Chapter 28 Vivica
VIVICA
My office had the best view in the district.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the National Mall, the Washington Monument standing tall in the distance like a reminder of the power this city held. I’d worked thirty years to sit in this chair, to have this view, to be the woman who ran the nation’s capital.
Mayor Vivica Banks.
It still gave me chills sometimes, seeing my name on the door. Seeing the way people straightened up when I walked into a room. Seeing the fear and respect in their eyes when they realized who they were dealing with.
I earned this. Every bit of it.
My receptionist’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Mayor Banks? There are some people here to see you.”
I frowned. My calendar was clear for the next hour. “Who is it?”
A pause. Too long of a pause.
“Ma’am… it’s the FBI. And someone from the District Attorney’s office.”
My blood went cold.
“Send them in.”
The door opened and they filed in like a funeral procession.
Two FBI agents in dark suits, badges displayed on their belts.
A woman I recognized from the DA’s office—Assistant District Attorney Michelle Warren, a sharp-faced woman I’d never liked.
And behind them, two more agents carrying empty boxes.
“Mayor Banks.” Michelle stepped forward, her heels clicking against my hardwood floors. “We have a warrant to search your office and seize all electronic devices, files, and documents related to city contracts, campaign finances, and your communications with city employees.”
She handed me the warrant. I took it with steady hands, even though my heart was slamming against my ribs.
“On what grounds?” My voice came out calm. Controlled. Thirty years of politics taught me never to let them see you sweat.
“We’ve received evidence of potential bribery, corruption, and abuse of power.
” Michelle’s eyes were cold. Satisfied. She was enjoying this.
“The DOJ has opened a formal investigation. Effective immediately, you’re being you’re being relieved of your duties pending the outcome of the investigation. ”
“Relieved of my duties?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m the mayor of Washington, DC. You can’t just—”
“We can. And we are.” She nodded to the agents. “Start with the computer.”
I watched, helpless, as they descended on my office like vultures.
One agent unplugged my computer and placed it in a box.
Another started pulling files from my cabinets—files I’d spent decades accumulating.
Contracts. Correspondence. The paper trail of a political career most people could only dream of.
A third agent was photographing everything.
My desk, where I’d signed legislation that changed this city.
My walls, covered in photos of me shaking hands with seven different presidents, with senators and congressmen, with celebrities and CEOs who’d all wanted a piece of my influence.
My awards—the NAACP Image Award, the Congressional Black Caucus Phoenix Award, citations and honors from organizations across the country.
All of it being documented like evidence in a crime scene.
Because that’s what this was now. A crime scene. And I was the criminal.
I thought about the sacrifices I’d made to sit in this chair.
The marriages I’d ended—two of them—because the men couldn’t handle a woman more powerful than them.
The friendships I’d abandoned when they became politically inconvenient.
The family I’d neglected, the holidays I’d missed, the moments with my children I’d traded for votes and influence.
I gave up everything for this office. And now these strangers in cheap suits were boxing it up like it meant nothing.
“Mayor Banks.” Michelle’s voice cut through my thoughts. She was holding a framed photo—me and the former President at a state dinner, both of us laughing at some joke I couldn’t even remember now. “We’ll need this as well.”
“That’s personal property.”
“It was on your desk. In your office. Which means it’s part of the seizure.” She dropped it into a box without ceremony. The glass cracked. She didn’t apologize.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to flip her little table of evidence and tell her exactly who she was dealing with.
I was Vivica Banks. I’d destroyed careers with a single phone call.
I’d made and broken politicians, judges, police chiefs.
I’d run this city for years, and I’d be damned if some mid-level prosecutor with a chip on her shoulder was going to be my undoing.
But I didn’t scream. Didn’t flip anything. Just stood there with my hands clasped in front of me, watching my legacy get packed into cardboard boxes.
Thirty years of my life, dismantled in minutes.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
“You’re free to do that.” Michelle didn’t even look at me. “But I’d suggest you do it from somewhere else. This office is now part of an active investigation.”
I grabbed my purse and my phone and walked toward the door. Kept my spine straight. My chin up. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The hallway felt longer than it ever had before.
Patricia, the receptionist—sweet girl, worked the front desk for six years—wouldn’t meet my eyes when I passed. She was crying. Whether for me or for her own job security, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
“Patricia.”
She flinched at the sound of her name. Finally looked up, mascara already running.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said. Kept my voice steady. Professional. Like this was any other day and I was just stepping out for a meeting.
She nodded quickly, then looked away again.
The security guards at the elevator—men who’d greeted me every morning for years, who’d held doors and fetched my coffee and laughed at my jokes—suddenly found the floor very interesting. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked at me.
Amazing how fast people turned when power shifted.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside. Alone. The mirrored walls showed me my reflection from every angle—a woman in a $3,000 suit with not a hair out of place, looking exactly like someone who had everything under control.
The doors closed.
I exhaled.
The lobby was worse. Word had spread fast—of course it had, this was Washington, gossip traveled faster than legislation—and I could feel every eye on me as I crossed the marble floor.
Assistants clustered by the coffee cart, pretending not to stare.
A junior aide I’d promoted last year quickly turned and walked the other direction.
A city councilman I’d endorsed—a man who owed his entire career to my support—saw me coming and suddenly became very interested in his phone.
Cowards. All of them.
But the worst was Marjorie Sullivan. Deputy Mayor. The woman who’d been waiting in the wings for years, desperate for me to slip so she could swoop in. She was standing near the entrance, pretending to review some documents, but I saw the smile she was trying to hide. The barely contained glee.
Our eyes met.
“Vivica,” she said, voice dripping with false concern. “I just heard. Is there anything I can—”
“Save it, Marjorie.” I kept walking. “We both know you’ve been waiting for this moment since the day I appointed you.”
Her mask slipped for just a second—a flash of real satisfaction underneath the performance—before she rearranged her face into something sympathetic.
“I’m sure this will all get sorted out,” she called after me. “These things usually do.”
I didn’t respond. Just pushed through the doors and walked into the afternoon sun, feeling the weight of a hundred stares on my back.
I made it to my car before I fell apart.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the door. I slid into the driver’s seat and sat there, staring at nothing, trying to process what just happened.
Evidence. They said they had evidence.
How? I’d been so careful. Every bribe, every backroom deal, every favor called in—I covered my tracks. Used intermediaries. Kept nothing in writing.
So how did they get evidence?
India.
The thought hit me like a slap.
India knew everything. Every secret. Every scheme. Every body buried in the foundation of my career. She’d been by my side for years, in my bed for almost as long. If anyone had enough information to bring me down, it was her.
But she wouldn’t. Would she?
We loved each other. What we had was real—I was sure of it. She wouldn’t betray me. Not after everything we’d shared. Not after everything I’d done for her career.
Unless she was trying to save herself.
If the FBI had come to her first, offered her immunity in exchange for testimony… India was smart. Ambitious. She’d always put her survival first. It was one of the things I admired about her.
It was also one of the things that made her dangerous.
I pulled out my phone to call her. Before I could dial, it rang in my hand.
India.
My stomach tightened. Was this a confession? An apology? Or was she calling to gloat?
“Baby,” I answered, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Something happened—”
“I know.” Her voice was shaky. Scared. “Vivica, I need you to come over. Please. Right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t— I can’t talk about it on the phone. Just come. Please.”
She sounded terrified. Genuinely terrified.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she hadn’t betrayed me. Maybe she was just as scared as I was, caught up in something neither of us saw coming.
Or maybe this was a trap.
But I had to know. Had to look her in the eyes and see for myself.
“I’m on my way.”