Page 36 of The Bonventi Rise
"Marco..." I start, but I don't know how to finish that sentence.
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. He checks it, and his expression darkens slightly. "I'll be back."
His face softens, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Enjoy the party, Firefly. I'll come find you soon."
I smile, and he walks away. As the party continues, I'm trapped in the moment, caught between terror and exhilaration as I realize I'm falling for a man I promised myself I'd never truly want.
20
MARCO
The elevator hums as it descends to the lowest parking level.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, revealing the dimly lit parking level. As I step out, motion sensors flicker to life, casting a yellow glow across the few parked cars.
The air smells faintly of oil and concrete—cold and damp. My black dress shoes echo against the pavement. I make my way to the back corner, where an unmarked storage room awaits, rented for situations exactly like this.
I input the passcode, and the lock disengages.
I push the heavy metal door open, and the fluorescent light makes me squint as I enter. The reporter, "John Doe," is slumped in a chair, his hands bound with zip ties. His face is pale, his hair disheveled, and sweat gathers on his forehead. Gio and one of his enforcers, guy named Vitto, are standing off to the side, speaking in low tones. They stop talking when I step in.
"Welcome to the party," Gio says, his voice sarcastic. "Our friend hasn't said much. Was waiting for you."
I shut the door behind me, making sure it locks. "So," I say, my voice calm. "Let's start with your real name."
The reporter spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you. You can't do this. I'm a member of the press."
"Press?" I laugh. "You're not press. You have no credentials. You're not even using a real name. No," I say, removing my jacket, "you're a fucking insect who crawled where he doesn't belong."
I fold my jacket and lay it across an empty chair. The reporter's eyes widen slightly as I roll up my sleeves.
"Last chance," I say softly. "Who sent you?"
The reporter's eyes dart between us, a flicker of fear breaking through his facade. "Look, if you let me go," he demands, though his voice wavers. "Maybe then I won't report this to the police."
I exchange a glance with Gio, and we both burst into laughter. This guy has no idea who he's dealing with.
"You think I'm worried about the police?" I ask, leaning down slightly so our faces are level. His breath smells faintly of coffee. "You walked into my event and insulted my fiancée in front of a room full of people. And now you're sitting here, in my fucking storage room, trying to threaten me?"
He swallows hard, but he doesn't back down. "You're a public figure, Bonventi. You can't just?—"
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish, the impact sending him and the chair crashing to the ground. The soundof metal scraping against concrete fills the room, followed by silence.
"Shit," Gio laughs. "Did you knock him out?"
I flex my hand, feeling the sting in my knuckles. "Not yet."
The reporter groans, blinking dazedly as he tries to push himself up. His movements are clumsy, like a drunk trying to find his balance. I grab the front of his shirt, hauling him back into the chair. He slumps there, blood dripping down his chin, his eyes wide and unfocused.
"Let's try this again," I say, my voice low and dangerous. "Your name and who sent you?"
The man groans, blood trickling from his split lip. His eyes struggle to focus, but I can see he realizes this isn't a game anymore.
"I... I'm just doing my job," he stammers.
I grab his throat, forcing him to look at me. "Your job? Your job was to ambush my fiancée at my birthday party? To dredge up baseless accusations?" My grip tightens, and a hint of redness spreads across his face. "I don't think so. Now, I'm going to ask you one last time, and I suggest you answer truthfully. Your name," I squeeze a little harder, "and who sent you."
He tries to talk, but I can't make out his words.
