Page 12 of The Bonventi Rise
"Showtime," I whisper as I grab my purse and notes.
The elevator ride down feels endless. Each floor bringing me closer to my, what? Salvation? Damnation? Both?
A black Mercedes idles at the curb, the same driver from yesterday opening the door as I approach.
"Where are we going?" I ask the driver once I'm inside.
He remains silent, pulling smoothly into traffic.
Of course. Silence.
I close my eyes, trying to find that razor-sharp focus that's carried me through countless negotiations and crises.
But all I can hear is Jen's words. "Maybe you saw what you wanted to see?"
Did I? In my desperation to prove myself, to finally earn his approval, did I willfully ignore the signs?
After some time, the car comes to a stop in front of a rustic building with wrought iron lighting.
A man from the restaurant opens my door. "Good evening, Ms. Carter. Welcome to La Sfera Nera. Mr. Bonventi is waiting for you inside."
I step inside, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim lighting. A man approaches and escorts me to a secluded table where Marco is waiting.
"Alina." Marco's voice cuts through the chatter of other guests. "I'm so glad you decided to join me."
"Yes, well, given everything, I…"
Trailing off, I take a seat at the table, not waiting for Marco to pull my chair out. He notices and sits across the table from me.
"Let's get one thing straight," I say, my voice firm. "I've done my research, as requested. But that doesn't mean I'm agreeing to work for you. If anything, you'll be paying for another ticket to send me home tomorrow."
Marco's lips curl into that infuriatingly confident smile. He leans back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Oh, I like this fiery side. Keep it up, and I'd be tempted to buy you a ticket every day just to come here."
The compliment slides off me like oil on water. I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Save the charm for your constituents, Mr. Bonventi. Now, do you want my assessment or not?"
"I'm on the edge of my seat," he says and gestures for me to continue, his eyes fixed on me.
I pull out my notes, needing something concrete to focus on besides the way he's looking at me. I clear my throat, pushing aside the nagging voice reminding me of my precarious situation.
Focus, Alina. This is what you do best.
"Your family's wealth and power in this town? That can be controlled. Even spun into a positive narrative with the right messaging. The mafia rumors?" I wave my hand dismissively. "With the right strategy, we can bury those too. Half of Chicago's old money is linked to something similar. We'd bury it under philanthropy and business success."
I pause, watching his reaction carefully. His expression remains neutral, but there's a slight tightening around his eyes.
Good. He's listening.
"But there's one thing that can't be fixed with PRs and photo ops. One vulnerability we can't hide." I meet his gaze directly. "One thing that will sink your campaign before it starts."
His eyebrow lifts slightly, and he leans forward with a smirk, like he's either impressed or knows where this is going. "Please, don't stop there."
"Your bachelor status." I tap on my notes for emphasis. "People don't elect single men. Not to positions of real power. They wantthe whole American Dream package—wife, maybe a kid or two. It shows stability, commitment, family values."
"Your dating history reads like a band's greatest hits album. Models, socialites, never lasting more than a few months. It paints a picture of someone who can't—or won't—commit. In today's political climate? That's death for a serious candidate."
Marco nods and leans back. He hasn't stopped staring at me, hasn't stopped smiling that knowing smile that makes my skin prickle. Like he's been steering this conversation exactly where he wants it to go.
There's another silence then, without warning, he speaks.
