Page 28 of The Bonventi Rise
But that's not what this is. It never was. And lately, he's made damn sure I don't forget it.
My dad's words pop into my head: "Playing pretend with mobsters isn't a career."
But it is. The numbers prove it.
We've secured major endorsements, donations are pouring in, and our message is resonating. I've done this. Me. Not Marco's name, not his family connections – my strategy.
Speaking of Marco, he's been different lately. Professional. Distant. After those first few heated moments, he's stepped back. Way back. Now he shows up for scheduled appearances, delivers his speeches perfectly, and defers to my judgment on campaign matters.
It's exactly what I wanted. Isn't it? He promised to step back and let me do my job, and at the time it was music to my ears. But now that music sounds more like Chopin's funeral march.
I pull up our schedule for next week. Marco has a few fundraisers, two community meetings, and a mock debate prep session. All meticulously planned by me, all guaranteed to maximize his exposure while minimizing any potential controversies.
"Excuse me, Ms. Carter?" Sarah pokes her head in. "Mr. Bonventi asked if you could review his speech for tomorrow's fundraiser."
I think back to our last event a couple days ago. Marco spoke about education reform, and I watched from the sidelines. No stolen glances, no subtle touches, no whispered "Firefly" in my ear.
"He can email it to me," I say, not looking up.
"He actually asked if you had time to meet?—"
"Email is fine." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "Sorry, Sarah. Just tell him to email it, please."
She stands still, confusion plastered on her face. "I—okay, so I'll tell him you can't come to his office then."
She turns to walk away.
"Wait," I say, probably sounding a bit too desperate. "He's here now?"
She shakes her head. "Yes, and wanted me?—"
"Okay, tell him I'll be there in 10 minutes."
17
ALINA
Istep into Marco's office. The air is warm, and it undeniably smells like him. My stomach twists at the recognition, a faint wave of emotion catching me off guard.
He's sitting at his desk, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to hint at the long hours he's been putting in. Even slightly disheveled, he emanates power—the kind that makes reasonable people either want to run away or get closer. Right now, I'm fighting the urge to do both. His head lifts as I enter, and for a moment, his eyes meet mine—steady and intense.
"Alina," he says, his voice smooth, as if he's always known how to draw me in. "Thanks for coming."
I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "I heard you needed help with the speech?"
He gestures to the paper on his desk, leaning back slightly in his chair. "It's almost there, but something's missing. It needs your special touch."
The words are straightforward, professional even. Still, they land heavier than they should. My breath catches for a fraction of a second before I step forward, determined to ignore the strange heat curling low in my stomach.
I pick up the paper. "Let me take a look."
He doesn't reply, but I feel his eyes on me as I scan the speech. I have to reread some lines a few times as I'm acutely aware of the silence between us. It feels different.
I shift on my feet, forcing myself to focus on the words in front of me. The speech is good. It's the kind of rhetoric that fires up donors and leaves journalists scrambling for a pull quote. But he's right. It's missing something.
"This part." I point to the third paragraph. "It's strong, but you could rephrase it to make it more direct."
He stands, and I catch the faintest hint of his cologne again. He moves beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, close enough that my breath tightens in my throat. He towers over me, his broad frame making me feel simultaneously protected and trapped. His shoulder brushes mine as he leans in to look at the page.
