Page 81 of Power Games

Empty. Vanessa wasn't in the bathroom, or anywhere else.

What the hell?

He brought his phone to his ear again. "Do we have a way to track the—"

A telltale, familiar, and alarming sound stopped him in his tracks: a gun cocking. Charles turned, and found a tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, handsome man of fifty-three in front of him, holding a gun aimed right at his chest.

“Hang up. Drop the phone."

Charles did as Tristan McNamara told him.

"You," he said. "Not your father. You. Why?"

Tristan snorted. "My father? You truly thought my father would have something against you?" He rolled his eyes. "Please. The man would kiss you if you let him."

Charles tilted his head, analyzing the unstable man in front of him. Tristan had a serious chip on his shoulder and things to get off his chest. Good. The one thing he could do right now was delay him to give his men time to get to him.

"Really? I never had that impression."

"He thinks you're smart. Smarter than me. And years ago, he saw you as a useful tool to bring his little protégée back right where he wanted her, here in DC. You know, he even screwed Isabella hoping you'd get rid of her, because he knew Vanessa had the hots for you. It's always all about Vanessa in our family."

Bitterness. Jealousy. Insanity.

The man somehow managed to appear normal in society, but he was a fucking mess. Charles saw that Tristan's arm lowered a little as he spoke. If he shot now, his aim would be off.

He needed to keep him engaged.

His phone started to ring on the ground.

"I don't get it. You're successful. Hell, you're running for president, and likely to win. Why would it be about Vanessa? She's doing great, but she's just a singer."

"Exactly! She's just a singer, like her whore of a mother. The way Dad speaks about her, you'd think she invented the fucking wheel. Just because she's smarter than me. He can't shut up about it. How smart she is, shit like that."

"He doesn't see you," Charles summarized. "No one really sees you. They will, you know. When you're president."

When your face is plastered all over the newspapers once you're taken in for murder,he meant. But somehow, he doubted that saying that would have resulted in desirable consequences.

"Yes!" Tristan said. "Yes. And you'll be dead."

The phone was still ringing, getting on his nerves, and no doubt, on Tristan's too. The last thing he needed was for the guy to lose patience and shoot.

Keep him talking.

"Why?" Charles asked. "I don't get it. I mean, Izzy made sense. She wanted you to marry her after our divorce, right? And then, she probably said she'd go to the press about your affair if you didn't comply."

"She was a whore. A liability. I would have lost the election because of her."

"Yes, I understand that. And Claudia knew about the baby. How did you hear about it?"

Tristan was aiming toward his chest, not his head.

His precise hit on Izzy had made it clear that he was an excellent marksman. Charles knew he had little chance of escaping his fate if he had the time to aim and shoot. He needed to distract him a little longer.

"What does it matter to you? You're dead anyway."

Charles shrugged. "I've been thinking about it for months now. I'd like to understand how you pulled it off. How you managed to wipe away all the evidence. You don't have to tell me, but if this is my last day, I'd like to know that, at least."

Tristan pondered his words.

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