Chapter 20
ANNA
"How dare you?" my mother said, her face flushed almost the same color as the satin suit she was wearing. "I know what you're doing."
"I—"
"You're just doing this for attention. You staged the kidnapping along with that gaudy necklace around your throat, and now you show up in your dress like a whore. I will not let you or your melodramatic stunt ruin me. I will cut you off. You will never see a penny from me."
"Mother, please," I said, keeping my voice low so no one could overhear, but letting her see the terror in my eyes. "Help me. I don't know what he wants, but please. He will kill me."
"You ungrateful brat. I can't believe you would show up here on the arm of that monster dressed like a slut begging for attention.
" Her eyes filled with revulsion as she looked me up and down.
"I knew you were attention seeking, but this is a new level even for you.
I am in the middle of a legislative session, Eleanor. This isn't about you."
I opened my mouth to say something else, but my mother raised her hand in the air, ready to slap me across the face, and I closed my eyes and braced for it.
Years of her accusations and tantrums had taught me not to fight, not to flinch or block her attack, and to not say a word.
It would only make it worse.
If I just let it happen, it would hurt, but it would be over.
If I did anything else, she would start spinning a story about how terrible I was and how I needed rehab for an addiction I didn't have. She would present herself as the struggling single mom and me as the selfish bitch who took advantage of her love.
I waited for the inevitable slap, but it didn't come.
I opened my eyes to see my mother's hand frozen mid-air with Darius's hand gripping her wrist.
His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to leave marks. The other men he was talking to— the ones who had called him uncle—stood between us and the media.
A few people looked over, but we were relatively well shielded.
"Touch her again," Darius said, his voice deadly calm, "and I'll break every bone in your hand."
Calmly, Darius then proceeded to recite a long line of numbers.
"What—" my mother sputtered as she ripped her hand out of his grip.
"The account number that you have me send your bribes to in the Cayman Islands.
I wonder if you think Senator Dillings would be interested in that number?
He is the head of a committee that oversees ethics, correct?
Or perhaps he would like the Swiss account you funnel money into from some less than reputable oil companies overseas. "
My mother's mouth shut, her fake smile falling away for a twisted, ugly sneer.
"Or do you think it would be better to go straight to the FBI director? I believe he is standing over there." Darius pointed to a man in a fitted suit, laughing along with a few others, a woman in a dazzling sheath dress on his arm.
"You wouldn't," my mother said, then smiled and waved to someone who called her name. When she turned back to Darius, her face showed only contempt. "You cannot hurt me without dragging yourself down as well. I don't know what my daughter has promised you, but—"
Darius lifted his hands, cutting off her words, and then took a key fob out of his pocket. When he pressed the button, I felt a slight vibration against my collarbones.
My heart raced as my mother turned back to me, and I could see, in the reflection of her glasses, the red glow hidden in the white sparkle of the diamonds.
It was the trigger switch. He literally held my life in his hands. My stomach rolled, but I said nothing. The men surrounding us looked uncomfortable. One of them even gave me a sympathetic look, but they did nothing. They said nothing.
I already knew by the way the one reacted when his wife tried to touch it that they knew what it was and why it was around my neck.
Darius didn't introduce us, not because he was being rude, but because they already knew who I was, and I wasn't supposed to know them.
"You're bluffing," my mother said, not even looking at me. "You wouldn't press that button here. You would die too."
"No, I wouldn't," Darius said, rolling his eyes. Then his hand went to the small of my back. His palm pressed flat and possessive against my spine, fingers splaying wide like he was branding me through the silk.
I didn't know if it was to show ownership, confidence, or maybe to offer me some semblance of strength. His warm touch just left me feeling cold and empty inside.
"The explosives in the necklace are tiny and aimed just right so that they will blow your daughter's head clean off. The most harm that would happen to me is that I'd have to get my suit dry cleaned."
My breath caught in my throat, and my hands trembled, but I refused to say a thing.
I pulled the pashmina around me tighter, knowing that it wouldn't do a thing for the chill, but maybe it would comfort me a little.
A single tear slipped down my face as the fear clawed its way up my neck, choking me, making it impossible to speak or even breathe.
"Senator, you seem to have misunderstood our situation. Allow me to provide some clarity. Your daughter is here at my behest. She knows that if she disobeys me, she dies. Just like if you forget your place, she dies. And if she dies, then I will simply move on to the next pressure point."
Mother opened her mouth and then closed it a few times in a vain search for some comeback.
Darius took another step forward, hovering over her, the threat clear. His hand never left my body, remaining on my lower back.
"Maybe I will release deep fakes of you whoring yourself out to a foreign prince. Maybe I will release the recordings I have of you calling your donors fat sloppy fools with more money than sense. Or maybe I will just turn the other politicians in my pocket against you."
My mother looked to the side, past the wall of Russian men in perfectly tailored suits to where the press waited, cameras ready to interview the next person in line.
Her rage and indignation faltered, but it wasn’t because she was concerned about me.
She was worried about causing a scene.
Concerned about being a headline for all the wrong reasons.
Her eyes flickered to my necklace, to Darius, and then back to the press. I could practically hear her train of thought.
Can I make this work for me?
Would he really kill her in front of all these people? If he does, how can I spin the story to make me the victim and to make sure no one asks why I was targeted? What excuse could I give? Could I campaign off her public execution?
Darius must have seen the same calculation behind her eyes that I did because his hand slid from my lower back around to my hip before his arm wrapped completely around my waist, tucking me against his side like I was something precious he refused to let anyone else touch.
Subtly angling me back so he was between my mother and me. It was almost…protective.
"If you hurt her here, you'll be arrested, and the rest of your life will be lived in prison," she warned. "I will make sure they take you all in."
"No, you won't," Darius laughed. "You are not the only government official on my payroll, and if I did this, the others would know there are consequences to their actions. Not to mention you would lose at least half of your constituents."
"You can't—"
" I can." He leaned in toward my mother, hovering over her, making sure she knew exactly how genuine his threats were. "Oh, you didn't think that people liked you, did you? You didn't think that all those people actually came out of their homes to vote for you because they’re fans of yours?"
He gave a low tsk sound in the back of his throat, and I got the feeling that this wasn't just business anymore.
"You do not scare me," my mother said, lifting her chin, but I could see the cracks in her bravado.
"Senator, I should terrify you. Do you really think that hurting your daughter is the worst thing I can do to you? No, she's here to prove a point. How many of your votes do you think I paid for? How many of your donors will vanish if I no longer back you?"
She faltered, her jaw tight as she ran through the scenarios in her head and realized that whatever she was thinking, whatever plan she had, wasn't solid enough.
It wasn't about losing me. It was about losing leverage, about losing an election, her fan base.
"I'll be in touch," she said before turning her back on me and marching straight into the fray, ready to shake hands and take photos with potential backers.
"Well," one of the larger men, the one who had a staring contest with Darius before, said. "Is that how we're supposed to function without emotion?"
Darius turned on him, and the man just smirked, then they all walked back to their wives and into the building.
"Let's go," Darius said as he led me up the steps to the side more private entrance. His hand stayed locked on my waist, guiding me, controlling every step I took. I tried to move with him, but black spots danced in my vision and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.
I pushed the panic down and walked up the stairs. Careful to not let it show.
As we entered the doorway, I stumbled, and the cracks pushed through my mask. Darius spun me around, crowding me against the wall in a dark corner, his body shielding me from view.
"Breathe," he demanded. My body, my traitorous body, took in one deep breath and then another. But the room spun around me, my vision blurry as a tear fell.
"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I'm so sorry, I'm not trying to cause a scene. Just give me a minute and I will be fine and I'll–"
"Breathe, maya soloveyka," he whispered, his hands cupping the sides of my face with a gentleness that contradicted everything he was. His forehead pressed against mine. "Nothing else matters, just breathe."
"Please let me go," I whispered tightly before the first sob broke, shaking my shoulders and blocking my throat.
"You got what you wanted. You proved your threat wasn't idle, and you humiliated my mother. Please let me go. Your message landed. She knows that you have more leverage. She cares about her votes more than she cares about me. If you threaten that, then you don't need me. You don’t…need me."
Once the sobs started, I couldn't make them stop.
My shoulders rolled forward, my entire body shook, and more tears spilled down my cheeks. All I could do was try to contain the noise, to shrink and hide in that dark corner, letting Darius's body block me from the rest of the room so no one would notice and think I was trying to get attention.
"Wrong." His voice was a low growl. "I need you exactly where you are. What do you need, little one?"
It would have been so easy to melt into him, to let him take care of me. I took a step back, clutching the pashmina around me.
But he didn't let me go far. His hands caught my shoulders, keeping me close.
"I need you to let me go. Please, just take me home."
That was all I wanted. I wanted to go home and crawl onto the safety of my couch, wrapped in the quilt that Edith made for me.
Everything was just too much.
The weight of the necklace around my throat, the blisters that were forming on my feet, my mother's hatred and disgust at my mere existence, and the constant reminder that my life was endangered. Years of emotional neglect collided with the stress and the fear, and I couldn't take it.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. All I could do was cry, and I needed somewhere safe.
Darius looked behind him.
I saw him signal to one of the men in his family, and then, without another word, he swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, crushing me against his chest and pushing through a staff door.
I hid my face behind my hair and on his shoulder, not wanting anyone else to see me like this.
Ladies didn’t cry in public. Only attention whores cried in public.
My mother's voice echoed through my head, and I couldn't make it stop. The more memories of her disapproval that echoed through my head, the harder I cried.
Cold air bit into my skin when Darius kicked open a door that led behind the center. The Range Rover pulled up, and he opened the front passenger side and yelled something in Russian.
The men got out, and he slid me into the front passenger seat before taking the keys and climbing into the driver's seat.
His hand immediately found my thigh, gripping possessively even as he shifted into Drive.
"I'm not taking you home, maya soloveyka," he said, his thumb stroking slow circles on my inner thigh through the slit in my dress, and the last shred of hope I had died in my chest as he pulled into DC traffic. "I'm taking you back to my hotel.
"You're mine tonight," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I take care of what's mine."