Page 65 of The Bonventi Rise
Gio laughs. "When you're a Senator, you'll feel differently."
I laugh. "You're probably right."
Gio grins, a predator ready for the hunt. "Don't worry, little brother. I've got this. You focus on winning that election. We'll handle the rest."
Gio turns to leave, and my thoughts drift back to Alina. Where the hell is she? Why isn't she answering? The panic I've been suppressing threatens to overwhelm me.
"Keep me posted. Updates on things," I say.
Gio nods. "I'll call you."
When he leaves, I try Alina one more time. No answer. Okay, something's not right. She's never not answered like this. I stand and toss some papers into my bag.
My phone buzzes against the desk, and relief floods my system when I see Alina's name flash across the screen. Thank Christ. The knot in my chest loosens slightly as I swipe to unlock.
But the moment I read the two words glowing on my screen, that relief transforms into pure, primal terror.
Please help
The words burn into my retinas. My hands start to shake, and for a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the words screaming at me from the screen.
"No, no, no," I say.
The rage hits me then, a tsunami of violent fury that makes my vision blur red. If they've touched her, if they've hurt one hair on her head...
I take deep breaths, trying to contain the murderous thoughts flooding my mind. But I can't stop seeing it—Alina in danger, Alina hurt, Alina scared.
My Firefly.
If anything happens to her, I will burn this whole fucking city to the ground if that's what it takes. There won't be a Russian left alive in Chicago by morning.
34
ALINA
Islide the lasagna into the oven, the rich aroma of garlic and herbs filling the kitchen. My heart is full as I close the oven door. This is the first real meal I've cooked for Marco, and it's his favorite, so I'm determined to get it right. No more takeout containers scattered around while I fumbled through harp practice over the past few Fridays. I'd been way too anxious about playing to even think about cooking, but tonight, I'm feeling good.
Ya girl is actually cookin'.
"Perfect," I murmur, double-checking that I have the right temperature set. I've spent more time than I'd care to admit on this recipe, so I will not be burning it.
It'll be nice to actually sit down and eat a home-cooked meal. Marco's been under so much pressure lately—he deserves something special.
I wipe my hands on the silly, overpriced apron I bought this morning in an attempt to channel my inner Gordon Ramsay and take it off.
I glance down at my outfit—one of Marco's dress shirts hanging loose over black leggings. The shirt still carries his scent despite being in the kitchen for so long, and it makes my chest tighten. It's become a comfort thing, wearing his clothes when I'm home alone. Who would've thought I'd be playing a domestic housewife for someone who started out as my fake fiancé—in his shirt, no less?
I take a sip of wine and set the timer for forty-five minutes. Since he's not here yet, and I've got nothing else to do, I might as well get in a few practice runs before Marco arrives.
As I walk over to the harp, I don't know if it's my cooking, his shirt, or the half glass of wine I've already had, but I'm starting to feel like I finally belong somewhere. Like a settled life with a person.
It could also be the fact that a month ago, I was terrified of letting Marco—or anyone, really—see this side of me: the musician, the woman who finds peace in melodies rather than political strategies. I was afraid they'd judge, but he never has. When I play, he looks at me like I invented the damn thing. And honestly, it's amazing. Even when I mess up, he doesn't give me stern looks or roll his eyes like my father would. No, Marco's face doesn't even show the slightest sign that he noticed. That little unspoken support has been like a breath of fresh air to me. I've even started playing the harp more, thinking about it more, allowing myself to be me—all because this delicious, dangerous man saw in me what I hadn't yet.
As a thank you, I've decided to write him a song since the campaign is over. I've never written anyone a song, but I couldn't think of a better first. As a bonus, it'll be a congratulatory song since I know he's going to win.
I settle in front of the harp, my fingers hovering over the strings. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and begin to play. My fingers dance across the strings, and I lose myself in the music while the timer ticks away in the background, counting down to another perfect Friday evening with Marco.
This piece has always been challenging, but tonight it feels different. Smoother. Like the notes are finally finding their proper home in the air around me.
