Page 29 of The Bonventi Rise
"Here?" he asks, his voice lower than usual, his lips close enough that I feel the whisper of his breath against my skin.
I nod, the words caught in my chest. "Yes."
Our hands brush as I hand the paper back to him, and I almost pull away too quickly, afraid he'll notice the way my pulse is racing. But I don't—and neither does he. His gaze narrows in on me, sharp, unreadable.
"You're good at this," he says finally, his tone soft. "You always know exactly what I need."
The words are perfectly harmless, but the way he says them, the way his voice dips, the way his eyes hold mine, sends fire through me and wrecks my head. I force a smile, one I hope looks more confident than I feel.
"Well, it's my job," I reply, stepping back to create some much-needed space. "You'll be ready for tomorrow."
His eyes follow me as I move, his expression unreadable. "I'm always ready with you by my side, Firefly."
The nickname catches me off guard. He hasn't called me that in some time, and I realize in that moment that I actually kind of missed it.
My stomach flutters, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice. His lips curve into a knowing smile, and I hate the way it makes me feel.
All business, Alina. Pretend. Remember?
I clear my throat. "The rest of it looks good. Just tighten that one section, and it'll be perfect."
He doesn't answer right away, just watches me with that same infuriating calm, like he knows exactly how to unnerve me.
"Anything else?" I ask, my tone sounding professional. A shield.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "I could always use more of you, Alina. Your insight is, well—you are the best, aren't you? But I suppose you've given me everything I need for now."
The words hang in the air between us, and I find myself starting to get mad. I mean, should I even be getting worked up?Everything we're doing is to win an election, that was clear from the start—and he's doing exactly what I asked.
Why the hell is this bothering me?
"I should go," I say, my voice steady despite the tension I'm feeling between us.
I turn toward the door, but he moves before I can reach it. He's there, standing in front of me, his frame blocking my path. The move is subtle but deliberate. My pulse quickens as I realize how easily he can control a situation, how naturally power comes to him. Maybe Dad wasn't entirely wrong about the Bonventis, but right now, that thought excites me more than it should.
For a second, I think he might say something—something real, something I'm not ready to hear.
"I just wanted to say thank you," he says finally, his voice low, intimate. "For everything."
The way he says it feels almost too sincere, like it's meant to unnerve me. He looks intoxicating, dangerous, and I know better than to let that win. I'm the one struggling to keep this fake engagement from bleeding into reality, and that's a problem I never thought I'd have.
"You're welcome, Marco," I say, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. He steps aside and opens the door for me, his hand resting on the frame.
I walk out into the hallway, and I notice there's a pause before his door finally clicks shut.
I shake my head and repeat to myself, "Business. Just business."
But as I make my way back to my office, I can't ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind. The one that reminds me of the way his hand brushed mine, the way his eyes lingered, the way my heart betrayed me in those quiet moments.
It's nothing. It has to be nothing.
18
MARCO
My driver turns onto Michigan Avenue, and we make our way south toward today's appearance.
I'm scrolling through emails on my phone when I feel a slight tightness in my chest. I'm nervous, which I find ironic considering this is just a photo op with some brief remarks—or so Alina noted in my schedule.
