Chapter 3
ALINA
Irub my face as I press start on the coffee maker. I press my palm against my forehead, willing the pounding in my head to stop. Last night's memories flash through my mind in fragments—dancing, drinks, that guy with the expensive cologne. At least I made it home alone.
"Fuck," I mutter, reaching for the bottle of Advil. The child-proof cap feels like it's been designed by NASA this morning.
I pop it open, pour three pills into my hand, and shuffle them into my mouth. I take a cup of water, fill it, and drink the entire glass.
As I set the cup down, my phone buzzes against the counter. I reach for it surprisingly quickly.
Unknown number. Chicago area code.
Probably another recruiter trying to pitch me some small-time mayoral race in the Midwest.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but something, maybe the lingering effects of the bourbon, makes me swipe right.
"Alina Carter speaking."
The voice on the other end is crisp and professional. "Good morning, Ms. Carter. This is Cindy Shepard, calling on behalf of Marco Bonventi."
The name kicks off something in my memory, but my hangover-brain struggles to place it.
"Good morning, Ms. Shepard. How can I help you?"
"Mr. Bonventi would like to invite you to Chicago for a meeting. He's very interested in discussing a potential opportunity with you."
I reach for my iPad, nearly knocking over my coffee mug in the process. The screen's brightness makes me wince as I type his name into the search bar.
The results make my stomach clench.
Marco Bonventi. Illinois business mogul. Philanthropist. Vice-mayor. And, if the rumors are to be believed, deeply connected to the Chicago mob. The Bonventi family name is splashed across articles about everything from charity galas to FBI investigations that mysteriously went nowhere.
"Ms. Carter? Are you still there?"
"Yes, sorry." I clear my throat. "And what exactly is this about?"
"I'm afraid I don't have those details, Ms. Carter. Mr. Bonventi prefers to discuss such matters in person."
I scroll through more articles. Marco's face appears in several photos: sharp suit, dark features, the kind of smile that fits politicians well. He's handsome in that dangerous way that screams "warning" and "temptation" in equal measure.
While there's some good to work with here, and a step in the right direction career-wise, I'm not sure the baggage is worth it. Especially after my last race.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm currently taking some time to—"
"Mr. Bonventi is prepared to send a private jet to you," Cindy interrupts smoothly. "The Capstone Hotel has already been arranged for your stay. All expenses will be paid for, of course."
The Capstone. Even with my throbbing head, I know that's not just any hotel. That's where presidents and prime ministers stay when they're in Chicago.
"When would this meeting be?"
"Tomorrow morning, if that works for you. The flight would leave this evening."
Tomorrow. So soon. Too soon. This is exactly the kind of situation I tell my clients to avoid—rushed decisions, mysterious meetings, dealing with people whose reputations are more shadow than substance.
"Can I think about it and get back to you?"
There's a silence, and I feel like she's put me on mute.
"Of course," Cindy replies. "We'll hold the flight arrangements open for the next 48 hours. When you've made a decision, please call me back at this number."
After ending the call, I pour myself some coffee and settle onto the couch with my iPad. My fingers fly across the screen as I search for everything there is on Marco Bonventi.
Working for a candidate with mafia ties could be career suicide, but if it's not true, or I run a clean campaign, keep him above board, the connections and influence he has could be invaluable to me.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Jen:
How's the hangover, birthday girl?
I ignore it. I'm too focused on the opportunity and risk in front of me.
Article after article, Marco Bonventi's public image is polished to a shine.
He seems to be doing everything right. Charitable donations, community involvement, sound business practices.
But there are also reports of competitors mysteriously backing down and zoning laws that luckily bend in his favor.
Nothing concrete, nothing more than a journalist looking for their break, but enough to give me some apprehension.
After about an hour of researching, I toss the iPad aside and pace the living room. The aspirin is kicking in, and my headache is almost gone.
The smart move would be to decline. To wait for a safer opportunity, one without the stench of organized crime. But a voice in the back of my head says: "Playing it safe never got anyone to the top."
I grab my phone, fingers hovering over Cindy Shepard's number. One meeting. That's all it would be. I could hear him out, judge for myself if there's any real fire behind all this smoke. And if it feels too risky, I can always walk away.
Right?
My thumb presses "call" before I can talk myself out of it.
"Hello, Ms. Carter."
"One meeting," I say firmly. "That's all I'm agreeing to."
"Excellent. I'll email you the flight details shortly. And Ms. Carter?" There's a pause. "Mr. Bonventi appreciates discretion."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I set my phone down and stare at my untouched coffee, now growing cold. What the hell am I doing? The Bonventi family isn't just another client to add to my portfolio. They're the kind of people my campaigns usually warn voters about.
But maybe that's exactly why I said yes. Because it's dangerous. Because it’s a step up, and maybe, with this, I’ll finally gain his approval.
A mixture of excitement and dread coils in my stomach. I've just entered a path that could lead to unprecedented power and influence—or total ruin.
But isn't that the game I've chosen to play?
Besides, it's just one meeting. What's the worst that could happen?
I head to the bathroom, determined to shake off this hangover and prepare for whatever Chicago has in store. As I stare at my reflection, I see the same fire in my eyes that's driven me this far.
"You've got this, Alina," I tell myself. "It's just another game of chess. And you're the queen."