Chapter 16 Alina
ALINA
"Well, we've already got a solid lead in early polls, Dad. Can you believe it?" I ask, pacing my office, phone pressed to my ear, heart thumping in my chest. The familiar knot tightens in my stomach.
"Alina, you know how I feel about politicians," he says, tone flat and unimpressed. "They're all the same—corrupt, power-hungry liars."
I force a laugh, trying to keep the conversation light. "Come on, Dad. Marco really wants to make a difference."
"We're talking about Marco Bonventi, right?" His scoff is razor-sharp. "Christ, Alina. Everyone knows what the Bonventis really are. And now this engagement? Why are you tying yourself to criminals?"
My ring catches the light. I could tell him the truth—that it's just for show, a calculated move. But what's the point? He'd only think less of me for that too.
"They're legitimate businessmen," I say, hating how defensive I sound. "Marco's different. He's—"
"Different?" he laughs. "You always did have terrible judgment with men."
"Dad, please," I say, my voice tight. "Can't you just be happy for me? I'm engaged and working on a Senate campaign. This is huge for me—both personally and career-wise."
"Playing pretend with mobsters isn't a career, Alina."
I close my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. "It's not like that, Dad. Marco's a good man. He—"
"Do you hear yourself?" he cuts me off again. "The Bonventis have their fingers in every dirty deal in Chicago. A suit and a smile doesn't change who they are."
"You don't know him," I say, the words weak even to me.
"And you do?" His sigh crackles over the line. "Alina, you're smarter than this. Or at least, I thought you were."
His disappointment cuts deeper than any insult could. My grip tightens on the phone. "The polls look good," I say, desperate to pivot.
"Numbers can be manipulated. You should know that better than anyone after Harrison."
My throat tightens. Of course he'd bring that up.
"That's not fair," I snap. "He's never been arrested. None of the Bonventis have. It's all rumors. Innocent until proven guilty, right? Isn't that your job?"
He's quiet for a second.
"You don't get it, Alina." His voice is cold. "And you won't until it's too late. Goodbye."
The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at the phone, willing it to ring again. For him to call back and say he's proud of me. But it won't happen. It never does.
I sink onto the couch, the excitement of the poll results evaporated, replaced by that hollow ache in my chest.
What did you expect? When has he ever been proud of anything you've done?
I've orchestrated successful campaigns, navigated scandals, become one of the most sought-after political operatives in the country. And still, it's not enough. It's never enough.
I twist Marco's ring around my finger. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if it were real. If I were marrying a man who saw me, valued me, was proud of me like Marco pretends to be.
But that's not what this is. This is business. A means to an end. And my father's right about one thing—it's dangerous.
I stand abruptly, needing to move. My desk is covered in polling data. The numbers don't lie—we're up eight points. The engagement announcement gave us a boost, especially with women voters.
My finger traces the headline in the Chicago Tribune: "Bonventi Campaign Surges Ahead: A New Era in Illinois Politics?" Pride swells in my chest.
I move around my desk and take a seat.
My mind drifts back to the engagement announcement. Cameras flashing, Marco's arm firm around my waist. His lips brushing mine, lingering just long enough to blur the line between act and reality. For a moment, it felt real. Too real.
But that's not what this is. It never was. And lately, he's made damn sure I don't forget it.
My dad's words pop into my head: "Playing pretend with mobsters isn't a career."
But it is. The numbers prove it.
We've secured major endorsements, donations are pouring in, and our message is resonating. I've done this. Me. Not Marco's name, not his family connections – my strategy.
Speaking of Marco, he's been different lately. Professional. Distant. After those first few heated moments, he's stepped back. Way back. Now he shows up for scheduled appearances, delivers his speeches perfectly, and defers to my judgment on campaign matters.
It's exactly what I wanted. Isn't it? He promised to step back and let me do my job, and at the time it was music to my ears. But now that music sounds more like Chopin's funeral march.
I pull up our schedule for next week. Marco has a few fundraisers, two community meetings, and a mock debate prep session. All meticulously planned by me, all guaranteed to maximize his exposure while minimizing any potential controversies.
"Excuse me, Ms. Carter?" Sarah pokes her head in. "Mr. Bonventi asked if you could review his speech for tomorrow's fundraiser."
I think back to our last event a couple days ago. Marco spoke about education reform, and I watched from the sidelines. No stolen glances, no subtle touches, no whispered "Firefly" in my ear.
"He can email it to me," I say, not looking up.
"He actually asked if you had time to meet—"
"Email is fine." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "Sorry, Sarah. Just tell him to email it, please."
She stands still, confusion plastered on her face. "I—okay, so I'll tell him you can't come to his office then."
She turns to walk away.
"Wait," I say, probably sounding a bit too desperate. "He's here now?"
She shakes her head. "Yes, and wanted me—"
"Okay, tell him I'll be there in 10 minutes."