Chapter 5 - Alina
ALINA
And there it is.
The offer I'd suspected was coming. The private jet, the luxurious accommodations, the charm offensive—it all makes sense now.
He's courting me, professionally speaking.
But even as I process this, a part of me remains on edge.
I've spent years reading politicians, learning their tells, their hidden motives.
Marco's performance is flawless, perhaps too flawless.
"That's quite an opportunity," I say carefully, studying his face and buying some time. "But why me, specifically? I'm sure there are plenty of campaign managers in Chicago who'd jump at the chance."
Marco laughs. "Don't play coy with me, Alina.
We both know you're not just any campaign manager.
A woman of your talents stands out," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"You're the best. Your track record speaks for itself.
The Harrison campaign was masterfully handled.
You have a gift for narrative control, for turning potential disasters into victories. "
"You've done your homework," I observe, keeping my voice steady.
"I always do," he replies, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. "I know talent when I see it, Alina. And I believe together, we could make history."
"It's an interesting offer, but I have to ask—why the state Senate? Why now?"
His expression softens. "Chicago needs a voice. Strong, assertive. Someone who understands the city's unique challenges and opportunities. I believe I am that voice."
"And your family's business interests?" I probe gently. "I've read the articles online. How do they factor into this?"
Marco smiles. "Digging into my past already?" he asks, his eyes gleaming. "I like a woman who's thorough. Though there are much more enjoyable ways to get to know me."
I roll my eyes slightly. "I've looked into some things, yes."
"I see. Well, let me clear the air. My family has always been dedicated to the prosperity of Chicago. My candidacy would be an extension of that commitment."
"And if I say no?" The words come out before I can stop them.
Marco's eyes harden. "Well, I’d be sad that my time with you was so short, but no hard feelings. We’d finish our breakfast, and you’d catch your flight back to D.C. tomorrow afternoon." He pauses, letting the words sink in.
I take a sip of water, buying time to think. The smart move would be to decline politely and get the hell out of Chicago. But a voice in the back of my mind whispers: This may be your chance. First state, then federal, then white house.
"I'll need time—"
"Can I speak with you off the record, as they say?" he asks, cutting me off.
I squint. "Okay."
"Tell me something. Do you always play by the rules?" The way he asks it makes it sound like we’re having a different conversation.
"I don't play dirty, if that's what you're implying," I say firmly, though my heart races. "If that's what you're looking for, you should find someone else."
Marco shifts closer, his presence overwhelming my senses. "The Harrison scandal. The way you covered it all up. The way you handled those women, controlled the chaos,” he says and pauses for a moment. "Makes me wonder what other talents you're hiding behind that professional facade."
Marco's words about Harrison hit like a slap across the face. The nerve of him, to imply I'd cover up something that heinous. I feel my anger rise, and I sit up straight, leaning forward to get closer to him. I'm not afraid of his poor attempt to intimidate me.
"He wasn't guilty," I say firmly, my voice edged with frustration.
"I exposed their lies, nothing more." The words taste bitter on my tongue, a reminder of late nights and endless phone calls, of threats and counter-threats. "I think we’re done here. My return flight is tomorrow at noon, and I’ll be on it.
Marco stares at me for a long moment, like a predator sizing up its prey. Then his lips curve into a knowing smile. "Watch the 8 a.m. morning news tomorrow," he says. "I have a feeling it might change your mind about, well, everything."
What the hell does that mean? Before I can demand an explanation, he's already standing, smoothing his jacket with practiced ease.
When he extends his hand, I hate how my body betrays me, reaching for him despite my better judgment.
His grip is firm, possessive, his thumb stroking over my knuckles in a way that calms me.
"Think about my offer," he says. "Chicago has so much to offer a woman like you."
I watch as he walks away, leaving me alone with a half-eaten croissant and a cooling cup of coffee. My hands shake as I reach for my water glass, and I hate myself for showing even that much weakness.
The morning light coming in through the restaurant's windows suddenly feels too bright. Other diners chat and laugh, completely oblivious to the fact that I've just been... what? Threatened? Warned? Both?
The waiter approaches, asking if I'd like anything else. I shake my head, my throat too tight for words. The check's already been taken care of, of course. Another power play in this twisted little game.
I need air. I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell he meant about watching the news.
I exit the restaurant and see my driver, who waves to me. On the way back to the Capstone, my mind won’t stop spinning.
Surprises in politics are rarely good news. They mean scandals, leaked documents, skeletons dragged kicking and screaming out of closets. But whose closet? Mine?
No. I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is exactly what he wants: to get in my head. I will not allow myself to get rattled by smooth-talking wannabe senators with more charm than sense.
But even as I think it, I know it’s not true. Marco Bonventi is more than just charm. There’s something else there, something dangerous and alluring all at once. A part of me—a part I’m not proud of—wanted to say yes at that meeting before things went south, just to see what he has up his sleeve.
I practically blink and find myself in front of my hotel, not quite sure how I got here so fast.
One more night. I’ll stay one more night, enjoy the city, have a few drinks at the bar. And tomorrow, I’ll watch the news, and then I’m on that plane.