Page 5 of The Bonventi Rise
I grab my phone, fingers hovering over Cindy Shepard's number. One meeting. That's all it would be. I could hear him out, judge for myself if there's any real fire behind all this smoke. And if it feels too risky, I can always walk away.
Right?
My thumb presses "call" before I can talk myself out of it.
"Hello, Ms. Carter."
"One meeting," I say firmly. "That's all I'm agreeing to."
"Excellent. I'll email you the flight details shortly. And Ms. Carter?" There's a pause. "Mr. Bonventi appreciates discretion."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I set my phone down and stare at my untouched coffee, now growing cold. What the hell am I doing? The Bonventi family isn't just another client to add to my portfolio. They're the kind of people my campaigns usually warn voters about.
But maybe that's exactly why I said yes. Because it's dangerous. Because it’s a step up, and maybe, with this, I’ll finally gain his approval.
A mixture of excitement and dread coils in my stomach. I've just entered a path that could lead to unprecedented power and influence—or total ruin.
But isn't that the game I've chosen to play?
Besides, it's just one meeting. What's the worst that could happen?
I head to the bathroom, determined to shake off this hangover and prepare for whatever Chicago has in store. As I stare at my reflection, I see the same fire in my eyes that's driven me this far.
"You've got this, Alina," I tell myself. "It's just another game of chess. And you're the queen."
4
ALINA
The heated leather seats warm my back as I watch Chicago's skyline through the tinted windows of the Mercedes.
Everything about this just feels too easy. From the moment I agreed to this meeting, it’s been a show of Marco’s efficiency, knowledge, and power. I mean, I’ve been in a private jet before, but none as big as the one he sent. And then the flight attendant knew my drink preference without asking. Heck, even the car service had my favorite bottled water waiting.
And if that wasn’t enough, when I checked into the Capstone Hotel, they brought me to the Starlight Suite, which the internet tells me is the room dignitaries stay in.
I can say with confidence that while I don’t know much about Marco, he seems to know me, and honestly, it’s a little unsettling to be wined and dined this much. However, I’m keeping an open mind because if I don’t, that would mean I’m not worth it, and why the hell wouldn’t I be?
My fingers trace the edge of my phone screen, thumb hovering over the browser where I’d spent half the night researching Marco Bonventi. The more I dug, the more questions I had. His charitable contributions read like a masterclass in reputation management. Every potential scandal somehow dissolved before it could stick. It’s the kind of PR work that either takes incredible skill or the kind of influence money can’t buy—legally, anyway.
I check my reflection in my compact mirror. My green eyes are sharp, alert despite the remnants of yesterday’s hangover. My black hair falls perfectly to just above my shoulders—thank God for the Starlight Suite’s professional-grade hair dryer. The deep blue blazer I chose projects competence without trying too hard.
I can feel myself turning into work Alina, and I smile.
It’s game time.
The car slows, pulling up to a restaurant that looks more like a converted mansion. "Maison Evelyn," reads the discreet gold plaque by the door. As I step out, the scent of freshly baked bread and coffee envelops me.
"Ms. Carter," the maître d' greets me with a polite nod. "Mr. Bonventi is expecting you. Right this way."
My heart rate picks up as I follow him through the restaurant, my heels clicking against the marble floor. I feel nerves rise as we approach a corner table, partially hidden by an ornate folding screen. And then I see him, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort.
Marco Bonventi.
There’s certainly no hiding his presence.
He’s seated with one arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other resting on the table as he scrolls through his phone. Even sitting, he radiates power and control. His tailored charcoal suit clings to his broad shoulders and tapers perfectly at his waist, and the crisp white shirt beneath it highlights his olive-toned skin. His dark hair is meticulously styled, not a strand out of place, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut glass.
