Power Twist: Power Play Series Book 2

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  Shouting voices, the clang of pots and pans, and rich smells of cooking meats barrel into the alley as the door swings open with a groan of metal against metal. I hesitate, flicking my eyes up to search Trey's stone face.

  “We're good,” he barely whispers over the noise. “We knew.”

  A sliver of worry eases from my shoulders. Okay, so this part is a shock for me but not them. Good. Well, not great, because it sucks walking in blind, but at least I'm safe.

  With T leading the way and Trey at my back, we snake down the various kitchen lines toward a side door. T's wide fist pounds on the door, practically shaking the wall. Glancing over my shoulder, I scan the kitchen. Not a single worker looks up from their station, their eyes trained only on their work. The one other time we've done this, snuck through the kitchen, you would've thought I was a celebrity or something the way people stared, but not here. Interesting yet concerning.

  The squeal of metal draws my attention forward. On the other side of the now-open door stands the physical perfection one imagines when you mention Russians. I crane my neck to look up at the strangely tall man and smile. His gray eyes seem to stare blankly at me, his features completely void of emotion. He takes a step back, allowing us to move past him deeper into the well-lit dining room.

  Careful to keep my movements small, I slowly swipe my sweaty palms down my leather leggings, which are already suctioned to my legs with the humidity and heat. I better be careful going to the bathroom or I might never get these things back up again.

  Igor the Giant motions us toward the center of the room where a single table sits. The top is adorned with several silver dome lids, candelabras of various heights with tall glowing candles flicking at the wicks, and matching place settings—without the fourteen rows of forks and spoons I'm now accustomed to seeing in formal settings.

  And of course, two chairs accompany the table.

  One empty.

  One not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Randi

  The guys stick to my side as I cautiously approach the table. Under the bright chandeliers, the man already sitting appears young and exactly who I expected. The pictures of the Russian president haven't done him justice or maybe the warm Chilean sun has helped add some color to his normally stark-white complexion.

  Staying seated, he motions for me to sit in the unoccupied chair across from him.

  “Sit, please.”

  Another surprise—no accent.

  With a nod, I reach to pull the chair out, but Igor the Giant is there in a flash, pulling it out for me like a proper gentleman. Careful not to flop, I ease into the plush high-back but keep my back ramrod straight instead of relaxing back. “Thank you,” I say, tilting my face way up to smile at the not-so-jolly giant. Again those gray eyes stare blankly back. Geez, Russians are uptight. Trey mentioned they were a little stiff, but this is more like rigor mortis.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Madam Vice President.” Not trusting my voice, I dip my chin in acknowledgment. “I'm sure you and your men are wondering why you're here, why I was… vigilant in gaining an audience with you.”

  “If you mean slightly stalkerish, yeah, we can go with vigilant,” I say with a huff and then immediately cringe. “Sorry,” I mutter. Shit, Randi, not the time for your smartass mouth. Digging my ragged nails into my thighs, I take a deep breath. “What is this all about?”

  “Ah,” he says, his dark eyes lighting up with excitement. “That will come later. First we chat, become friends, eat.”

  “Become… friends?” Surely I didn't hear him right.

  He scrapes a palm along his thick dark beard. “Yes, you and I have a lot in common, no?”

  “No? Yes? I don't know much about you.” Breaking our stare, I scan the table, looking for something to nibble on in hopes it will quell my queasy stomach. A plate with a large loaf of thick white bread and several dollops of butter calls my name. Without thinking of repercussions, or anything to do with politics for that matter, I stretch across the table toward him, eager to get a slice of bread in my belly as quickly as possible.

  Shouts ring out and a hand grips my shoulder, yanking me hard against the back of the chair. My head snaps with the force and I gasp. A pain-laced groan pushes past my lips.

  “Stop,” the Russian president bellows as he slams his palms on the table, making the dome lids and glasses rattle. “She reach for bread not knife,” he shouts again, but this time a bit of a Russian accent slips through. “She is friend, not prey.”

  “Not sure if that makes me feel better,” I mutter under my breath, but the hand at my shoulder tightens to the point of pain. I hiss, glancing from the hand up to Trey's face. My eyes widen at the anger and hate written across his scowling features as he scans the room.

  “She is safe,” the president says with a nod to me. “No harm.”

  Several tense seconds tick by with the men in some kind of stare-off.

  “I'm fine. Please let me go,” I say, attempting to shrug out of Trey’s protective hold. Turning back to the president, I attempt an easy smile that comes off more like a grimace. “You guys take table manners to the extreme, you know that?”

  Wrinkles form along his brow before vanishing with a growing wide smile. “You are funny.”

  “Thanks?” Again I shrug off Trey's lingering fingers this time to lean forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Can you pass the bread, please? I'm starving.”

  With a nod, he passes the butcher block, setting it on the table beside my water glass. The second it’s on the table, I tear into the loaf, dipping a piece into the butter before taking a bite. The outside layer flakes off in my mouth while the moist inside melts like the butter.

  “We are the same, you and I,” he says, leaning back in his chair and resting both hands atop of the arm rests where everyone can see them. Smart man. “Same poor background, same struggles.”

  After wiping my fingers on the crisp white napkin, I grab the ice water glass and take a hasty sip. “You watched the campaign, then?”

  He shrugs.

  “It’s either that or you pulled information on me, which would be concerning.”

  “The campaign, then,” he says with a smirk.

  “Right,” I say slowly. “But in regards to our backgrounds, if you say they were similar, I assume with you being in Russia that you had it harder than me. I hear it gets a bit colder there than Texas.”

  “Hungry is hungry, poor is poor, no matter the continent you are on.”

  “Touché.” I wave a hunk of bread, emphasizing my point. “Look at where we are now.”

  “Yes, but I am president and you are vice, the second.”

  “That's right.” Not sure if he meant that as a jab or not. Hard to tell with these guys.

  “I wish to change that.”

  A chunk of half-chewed bread lodges in my throat at my gasp of surprise. Bits of it launch into my hand as I cough uncontrollably to save myself from choking. “What?” I rasp.

  “I wish to help you to be first, president.”

  I take a sip of water, easing the scratch and burn of my throat. “You want to kill the president? Pretty sure that's treason talk.”

  “I not say kill.”

  I arch a brow, peering over the rim of the water glass as I continue to nurse the soothing elixir.

  “Americans,” he huffs, falling back against the chair.

  “Don't ‘Americans’ me,” I say through another cough. “You set a room on fire in Munich to deliver me flowers—”

  “You declined my meeting.”

  “Then you had your guys corner me and mine in a dark alley after you stalked my daughter—”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Sorry if I don't believe you here, Mr. President—”

  “Call me Vlad.”

  “Vlad, you're the president of a country that's made questionable human rights decisions in the past. You've harbored terrorists, tried to take over innocent countries, and are now thr
eatening the man running our free country. Forgive me if I don't believe a damn word you're saying.”

  I slam the now-empty glass on the table and lean forward.

  “I'm trying to change our ways, but I cannot change our past,” he grits out. Leaning toward me, his knuckles go white on the armrests. “Would you want people to blame you for your past when you had nothing to do with it?”

  A bit of the rising indignation falters. Okay, maybe my reasoning isn't sound, but still, how am I to trust him?

  “I don't trust you,” I state, holding his gaze.

  “We will build. To start.” Raising a hand, he flicks two fingers in the air in a summoning gesture. Igor the Giant steps forward and places a manila envelope in Vlad's awaiting hand. What’s with them and envelopes? Haven’t they heard of email? Vlad stands, straightens his suit jacket, and steps around the table to stand in front of me. In my periphery, two bodies shift closer, their movement rigid.

  Vlad's dark eyes meet mine. Slowly he extends the envelope toward me and nods, indicating for me to take it. The smooth, thick paper slides over my fingertips as I carefully tug it from his hand.

  “That will have the information you want on the man who follows your daughter.”

  “Follows?” I gasp.

  His bushy dark brows furrow. “Yes, follows.”

  “How do you know this?” My fingers itch to rip open the seal and scour the information inside. Instead I hold the envelope close to my chest, protecting it with my life.

  “I'm Russian,” he responds like I'm an idiot. “We know.” His gaze softens. “This builds trust, yes?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  With a nod, he gives a few shouted commands in Russian. Four men appear at his side within seconds.

  “Madam Vice President, it was a pleasure. When you are ready to know truth, you come to me. I have it all.”

  With a nod of respect, he turns on his heels, the four guards following step for step.

  “Why do you hate him? Kyle—I mean the president. Why do you want me in that role instead of him?”

  Now at the edge of the room, Vlad turns back, cloaked in shadows. “He is not a good man.”

  “And you think I am, or a good woman, I mean? You don’t know anything about me. I’m not that great.”

  He takes a menacing step forward; the shadows pull away from his face, revealing the hate sketched across his features.

  “He prey on the weak. Takes advantage because he can. Uses his power and money for those he favors. You know this.” I'm about to say I do but seal my lips when I realize he's not talking to me. Following his hard gaze to Trey, I bolt up from the chair. “I know his plans. He must be stopped. War will come unless we stop it now.”

  “What if I don't want it?” I whisper, voicing the growing fear pricking the back of my mind.

  “We do what we have to do to protect those we love,” he says, a nostalgic tone in his voice. “We, you and I, know there are those who cannot protect themselves, who are kept behind by those who wish to rule without pushback. It will not be easy, but nothing has been, correct?”

  “No.” My eyes search his, desperate for more reasons than the shitty ominous one he just laid out.

  “Neither this. Come to me when you need the proof. I'll be waiting.”

  Loud bangs and excited shouts pour from the kitchen, filling the private room as Vlad and his protection detail quickly file out. Only once the door clicks closed do I take a deep breath.

  Turning to the guys, I search their rigid faces.

  “What the actual fuck was that about?”

  “I'll take that,” T says, tugging at the envelope clutched tightly between my hands. I tighten my grip, holding it firm. “Randi.”

  I shake my head, unwilling to let the information go.

  “What did he mean by follows?” I ask, my eyes searching his dark ones. “We knew about the listening devices in her dorm, but someone following her? Is that why he had his own guys out there making sure she was safe? I don’t understand his angle in all this.”

  “Do you trust me?” T asks. I dip my chin in a small nod. “As you should. You know I'll take care of it, whatever is revealed inside this envelope.”

  “And tell me,” I whisper, still not letting go.

  “And keep you in the loop. Let me handle this for you, for Taeler.” Reluctantly, I let the envelope slip through my fingers. “Come on,” T whispers barely loud enough for me to hear. “Let's get you back.”

  I nod and don't put up a fight. Hell, I barely even notice my own feet moving in sync with theirs as they shuffle me out the door, back into the dark alley and then into the waiting limo. I stare unfocused at the floorboard as we drive through the city. A warm hand wraps around my cold one, fingers interlacing with a quick squeeze.

  “You're okay, Mess. It’ll be okay.”

  I don't have the energy to tell him somehow I know for a fact that it won’t. Whatever happened tonight was the catalyst of something big. But what that is, only time would tell.

  * * *

  The cold concrete bar top sends a shiver from where my elbows press against it all the way to my toes. Even with the humidity and heat, I can't stop my teeth from chattering. The glass shakes in my trembling hand as I lift it to my lips, but even the slow burn of the cheap whiskey does nothing to warm me.

  There have been times that I've felt the world was falling apart around me, but this, today and last night with Vlad, made all those other times feel like a fucking vacation—if I knew what one of those felt like.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep inhale. Behind me the other hotel patrons mill about, having no clue the fucking shit show I'm dealing with—alone.

  Being yelled at for the past ten hours, everyone and their neighboring countries blaming me for the oil crisis on our hands. One would think the spike in oil would make these money-hungry assholes happy, but oh no, they're pissed because they think I, the Americans, are doing it to somehow overthrow the OPEC alliance and out produce them, making us the leading supplier of the liquid gold in the world.

  If only I knew what the ever-loving fuckity fuck they were talking about, maybe I wouldn't feel so… lost.

  But I don't. No matter how many times I explained our situation, that we are not the cause, only hate and anger were spewed right back. Apparently we were never a fan favorite of the alliance anyway, and this just tipped their hands to pure loathing for my beloved country.

  Top off this fantastic fucking day with getting a text from Jessica that the House decided to vote on the bill early. That’s right, for the first time in our government’s history, they did something early. Just my horrible luck.

  Of course it passed. Not sure why I’m so sad to learn that what I knew would happen is now a fact, but I am. Super sad. And the only thing that’s going to make today right is another drink. Then another. Then another.

  A voice in the back of my mind screams at me to stop drinking, that this is no way to handle my problems like the second most powerful person in the world would. But you know what I tell that voice? Fuck. Off. Sure, this is a dangerous ledge to lean over considering I’m the daughter of an alcoholic and addict. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

  Maybe.

  A gentle grasp around my elbow snags my wandering attention. Slowly peeling my dry eyes open, I blink several times to clear my vision. Across the bar, a row of mirrors lines the wall. A familiar set of honey brown eyes meets mine in the reflection. His normally styled dark hair is disheveled, like he's run his fingers through the thick locks over and over the past few hours. There's no mischievousness in his eyes, no humor in his pinched features as he stares down at me. Guess it’s been a long day for everyone.

  “Let's get you upstairs,” he mumbles while reaching for the highball glass clutched between my hands.

  “Go away. Can’t you see I’m drowning my sorrows?”

  “Yeah, everyone can, which is why it’s time for you to go up to your room.”

>   “No.” I give my head a shake for emphasis, causing the room to sway. Focusing on a stationary object, I inhale deep through my nose. “One more.”

  “That's what you said three rounds ago, which was already two too many.”

  Rolling my eyes, I yank my elbow from his grasp, causing a few precious drops of whiskey to sprinkle to the bar. “Never had a dad and don't need one now,” I state.

  Wait, why am I mad at him? Am I mad at him?

  I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, hoping that will help me concentrate.

  Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m pissed at the world, not Trey. But he’s the one trying to cut me off, so….

  “I'm not your fucking daddy,” he hisses into my ear. I lift a shoulder to relieve the tickle caused by his hot breath. “You're drunk. If I don't get you upstairs now, I'll have to carry you up. Look the hell around you, Randi. Do you want me to carry you out of this bar with all these people watching?”

  “Get the hell off me.”

  “I thought you wanted to break the cycle, not repeat it.”

  The air catches in my lungs, and the heavy highball glass slips from my hand. Trey snatches it midair, keeping it from shattering on the bar.

  “How dare you,” I seethe. Doesn’t matter that I just had that same thought. He can’t say that shit. “I've had a bad fucking day, okay?”

  “Yeah, I know, Mess. I know. But this isn't how you handle it. Getting piss-ass drunk and making a fool out of yourself is not going to help anything.”

  “Then what is?” Tilting my face to ceiling, I blink rapidly, attempting to keep the building tears at bay.

  “Honestly, I don't know, but not this. Come on, let's get you upstairs. You're better than this, Randi. I know it’s hard right now, but you're stronger than you realize. You'll get through.”

  “How are you so sure?” I whisper.

  “Because even though you hit like a girl—” Pursing my lips, I shoot him a glare, causing him to chuckle and a bit of the normal brightness to shine through his eyes. “—you're pretty badass.”