Page 68 of The Bonventi Rise
MARCO
The engine roars as I push the speedometer past 90 mph, weaving through Chicago's streets like a man possessed. I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard I can feel the leather creaking under my palms. I slam my hand on the dashboard, cursing as Alina's phone goes straight to voicemail for God knows how many times.
"FUCK!" I yell, hitting the passenger seat.
My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. All I can think about is Alina. Alone. In danger.
Horns blare as I cut through traffic, but I couldn't care less about angry drivers right now. I need to get to her.
"Come on, come on." I hit redial. The phone rings, each unanswered tone driving another spike of panic through my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free.
"Goddammit." I slam the steering wheel again when her voicemail picks up. "Answer me!"
Horrible scenarios flash through my mind: Alina bleeding out on her apartment floor. Alina being tortured for information about my family. Alina dead because I didn't warn her in time about the Russians.
I shake my head violently, trying to remove the images from my thoughts.
"Please, God," I whisper, surprising myself with the prayer. I haven't believed in years, but right now, I'd sell my soul to any deity listening if it meant Alina was safe. "Please let her be okay."
I unlock my phone again and open my texts with her, hoping I missed something. But those two words stare back at me.
Please help.
It almost makes me sick.
My phone vibrates, and I nearly crash trying to hit the answer button. It's not Alina. It's Gio.
"What?" I bark into the speaker.
"Marco, where the hell are you?" Gio asks. "The Russians?—"
"Fuck the Russians!" I cut him off, my voice a feral growl. "They've got Alina. Or they're after her. I don't know. I'm heading to her place now."
"Shit," Gio says. "I'll send some men."
"No!" I shout, swerving to avoid a cyclist. "No one else. This is on me. I'll handle it."
"Marco, you can't?—"
I end the call. My brother means well, but this isn't family business. This is personal. If those Russian bastards have touched a hair on her head, I'll tear them apart with my bare hands.
I take a hard right, tires screeching. Alina's building is just up ahead, and even from here, I can see her windows are dark. No movement, no sign of life.
I slam on the brakes as I jump the curb. The car rocks violently as it climbs the sidewalk. My heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat as I leap out of the car, leaving the engine running and the door wide open.
I sprint into the building, running straight to the elevator. My finger presses the call button repeatedly.
The elevator opens and I burst inside, stabbing Alina's floor number and frantically pressing the 'close door' button.
As the elevator starts its climb, I slide my hand under my jacket, wrapping my fingers around the grip of my gun, ready to draw at a moment's notice.
Second floor.
Third floor.
Fourth floor.
The numbers tick by too slowly. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts.
