Page 6 of The Bonventi Rise
But it’s his eyes that catch me off guard. When he looks up and sees me, his brown eyes are piercing, as though he’s already dissecting me, peeling back the layers to see what lies beneath.
He stands as I approach, and sweet Jesus, he's tall. 6'2”, maybe 6'3”, easily. My four-inch heels still leave me looking up at him. The perfectly tailored suit now emphasizes his lean, athletic build.
"Ms. Carter." His voice is deep and smooth, wrapping around me like velvet. "I’m Marco Bonventi. I’m very happy to finally meet you." He extends his hand, and when our palms meet, his warm grip engulfs mine completely. A subtle squeeze sends an unexpected jolt of electricity up my arm.
"Mr. Bonventi. I’m Alina Carter," I reply and notice our handshake lingers just a second longer than necessary. "Nice to meet you."
"Please," he murmurs, holding my gaze, "call me Marco." He releases my hand and steps in front of the maître d’ to pull out my chair. The movement causes his suit jacket to pull across his shoulders, and I catch myself staring at his muscles.
Marco comes around and takes his seat across from me. The table is set with crystal glasses and fine china.
He looks at me for a moment and smiles. "You’re even more impressive in person."
I blink, caught off guard by the compliment, and reach for my water glass. "I could say the same about you," I reply, keeping my tone professional, though I can feel heat rising in my cheeks.
Get it together, Alina.
The waiter appears, pouring coffee in our mugs and offering a brief description of the chef’s recommendations. I notice the waiter’s hand trembles slightly as he pours Marco’s coffee. When Marco glances up at him, the young man’s "Yes, sir" comes out a pitch higher than his previous words.
Interesting.
I’ve worked with enough powerful men to recognize authority when I see it, but this feels different. The way the staff carefully moves around our table, like they’re hyperaware of Marco’s presence, speaks of something beyond mere respect for a valued customer.
Even the maître d' seemed to firm up when he brought me over. It makes me wonder what exactly these people know about Marco Bonventi that I don’t.
Yet.
I focus on Marco as he speaks with the waiter. He’s the perfect politician—young, clean-cut, confident, and, if I’m being honest, annoyingly attractive. I mean, he looked good in the photos I saw online, but there’s something different about being around him that the cameras didn’t capture.
He’s also got a quiet authority about him, the kind that makes people stop and listen without him needing to raise his voice. It’s a little magnetic.
The waiter asks me about the special, and I nod. "Sounds perfect," I manage, hyper-aware of the fact I don’t really know what I ordered, but Marco gets the same, so that relieves some nerves.
The waiter sets down the cream, and we both reach for it at the same time. His fingertips linger against my skin for a brief moment, sending a subtle fire through me.
“Please," he laughs, "you first,” he says, pointing to the creamer.
I smile and pour some into my coffee.
"So, Alina. May I call you that?" he asks.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I say and take a sip.
"That’s a very beautiful name, by the way. Does it mean something?"
I almost choke on the hot liquid.
"Um, Slavic, I think. Beautiful. Noble," I say and look around the room to break from his eyes, trying to ignore the way goosebumps are forming on my arms under his intense gaze.
He pauses for a moment and shifts forward in his seat. "Hmm, that’s fitting."
Okay, he’s Mr. Smooth over here, but nonetheless, I remind myself this is just a meeting—strictly business. The way he looks at me though, like I’m the only person in the room, makes it hard to focus.
"What do you think of Chicago so far?" he asks.
"It’s impressive," I say, turning to meet his eyes again. "I’ve been here once before. Lots to do and see."
"Yes, I love this city," he says. "Best in the world."
