Chapter 7 - Alina
ALINA
Tears blur my vision as I stare at Marco's message. My fingers hover over the screen. Delete it. Block his number. Take your flight home and forget ever meeting him.
But I can't.
One, because I don't really want to return to D.C.
now with everything going on, and two, he said he'd help.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't put much weight into anything a hopeful candidate said, or any politician for that matter, but he knew about Harrison before the news broke.
That kind of reach can maybe work for me.
Leaving now will cement it against me. I don't know if Marco is this big bad mafia man, but he's clearly got connections.
And if I am to be wrongfully arrested, I'll need all the help I can get.
The least I can do is hear him out, find out if I can get anything from all of this, and if not, get the hell out of here.
I wipe my tears away and stand. I take a few deep breaths and give myself a pep talk as I walk into the kitchen to make coffee. Once it's ready, I slide into the bar chair and open my laptop.
"Know your enemy," I say, typing Marco's name into the search bar.
But is that what he is now? My enemy? Or my only lifeline? Either way, I'll be damned if I walk into that dinner unprepared.
Besides a few hours' break for lunch in the downstairs restaurant, I've spent most of the day preparing my standard file on a candidate.
Nothing scandalous appears. No harassment claims. No bitter exes. Just the same carefully curated photos at galas and fundraisers, with a woman more stunning than the last.
None stick around. Interesting.
"What's your game?" I mutter, scrolling through images. In each one, the same manufactured smile I saw yesterday is plastered on his face.
My throat tightens.
God, Harrison. How did I miss it?
No. Focus. Come on.
I pull up Marco's voting record, public statements, business dealings. Hours slip by as I build his profile. Young, ambitious, intelligent. Dangerous. The perfect candidate—except for one glaring weakness.
The bedside phone rings, making me jump.
"Hello?" I answer hesitantly.
"Ms. Carter? Your car will arrive in thirty minutes."
I glance at the clock. 6:30 already.
"Thank you," I say and hang up.
I walk to my suitcase, my legs stiff from sitting so long. The black dress I packed catches my eye. Professional enough for dinner, but with an edge of power. I need every advantage I can get.
As I zip up the dress, my phone buzzes again. My father's name flashes on the screen.
My heart stutters. After months of silence, now he calls?
I let it ring.
Whatever game Marco's playing, whatever trap he's laid, I have no choice but to walk into it. But I'll do it on my terms.
I check my reflection one final time. The woman staring back looks collected, controlled. Only I can see how close to breaking she is.
"Showtime," I whisper as I grab my purse and notes.
The elevator ride down feels endless. Each floor bringing me closer to my, what? Salvation? Damnation? Both?
A black Mercedes idles at the curb, the same driver from yesterday opening the door as I approach.
"Where are we going?" I ask the driver once I'm inside.
He remains silent, pulling smoothly into traffic.
Of course. Silence.
I close my eyes, trying to find that razor-sharp focus that's carried me through countless negotiations and crises.
But all I can hear is Jen's words. "Maybe you saw what you wanted to see?"
Did I? In my desperation to prove myself, to finally earn his approval, did I willfully ignore the signs?
After some time, the car comes to a stop in front of a rustic building with wrought iron lighting.
A man from the restaurant opens my door. "Good evening, Ms. Carter. Welcome to La Sfera Nera. Mr. Bonventi is waiting for you inside."
I step inside, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim lighting. A man approaches and escorts me to a secluded table where Marco is waiting.
"Alina." Marco's voice cuts through the chatter of other guests. "I'm so glad you decided to join me."
"Yes, well, given everything, I…"
Trailing off, I take a seat at the table, not waiting for Marco to pull my chair out. He notices and sits across the table from me.
"Let's get one thing straight," I say, my voice firm. "I've done my research, as requested. But that doesn't mean I'm agreeing to work for you. If anything, you'll be paying for another ticket to send me home tomorrow."
Marco's lips curl into that infuriatingly confident smile. He leans back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Oh, I like this fiery side. Keep it up, and I'd be tempted to buy you a ticket every day just to come here."
The compliment slides off me like oil on water. I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Save the charm for your constituents, Mr. Bonventi. Now, do you want my assessment or not?"
"I'm on the edge of my seat," he says and gestures for me to continue, his eyes fixed on me.
I pull out my notes, needing something concrete to focus on besides the way he's looking at me. I clear my throat, pushing aside the nagging voice reminding me of my precarious situation.
Focus, Alina. This is what you do best.
"Your family's wealth and power in this town?
That can be controlled. Even spun into a positive narrative with the right messaging.
The mafia rumors?" I wave my hand dismissively.
"With the right strategy, we can bury those too.
Half of Chicago's old money is linked to something similar.
We'd bury it under philanthropy and business success. "
I pause, watching his reaction carefully. His expression remains neutral, but there's a slight tightening around his eyes.
Good. He's listening.
"But there's one thing that can't be fixed with PRs and photo ops. One vulnerability we can't hide." I meet his gaze directly. "One thing that will sink your campaign before it starts."
His eyebrow lifts slightly, and he leans forward with a smirk, like he's either impressed or knows where this is going. "Please, don't stop there."
"Your bachelor status." I tap on my notes for emphasis. "People don't elect single men. Not to positions of real power. They want the whole American Dream package—wife, maybe a kid or two. It shows stability, commitment, family values."
"Your dating history reads like a band's greatest hits album. Models, socialites, never lasting more than a few months. It paints a picture of someone who can't—or won't—commit. In today's political climate? That's death for a serious candidate."
Marco nods and leans back. He hasn't stopped staring at me, hasn't stopped smiling that knowing smile that makes my skin prickle. Like he's been steering this conversation exactly where he wants it to go.
There's another silence then, without warning, he speaks.
"Fine. Marry me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I blink, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
Marco's face is a mask of calm determination. "You heard me. Marry me."
A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. "You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious about winning, Alina." His voice is low, intense. "You said it yourself—my bachelor status is my weakness. So let's eliminate it."
My mind reels. This can't be happening. It's like he's been steering me to this very moment.
"This is insane," I manage to say. "Okay, you're insane. You—you don't even know me."
"I know enough," Marco replies. "I know you're brilliant. I know you're ambitious. And I know that right now, you need me as much as I need you."
The nod to my situation, of Harrison, of the looming investigation. I feel my carefully constructed composure start to crack.
"You planned this," I accuse, anger seeping into my voice. "You knew about Harrison before anyone else. That's why you brought me here, isn't it?"
Marco doesn't deny it. Instead, he leans forward, his voice dropping even lower. "Let me remind you of two things, Alina. One, the governor is, in fact, guilty. Which means they'll be looking into every aspect of the case, especially at who led the campaign to discredit those women."
I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, silencing me.
"And two, yes, I knew before anyone else. What does that tell you about my reach? Just to make myself crystal clear here, no one who works for me is touched, get it? If you're here helping me win, I can't have you in prison. So, maybe I make sure your name's cleared."
I take a deep breath through my nose and sit up straight. My mind is racing faster than it ever has before. A thousand thoughts flying by.
"So, what? This is blackmail? Is that what you're doing to me?"
Marco winces slightly at the word. "I hate that term. Let's call it a second chance. Or, the path that doesn't end with you in jail," he says.
"So this was never about my accolades and accomplishments, was it? You brought me here because I have campaign knowledge and what, you found me attractive? I'm not a whore, Mr. Bonventi."
I see his jaw tense up. "Let me be clear.
The reason you entered my mind for the position, the reason you're here sitting across the table from me, is because of your professional success and my belief that there's no one better for this job.
And yes, while you happen to be stunning, you're not here because of your looks," he says, adjusting his cufflinks.
"I could get any woman I want, but for my campaign, I want the best in the business and, as I hope I'm making clear now—I believe that to be you.
So, let's save some of that fire for the campaign trail. "
I feel my breath coming faster, my heart pounding in my chest. This is too much. I need to think, to get away from his gaze and thinly veiled threats.
"I—I need a minute," I say, pushing back from the table.
Marco stands. "Of course. I have to make a call anyway. It should take about 15 minutes. That's all the time you have, Alina."
Before he walks away, he stops and turns back to me. "I'm going to win that Senate seat. It means too much to me to wait. The clock's ticking."
I watch Marco's retreating back, my hand trembling as I reach for my water glass.
The conviction in his voice catches me off guard.
I've worked with dozens of politicians, each claiming their burning desire to serve the public.
But this—this is different. Even without the proposal, his intensity makes other candidates seem like children playing dress-up.
But he's right about one thing—I need this as much as he does. That's if he can protect me, and a part of me thinks that he can.
"Damn it," I say under my breath, realizing I'm actually considering this madness.
The room fades as I remember the way his eyes blazed when he talked about choosing me, about winning. No hesitation, no false modesty. Just pure, focused determination.
It's attractive. In a terrifying sort of way.
He has a magnetic quality drawing me in even as my instincts scream to run.
But maybe this proposition is exactly what I need it to be.
The thought is strangely freeing. I've spent my whole career navigating men's worlds, fighting to be taken seriously. But Marco, he's already treating me as an equal. Even this insane proposal is rooted in recognizing my skills, my value to his campaign.
I glance at my watch. Ten minutes left to decide.
Prison or marriage to a possible mobster.
When did this become my life?