Page 50 of The Bonventi Rise
"They're beautiful," he says, leaning in and giving me a soft, gentle kiss. "And so, I've caught you," he says against my lips and turns to walk out.
I shut the door and lean against it.
God, I'm going to end up loving this man, aren't I?
26
ALINA
Once Marco leaves, I clean the house, shower, dress, and prepare to head out. The entire time, my thoughts swing from Marco's hands on me to Sandra freaking Reeves. I promise myself I'm going to talk to him about her.
I mean, I'm his campaign manager first, so it would seem out of the blue if I corner him when I see him later at the office. I know he came over under those pretenses and things took a turn—I mean, who wants to talk about what could go wrong in a campaign? But we'll need to address things.
I give myself one last look over, grab my purse and bag, and head out. It's a nice mid-morning in Chicago, and the air smells crisp and clean. I stop by my favorite coffee shop and order my, almost daily, favorite—double cappuccino.
I grab my coffee and head outside. I take a sip of my drink, savoring the hot and bitter liquid on my tongue. The sun warms my face as I start walking.
I turn the corner to head down to the office when I notice two large men approaching me. Their demeanor and sternexpressions set off alarm bells in my head. My heart rate jumps, and I tighten my grip on my coffee cup.
"Ms. Carter," the one on the left says, his voice deep and stern. "Someone would like to speak with you."
I force a polite smile, trying to mask my unease. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I have a busy schedule today. If someone wants to speak with me, they can contact my office."
I try to step around them, but they shift, blocking my path. The coffee suddenly feels heavy in my hand, and I resist the urge to throw it at them and run.
"I'm afraid this isn't a request," the one on the right says, gesturing to a black limousine idling at the curb.
My eyes dart around the street. People walk past, absorbed in their phones, not noticing—or choosing not to notice—what's happening. I could scream, but something tells me these men wouldn't care about the attention.
"Look," I say, sounding brave, "I don't know who you are or who you work for, but I'm not going anywhere with you. Now, if you'll excuse me?—"
I try to push past them again, but they don't allow me to move.
"Please don't make this difficult," the man on the left says, his words a thinly veiled threat.
I hesitate for a moment.
"Fine," I spit out through my clenched jaw. "But touch me, and I'll make sure every news outlet in Chicago knows about this little intimidation tactic."
They escort me toward a sleek black limousine parked nearby. The tinted windows reveal nothing of what, or who, waits inside. The men remain just close enough to grab me if I run but careful not to make contact.
One opens the door, and I slide inside, my hands trembling slightly as I clutch my coffee.
The interior is dimly lit, and as my eyes adjust, I find myself face to face with her.
With Sandra Reeves.
My stomach drops. Of all the people I expected to see, she wasn't even on the list. She sits across from me, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. She's dressed impeccably in a cream-colored tailored suit, every inch the polished politician she portrays to the public. And her smile reminds me of a shark—all teeth and no warmth.
"Ms. Carter," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "I hope you don't mind the dramatic invitation. I find it's sometimes necessary to ensure important conversations happen."
"Kidnapping is a federal offense," I say, keeping my voice cold. "Or did you forget that part during your time as a prosecutor?"
She laughs. "Kidnapping? Oh, who's using dramatic tactics now? Please, I'm merely offering you a ride and some friendly advice."
The limo starts moving.
I scoff, "I don't need advice from someone who has to force people into cars to have a conversation."
