Page 30 of The Bonventi Rise
But it's not hard to guess why I'm nervous. It's where I play pretend with my fake fiancée.
A laugh escapes me, and my driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
When I came up with this plan—getting Alina, using Harrison's dirt to coerce her into an engagement, and running my campaign, I thought it was the best idea I'd ever had. The dominoes fell into place perfectly, and I got exactly what I orchestrated.
I felt on top, in control. Now? Chaos. Like being chained to fire.
I let her take the reins, but all I want is to take them back. Not for control, but to be close to her. She's thriving while I'm unraveling. I clench my fist, the frustration tightening inside me. Do I talk to her? What do I say? And all the while, I have to act like I'm pulling the strings.
Feelings weren't part of the plan. So why can't I stop?
The car slows to a stop, and I glance out the tinted window at a building that's seen better decades. The exposed brick is lined with graffiti, and in a few spots, someone has tried to paint over offensive words and images.
A handful of reporters stand near the entrance, talking among themselves. One of them spots me, and their cameras go up as my driver opens my door.
I step out and straighten my tie.
It's showtime.
The sidewalk vibrates with nearby construction, mixing with the squeal of the L train brakes overhead. Distant police sirens round out the ambiance. Not exactly the pristine backdrop I'd prefer for a photo op, but Alina picked it.
There's something raw and real about this place that I can't dismiss. That'll be good for voters.
"Mr. Bonventi!" a reporter steps forward. "What brings you to this part of town?"
"I'm here because every corner of Chicago matters. The talent and potential in this city isn't confined to one neighborhood, and neither should our attention be."
I give them my practiced smile and walk toward the entrance. That'll do for their stories.
I step through the heavy doors and hear a beautiful melody floating in the air, mixed with whispers and the soft giggles of kids. The interior of the warehouse is a surprise. Instruments line the walls, and colorful murals depicting musical legends cover every surface. It's a hidden oasis of creativity for the community.
A hand-painted banner hangs overhead:"Inner City Youth Music Program"in bold, slightly uneven letters. Below it, smaller text reads,"Where Dreams Get Their Sound."
My eyes scan the room for Alina. She should already be here, setting the stage for our performance. But instead, my gaze catches something else. A grand harp sits at the center of the room. And seated before it, her fingers dancing across the strings, is Alina.
The sight of her stops me in my tracks. The melody I heard is hers. Her eyes are closed, lost in the music, and I forget how to move, how to breathe.
The way she's playing—effortless, elegant—it's mesmerizing. I've never seen anyone play a harp before, but now I never want to see anything else.
The light catches on her hair as her head moves with the music, creating a halo effect. She looks vulnerable, passionate, utterly captivating—like a muse.
I move closer, drawn by her and the music. The kids nearby are equally transfixed, sitting cross-legged on the floor with wide eyes.
The final notes linger, and for a heartbeat, no one moves. Then the spell breaks, and the room erupts in applause. The kids jump up, calling out,"Ms. Alina! Ms. Alina!"
Alina's eyes open, and for a moment, raw emotion flickers on her face, like a goddess brought back to our world. Then her professional mask slides back into place, and I feel a pang of grief. I know that mask too well.
As the applause dies down, I approach her, my mind racing. This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't part of our carefully choreographed public act. This was her. And it feels more real than anything we've done.
"That was…" I stop, searching for the words. "One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, Firefly."
She nods, and I brush her hair over her left ear. "You're truly?—"
"Wow, Alina. That was amazing," a woman interrupts.
"Really, Vanessa? The children liked it?" Alina asks.
"Liked it? They loved it! Look at them."
