Page 72 of The Bonventi Rise
Everything feels surreal, like a dream—or better yet, a nightmare.
Four gunshots. I counted them.
I close my eyes, but the sounds won't stop echoing. The first shot made me jump, even though I knew—I knew—what Marco was going to do. The second one came quickly after. Then the third. A pause. And the fourth. When Marco reappeared, he looked almost predatory, like a wolf returning from a successful hunt.
We stop in front of the door, and Marco swipes a keycard. The lock beeps, and he pushes the door open, ushering me inside.
The Starlight Suite. The place I first stayed at when Marco brought me to Chicago. With all that's happened, it feels like a lifetime ago I was here.
The suite still looks as beautiful as ever, but all I can think about is the blood. The blood on my clothes, the blood on my skin, the blood on Marco's shoes—all of it.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror by the door. My hair is a mess, mascara and blood streaked down my cheeks, and Marco's shirt, the one I hastily pulled on, is stained dark red. My arms and face are painted with blood, and I look like I've stumbled out of a horror movie.
I glance down and notice for the first time that my leggings are torn at the knees from when I scrambled across my kitchen floor.
Marco comes up beside me. "Firefly." His voice is soft. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I don't look at him. I just stare at my reflection as the reality of what just happened starts to hit me in waves.
The gunshots. The shattering of my harp. The intruder's eyes as I brought the pan down on his head. And Marco—Marco's cold, deadly efficiency as he...
A sob escapes me, and I bury my face in my hands, my body shaking uncontrollably.
"Shh, it's okay," Marco murmurs, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. "You're safe now. I've got you. Come on."
He leads me to a chair, and I sit. He kneels down beside me, rubbing my exposed knee.
"You—you killed him," I say in a low tone.
Marco doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just nods once.
"Yes," he says simply. "I did."
His admission hangs in the air between us. I should be horrified. I should be running for the door. But instead, I feel... relief? Gratitude? Safe?
"He was going to kill me," I say, more to myself than to Marco. "If you hadn't come…"
"But I did come," Marco says, his voice firm. "And I always will. No one touches what's mine, Alina. No one."
The possessiveness in his tone oddly makes me feel protected. Valued. Wanted.
"I think it's amazing that you fought, Alina. Quite the hit you gave him," Marco says, attempting to lighten the mood.
I smile, and a semi-hysterical laugh escapes my lips. "I can't believe I hit him with my pan," I say. "The one I just bought. It was cast iron," I laugh again, "It was expensive."
Marco smiles.
"Oh God, and your lasagna."
"Was that what was in the oven?" he asks.
I nod. "Yeah, I wanted to…" Tears prick my eyes again, but I blink them away and force a smile. "I wanted to make your favorite dish."
"That's okay, Alina. You'll still be able to—and I'm thankful for that."
More things come to mind as I begin relaxing now that I'm with Marco.
"And my harp. He destroyed my harp."
