Chapter 14 Zahra
ZAHRA
There are too many sensations around me.
Yells and screams from the attendees. The wet, thick blood that is coating my hand, the cool press of the hardwood stage on the side of my face, and the calming scent of cologne that fills my nose, paired with the warmth pressed on my back.
Wait what? I whip my neck around and come face to face with Declan, who’s currently clutching his left bicep.
“Fucking bastard took a chunk outta me. I’ll rip his throat out,” Declan groans, a mix of pain and rage in his expression as he increases the pressure on his wound in a feeble attempt to stop the blood.
How he even managed to get words out at this moment is beyond me.
He attempts to stand and slips immediately on the pool of blood under him.
A pool of his blood.
Not mine.
Because he had protected me.
He’d shielded me from the bullet that was aimed right at my chest. Declan McAlister had saved my life, even though he had spent the past few weeks trying to kill me. Or had he? If he truly wanted me dead, he sure as shit wouldn’t have just saved me. Dammit, this is all too confusing.
My head is spinning, I can’t think straight, and the general chaos unraveling in front of me isn’t helping. I need to get control over the situation so I can get some answers. Which means I also have to ensure Declan stays alive long enough for me to get to the bottom of all of this.
Declan groans again as he tries to stand and my patience snaps. I grip his chin and force him to look at me. Not a hint of fear is in his greenish-blue eyes as I hiss, “Stay down. The more you move, the more blood you’ll lose. I’ll handle it.”
Kicking off my heels, I’m on my feet a moment later, taking in the mix of fearful expressions from the politicians and disdain from the mob bosses. I’m losing them. Whatever progress I’d made tonight would be crushed if I don’t manage to win them back somehow.
Think Zahra, think. Check your surroundings, all possible exit routes. Where would the shooter go? Who would be the first person to chase after him?
Cyrus. The answer comes to me at the same moment I find him struggling in the back. He has his arms wrapped around the shooter and manages to wrestle him down to the floor. With his knee on the man’s back, Cyrus pulls out a knife from his coat and brings it to the man’s neck.
“NO!” I order into the microphone left on the podium, causing everyone, including Cyrus, to redirect their attention to me. I point my blood-stained finger at the shooter before curling it inward. “He’s mine. Bring him to me.”
The room stills and everyone snaps their head to the back, following along as Cyrus slowly brings the shooter closer and closer to me.
I can see straight through the aura of indifference he was trying to put on.
This man had failed to kill me, and now he would face his own death at my hands.
By the time Cyrus is on stage, the man is fully on his knees begging for forgiveness, though he refused to rat on the person who put him up to this despite my pressing.
With my right hand, I remove my Glock from the garter and aim it at my shooter’s head.
In my left hand, I bring the microphone up to my mouth and try not to cringe at the blood that drips down my arm.
“Let this be a reminder to anyone who dares challenge me, my family, and my allies. When you take aim at the devil, make sure you don’t miss. Because if you do, I promise I won’t.”
I pull the trigger, and a moment later, the man drops in front of my feet, blood and brains leaking out of his skull.
To the left, I see the governor faint, his security there to catch him.
Somewhere in all the chaos, Aidan had collected a few members of my medical staff and rushed out on stage to help Declan—who was now looking at me like an angel who had come down from heaven to bless him.
Clearly, the blood loss had made its way to his head.
“Take him back to the mansion immediately. Dr. Williams will take him into surgery and ensure his wound is treated,” I order Cyrus, Aidan, and the paramedics who quickly fall in line, gently lifting Declan onto a stretcher.
Shifting my attention back to the crowd, I feel a slight rush as I realize everyone in the room is locked in to what I have to say next.
I no longer feel the apprehension, judgment, or disrespect I felt when I first stepped on stage.
Instead, all I feel is power. I lean over the stage and reach for a champagne glass on the Ukrainian’s table.
Their boss sends me a smirk and a look of approval.
“Please join me in a toast. To my father. To his legacy. And to the Persian Empire.” Stating the name of my mafia is risky, given that this event featured many individuals who were not affiliated with an organization…
at least not publicly. But given I’ve just killed a man in front of a thousand or so witnesses, playing it safe has gone out the window.
From the center of the room, a thick Irish accent echoes my chant, “To the Persian Empire”, and slowly I see glass after glass rise. Some do so more reluctantly than others, but I keep my hand raised until everyone has a glass lifted in their hand.
I take a long sip before ending my toast. “To the Persian Empire. And the new legacy I shall bring. Please remain seated as we clean up this mess. Dinner will be served shortly.”
Tossing the remains of the drink on the body in front of me, I head backstage, buzzing from the night and desperate to get out of my blood-stained dress.
___
“Are you sure we can’t just take the dress to the dry cleaners? I do love it dearly.” I pout as Samirah holds a garment bag in her hand.
“Yes, unfortunately, blood doesn’t come out of silk easily. And even if it did, do you really want a dress with so much baggage?”
“One woman’s baggage is another’s symbol of victory,” I challenge, drawing out an eye roll from Samirah.
“This is why I stick to fashion. You mafia bosses are so twisted and cooked in the head.” She practically manhandles me out of the current dress and forces me into the backup she had on standby.
To her credit, the new dress was much more comfortable, made of a soft sweater-like material, but it was much less flashy than the gown I had donned prior. “Are you sure about this outfit, Samirah? It’s not really giving banquet attire.”
“That’s because I’ve been ordered to drag your ass into the car.
You may have killed one psychopath tonight but we have no idea how many more managed to sneak through security.
” She tosses a pair of flats on the floor, having already thrown my blood-stained heels in the garbage with minimal protest from me.
Getting rid of those torture devices is a bonus of this wild night.
“I think I’ve more than demonstrated I can handle myself.
” Am I ignoring the fact that Declan had also played a role in saving me tonight?
Perhaps. But that reality is still too confusing for me to come to terms with.
I knew I’d drive myself crazy trying to think of why he had taken a bullet for me, so I needed to let it go until I could ask him myself.
“No one is questioning that. But if people wanted you dead before, I imagine the price on your head has increased tenfold now that you’ve shown what a true threat you are. It’s best we not push our luck,” Samirah chastises me in a tone similar to one my mom would use, which is likely why I cave.
“Fine. But we better stop on the way to get some takeout. I haven’t eaten all day and you know how I get when I’m hangry.”
“There’s a hot plate of food ready for you at home. Lamb stew.”
The promise of my favorite dish has me bolting out of the changing room and toward the back alley, where Cyrus and Arman are waiting for me inside the van.
“I see we swapped out our swankier ride for the one that’s armored.” I take my seat in the center and let out a gleeful noise when Samirah hands me a bowl of food. The car remains silent until I finish my dinner and set it aside. “Any news about Declan?”
“The doctor said the surgery went smoothly. Bullet came out without a hitch and he should hopefully be waking up soon,” Cyrus answers.
“Good. The moment he comes to, inform me. We have much to discuss.” Like the fact that up until now, I was convinced he had been the one who killed my father and tried to take me out as well.
Cyrus shoots me a disapproving look, “Perhaps that can wait until tomorrow? You should really get checked out.”
My eyes narrow. “The matter I need to discuss with him is urgent. No need to fuss over me. I’m fine.”
“Yes. You’re fine, because of Declan,” Samirah feels the need to remind me. She practically swoons as she says his name. Since when did she join his fan club?
“Naser is right, even in the afterlife.” Arman smiles to himself for a moment before a solemn expression replaces it.
Cyrus looks like he’s about to bite his head off.
Arman slides closer to the door, putting an additional inch of space between him and Cyrus, as if that would save him.
“It was a poor joke. I apologize to Zahra.”
My body stills at the mention of my father. “What…what do you mean by it?”
Arman’s eyebrows knit together. “I was just referencing his final words. About how you could trust Declan.”
“I thought my father just kept repeating Declan’s name over and over again.” My mouth dries as I shift to look at Cyrus. That’s what I was told, at least.
“He did. But first, your father told me he wanted you to know you could trust Declan.” Arman looks between Cyrus and me, equally confused.
“In all the chaos of that night, I must have misremembered some of the details. My sincerest apologies, Zahra. The death of your father. It rattled me to the core.” Cyrus sighs, placing a hand on his heart.
“I know.” Despite the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I’ve never had a reason to doubt him. It’s completely reasonable that in the aftermath of my father’s death, he had misremembered information he was told. “I want to be brought to Declan the second we get home—
“You should get some rest,” Arman protests.
“I will be there when he wakes up. End of discussion.” Everyone in the car exchanges looks, but it doesn’t matter. My word is final. And if anything was learned tonight, it’s the fact that my wrath was not one to be tested.
Unless you want to end up dead.