Chapter 4 - Alina
ALINA
The heated leather seats warm my back as I watch Chicago's skyline through the tinted windows of the Mercedes.
Everything about this just feels too easy.
From the moment I agreed to this meeting, it’s been a show of Marco’s efficiency, knowledge, and power.
I mean, I’ve been in a private jet before, but none as big as the one he sent.
And then the flight attendant knew my drink preference without asking.
Heck, even the car service had my favorite bottled water waiting.
And if that wasn’t enough, when I checked into the Capstone Hotel, they brought me to the Starlight Suite, which the internet tells me is the room dignitaries stay in.
I can say with confidence that while I don’t know much about Marco, he seems to know me, and honestly, it’s a little unsettling to be wined and dined this much. However, I’m keeping an open mind because if I don’t, that would mean I’m not worth it, and why the hell wouldn’t I be?
My fingers trace the edge of my phone screen, thumb hovering over the browser where I’d spent half the night researching Marco Bonventi.
The more I dug, the more questions I had.
His charitable contributions read like a masterclass in reputation management.
Every potential scandal somehow dissolved before it could stick.
It’s the kind of PR work that either takes incredible skill or the kind of influence money can’t buy—legally, anyway.
I check my reflection in my compact mirror.
My green eyes are sharp, alert despite the remnants of yesterday’s hangover.
My black hair falls perfectly to just above my shoulders—thank God for the Starlight Suite’s professional-grade hair dryer.
The deep blue blazer I chose projects competence without trying too hard.
I can feel myself turning into work Alina, and I smile.
It’s game time.
The car slows, pulling up to a restaurant that looks more like a converted mansion. "Maison Evelyn," reads the discreet gold plaque by the door. As I step out, the scent of freshly baked bread and coffee envelops me.
"Ms. Carter," the ma?tre d' greets me with a polite nod. "Mr. Bonventi is expecting you. Right this way."
My heart rate picks up as I follow him through the restaurant, my heels clicking against the marble floor. I feel nerves rise as we approach a corner table, partially hidden by an ornate folding screen. And then I see him, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort.
Marco Bonventi.
There’s certainly no hiding his presence.
He’s seated with one arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other resting on the table as he scrolls through his phone.
Even sitting, he radiates power and control.
His tailored charcoal suit clings to his broad shoulders and tapers perfectly at his waist, and the crisp white shirt beneath it highlights his olive-toned skin.
His dark hair is meticulously styled, not a strand out of place, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut glass.
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 ma?tre 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 ma?tre 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."
There’s another lingering gaze that makes me feel like I’m slipping out of work Alina and into something I can't allow.
So I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table. "Mr. Bonventi—Marco," I say, correcting myself. "While I appreciate the hospitality, I’m curious about the nature of this meeting and opportunity."
His smile doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. He takes a sip of his coffee, and I find myself tracking his movements closely. "Straight to business. I admire that, Alina," he says, my name rolling off his tongue a little too perfectly.
"You know, when I became Vice Mayor, I had big dreams for Chicago. Still do, in fact."
I nod, encouraging him to continue while my mind races. Is this what I think it is?
"Chicago is at a crossroads," he begins, his voice taking on that practiced cadence I’ve heard from countless politicians, though none who made it sound quite so seductive. "The state too, in fact. It’s in desperate need of leadership that understands both its history and its potential."
"And you see yourself as that leadership?" I ask, breaking off a piece of the pastry a waiter has just given us.
"I’ve done good work as Vice Mayor," he says, his dark eyes watching me intently, his presence somehow filling all the space between us. "But I’m destined for greater things, and I believe I can make a real difference. A positive impact on Chicago and Illinois as a whole, with a broader reach."
The way he says it, it’s like he’s stating a fact rather than sharing a dream. "That’s admirable," I say, matching his intensity. "And how exactly do you plan to achieve that?"
Marco leans back, a wolfish grin spreading across his face that makes heat pool in my lower stomach.
His fingers drum once on the table—long, elegant fingers that I force myself not to stare at.
"I’m glad you asked. You see, Alina," he practically purrs my name, "I believe my talents for this state would be best utilized at the senatorial level. "
My eyebrows shoot up. "You’re running for state Senate?"
"I am," he confirms and leans forward, closing the distance between us until I can catch a hint of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin. "And I want you to help me win as my campaign manager."