, around noon—because he didn’t have any actual assassination attempt to worry him—the senator strolled in.

It was time to try to get some information.