Page 3 of The Bonventi Rise
"That's… That's what I'm talking about," Stacy says. "We need to move our bodies."
"Come on!" I say, grabbing Jen's hand and pulling her toward the dance floor. The others follow, giggling and stumbling slightly in their heels. The DJ shifts from some top-40 hit to a more bass-heavy track, and I let the rhythm overtake me.
This is what I need, to lose myself in the music, to forget about checking my phone every five minutes like some desperate teenager waiting for a text.
The dance floor is crowded enough to provide anonymity but not so packed that we can't move.
I close my eyes, letting my hips sway to the beat. The alcohol buzz finally hits, warming my blood and loosening my muscles. A man's hands find my waist from behind, and I don't immediately push them away. His cologne is expensive, probably another lobbyist. They all smell the same in these places.
"Can I buy you a drink?" His breath is warm against my ear.
I turn. He's attractive enough, salt-and-pepper hair, tailored suit that screams vacation home in the Hamptons. It's the kind of connection that could be useful later. But there’s a sharpness to his eyes, like he’s sizing me up for more than a dance. It’s the kind of attention I’ve learned to use—and avoid—depending on what’s at stake.
"Maybe next time," I say with a practiced smile, just mysterious enough to leave him wanting more. Networking never stops, even on the dance floor.
Stacy catches my eye and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. I can't help but burst out laughing, the kind of laugh a girl needs that only her friends can bring out.
As the music plays, I let myself believe that this is enough—this feeling of being young and successful, surrounded by friends who admire me.
But the thought of my unwelcome shadows creeps in, and I push it away, harder this time.
Fuck him.
I just ran the most successful governor campaign in state history. I made those accusations disappear like morning mist. I'm good at what I do. No, no, I'm the best. But even as I think it,the voice in my head whispers the same doubts he’s planted for years.
"To hell with him," I mutter under the music.
"What?" Natalie shouts over the bass.
"Nothing!" I grab her hands, spinning us both around. "Just thinking about my next move!"
"Which is?" she yells back.
I lean in close to her ear. "The White House, baby. Give me five years."
The music changes again, and I throw my hands up to the beat.
As I dance, I think what I really need is power, influence, and the rush that comes with victory. And I know how to get it, one calculated move at a time, one strategic relationship after another.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’ll start hunting for my next opportunity, one that puts me closer to my goal. Because that’s what I do—I don’t just win. I dominate.
3
ALINA
Irub my face as I press start on the coffee maker. I press my palm against my forehead, willing the pounding in my head to stop. Last night's memories flash through my mind in fragments—dancing, drinks, that guy with the expensive cologne. At least I made it home alone.
"Fuck," I mutter, reaching for the bottle of Advil. The child-proof cap feels like it's been designed by NASA this morning.
I pop it open, pour three pills into my hand, and shuffle them into my mouth. I take a cup of water, fill it, and drink the entire glass.
As I set the cup down, my phone buzzes against the counter. I reach for it surprisingly quickly.
Unknown number. Chicago area code.
Probably another recruiter trying to pitch me some small-time mayoral race in the Midwest.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but something, maybe the lingering effects of the bourbon, makes me swipe right.
