Page 4 of The Bonventi Rise
"Alina Carter speaking."
The voice on the other end is crisp and professional. "Good morning, Ms. Carter. This is Cindy Shepard, calling on behalf of Marco Bonventi."
The name kicks off something in my memory, but my hangover-brain struggles to place it.
"Good morning, Ms. Shepard. How can I help you?"
"Mr. Bonventi would like to invite you to Chicago for a meeting. He's very interested in discussing a potential opportunity with you."
I reach for my iPad, nearly knocking over my coffee mug in the process. The screen's brightness makes me wince as I type his name into the search bar.
The results make my stomach clench.
Marco Bonventi. Illinois business mogul. Philanthropist. Vice-mayor. And, if the rumors are to be believed, deeply connected to the Chicago mob. The Bonventi family name is splashed across articles about everything from charity galas to FBI investigations that mysteriously went nowhere.
"Ms. Carter? Are you still there?"
"Yes, sorry." I clear my throat. "And what exactly is this about?"
"I'm afraid I don't have those details, Ms. Carter. Mr. Bonventi prefers to discuss such matters in person."
I scroll through more articles. Marco's face appears in several photos: sharp suit, dark features, the kind of smile that fits politicians well. He's handsome in that dangerous way that screams "warning" and "temptation" in equal measure.
While there's some good to work with here, and a step in the right direction career-wise, I'm not sure the baggage is worth it. Especially after my last race.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm currently taking some time to?—"
"Mr. Bonventi is prepared to send a private jet to you," Cindy interrupts smoothly. "The Capstone Hotel has already been arranged for your stay. All expenses will be paid for, of course."
The Capstone. Even with my throbbing head, I know that's not just any hotel. That's where presidents and prime ministers stay when they're in Chicago.
"When would this meeting be?"
"Tomorrow morning, if that works for you. The flight would leave this evening."
Tomorrow. So soon. Too soon. This is exactly the kind of situation I tell my clients to avoid—rushed decisions, mysterious meetings, dealing with people whose reputations are more shadow than substance.
"Can I think about it and get back to you?"
There's a silence, and I feel like she's put me on mute.
"Of course," Cindy replies. "We'll hold the flight arrangements open for the next 48 hours. When you've made a decision, please call me back at this number."
After ending the call, I pour myself some coffee and settle onto the couch with my iPad. My fingers fly across the screen as I search for everything there is on Marco Bonventi.
Working for a candidate with mafia ties could be career suicide, but if it's not true, or I run a clean campaign, keep him aboveboard, the connections and influence he has could be invaluable to me.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Jen:
How's the hangover, birthday girl?
I ignore it. I'm too focused on the opportunity and risk in front of me.
Article after article, Marco Bonventi's public image is polished to a shine. He seems to be doing everything right. Charitable donations, community involvement, sound business practices. But there are also reports of competitors mysteriously backing down and zoning laws that luckily bend in his favor. Nothing concrete, nothing more than a journalist looking for their break, but enough to give me some apprehension.
After about an hour of researching, I toss the iPad aside and pace the living room. The aspirin is kicking in, and my headache is almost gone.
The smart move would be to decline. To wait for a safer opportunity, one without the stench of organized crime. But a voice in the back of my head says: "Playing it safe never got anyone to the top."
