Page 83 of The Bonventi Rise
"Swipe left. There's more," Gio says.
I do. Another image. Different day. Different outfit. Then another.
I clench my jaw. "These could be doctored."
"They're not," Gio says, leaning forward. "She's been there at least three times that we know of."
"Fuck," I say, handing the phone back to Gio, my mind reeling.
"There's more," Gio says. "Our guy overheard bits of their conversations. It seems Sandra was offering Alina a job. Sandra even mentioned to someone that she had her turning against us."
"Dammit!" I stand up, pacing. "I fucking trusted her!"
"Marco—"
"I let her in, Gio. I told her everything about the family, about Sandra's Russian connections. I—" My voice breaks. "I fell in love with her."
Gio stands. "Hey, I get it. I was hurt too when I saw this. She’s a good person. Maybe there's an explanation."
"An explanation?" I turn to him. "She's been secretly meeting with the woman who tried to destroy me. No, it makes sense now."
The date on the first footage of her entering Sandra's office was right around the time Alina started acting different. I'd chalked it up to campaign stress, but now, her not eating or sleeping was probably her guilt.
God, she wouldn't betray me, would she?
"I have to go. I need to have a conversation with my fiancée."
"Marco, don't do anything stupid."
"Don't worry, brother. I just want to hear what she has to say for herself. Send me those files."
As I walk out, all I can think about is how many times I've warned her about loyalty. How many times I've told her what happens to people who betray the family.
How many times I've promised to protect her, never imagining I'd end up needing protection from her.
I grip the steering wheel tightly as I speed through Chicago's streets. My mind's a battlefield of conflicting thoughts, each one more painful than the last.
She wouldn't. Not Alina.
But the images flash through my mind again—her walking into Sandra's headquarters, that blue dress I bought her cutting into me like a knife. Once. Twice. Three times.
I slam my hand against the wheel. "Fuck!"
Maybe there's an explanation. The thought is desperate, pathetic. Maybe she was gathering intel. Maybe?—
But why wouldn't she tell me?
I park and make my way up to the suite.
One part of me wants to burst in screaming. Another part prays all of this is some horrible mistake.
I swipe the card, and the door unlocks.
And there she is, turning to look at me with those green eyes I've grown to trust and love—or thought I did.
41
ALINA
