Following an accident in the heart of Washington, D.C., Kenza Saliba is forced out from her mother's shadow to face a world of remorseless enemies masquerading as allies, in a collision of blistering vengeance, duplicity, and chaos.
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The hum of the tattoo machine was like a sedative, the buzz tingling up to the back of her skull as the motor drove needles into her skin. It felt like a satisfying scratch against her hipbone; never invasive enough to qualify as pain. Ink seeped into the wound, covering older ink. She saw the last letter of what used to be disappear under shades of grey, and she took a gulp of the vodka in her glass. When the rotary stopped, she turned around, and pinched her fingers together, and then spread them wide. Done?
Rem wiped at the fresh tattoo with a paper towel, and signed back to her. All done.
"I'll probably be back soon," she said, knowing he would read her lips. Rem smiled and nodded. I know you will. He signed with one hand, and she took the last sip of her drink. She tugged her sheer black pantyhose back up over her hips, and hopped down from the chair.
She flicked a match against the side of the worn cardboard box she would never throw away, and brought the flame to the cigarette between her lips. One exhale into the cold night air revived her, and she walked down the block, the heels of her thigh-high black leather boots sinking into small puddles the rain left behind. The rhythm of the steps following a few feet behind her was familiar, pacing slightly slower, intentionally out of synch with her.
Her walk ended in front of a pair of square-toed shoes. The nearly 7-foot tall man looked down at her, his bald head reflecting the single light bulb above the back door he was guarding.
"Miss Saliba. I need to check you," he held up the hand-held metal detector. "It's nothing personal." "Is she here yet?" She turned around, and he waved the wand over her back. "She's en route. Seven minutes out." The response came from behind her.
It was enough time to get a drink. Kenza walked through the crowded ballroom, dodging trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres being offered to her. She couldn't be invisible if she tried. Every person in the room knew who she was; but only by name and proximity to the woman they were all there for. The evening masquerading as another fundraiser was a swarming beehive of self-seekers elbowing their path to the most thirsted after asset in Washington, D.C. - access. Those same flaccid, veneered grins she rolled her eyes away from on television screens were now flashing at her in person, under inferior lighting. In this room, they were all friends, strategically scratching one another's backs. The charade of animus and opposition would continue in the morning, and the joke was on whoever was outside that building that evening.
With her vodka and ice in hand, Kenza navigated through the crowd, and followed a tuxedo-clad server to the kitchen. She was tempted to look for real sustenance to dilute the alcohol, but the lights flashing outside the paned double-doors summoned her. She drained the vodka in her glass, and set it down onto a counter.
"Good evening, Madame Secretary." Rena Saliba was whisked from her car, and immediately flanked by two members of the Secret Service. Their black suits contrasted with her pristine white blazer, like chess pieces moving in unsettling synch.
