Chapter 18 Marco
MARCO
My driver turns onto Michigan Avenue, and we make our way south toward today's appearance.
I'm scrolling through emails on my phone when I feel a slight tightness in my chest. I'm nervous, which I find ironic considering this is just a photo op with some brief remarks—or so Alina noted in my schedule.
But it's not hard to guess why I'm nervous. It's where I play pretend with my fake fiancée.
A laugh escapes me, and my driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
When I came up with this plan—getting Alina, using Harrison's dirt to coerce her into an engagement, and running my campaign, I thought it was the best idea I'd ever had. The dominoes fell into place perfectly, and I got exactly what I orchestrated.
I felt on top, in control. Now? Chaos. Like being chained to fire.
I let her take the reins, but all I want is to take them back. Not for control, but to be close to her. She's thriving while I'm unraveling. I clench my fist, the frustration tightening inside me. Do I talk to her? What do I say? And all the while, I have to act like I'm pulling the strings.
Feelings weren't part of the plan. So why can't I stop?
The car slows to a stop, and I glance out the tinted window at a building that's seen better decades. The exposed brick is lined with graffiti, and in a few spots, someone has tried to paint over offensive words and images.
A handful of reporters stand near the entrance, talking among themselves. One of them spots me, and their cameras go up as my driver opens my door.
I step out and straighten my tie.
It's showtime.
The sidewalk vibrates with nearby construction, mixing with the squeal of the L train brakes overhead. Distant police sirens round out the ambiance. Not exactly the pristine backdrop I'd prefer for a photo op, but Alina picked it.
There's something raw and real about this place that I can't dismiss. That'll be good for voters.
"Mr. Bonventi!" a reporter steps forward. "What brings you to this part of town?"
"I'm here because every corner of Chicago matters. The talent and potential in this city isn't confined to one neighborhood, and neither should our attention be."
I give them my practiced smile and walk toward the entrance. That'll do for their stories.
I step through the heavy doors and hear a beautiful melody floating in the air, mixed with whispers and the soft giggles of kids.
The interior of the warehouse is a surprise.
Instruments line the walls, and colorful murals depicting musical legends cover every surface.
It's a hidden oasis of creativity for the community.
A hand-painted banner hangs overhead: "Inner City Youth Music Program" in bold, slightly uneven letters. Below it, smaller text reads, "Where Dreams Get Their Sound."
My eyes scan the room for Alina. She should already be here, setting the stage for our performance. But instead, my gaze catches something else. A grand harp sits at the center of the room. And seated before it, her fingers dancing across the strings, is Alina.
The sight of her stops me in my tracks. The melody I heard is hers. Her eyes are closed, lost in the music, and I forget how to move, how to breathe.
The way she's playing—effortless, elegant—it's mesmerizing. I've never seen anyone play a harp before, but now I never want to see anything else.
The light catches on her hair as her head moves with the music, creating a halo effect. She looks vulnerable, passionate, utterly captivating—like a muse.
I move closer, drawn by her and the music. The kids nearby are equally transfixed, sitting cross-legged on the floor with wide eyes.
The final notes linger, and for a heartbeat, no one moves. Then the spell breaks, and the room erupts in applause. The kids jump up, calling out, "Ms. Alina! Ms. Alina!"
Alina's eyes open, and for a moment, raw emotion flickers on her face, like a goddess brought back to our world. Then her professional mask slides back into place, and I feel a pang of grief. I know that mask too well.
As the applause dies down, I approach her, my mind racing. This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't part of our carefully choreographed public act. This was her. And it feels more real than anything we've done.
"That was…" I stop, searching for the words. "One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, Firefly."
She nods, and I brush her hair over her left ear. "You're truly—"
"Wow, Alina. That was amazing," a woman interrupts.
"Really, Vanessa? The children liked it?" Alina asks.
"Liked it? They loved it! Look at them."
We turn to the kids, their faces glowing with smiles.
The woman turns to me.
"Your fiancée has quite the talent with the harp," Vanessa says. "The way she played Handel's Harp Concerto in B-Flat Major? Breathtaking."
I smile. "Yes, so talented," I say, wrapping my arm around Alina. "And full of surprises. It's what makes being with her so special."
"Aww, you two are such a lovely couple."
"Oh, sorry," Alina says. "This is Vanessa Sims. She runs this program to teach kids about music."
"Such a lovely endeavor," I say, slipping into political mode.
"Yes, thank you for raising awareness. Alina's passion for music education has been incredible. These kids come from financial hardships, so for many, music scholarships are their only path to college."
"Well, I'll see what I can do," I say, shaking Vanessa's hand.
The meet-and-greet drags on, but Alina's performance replays in my mind. Every time I look at her, I don't just see my campaign manager. I see a talented, beautiful woman.
After the pictures and her showing the kids how to play a few chords on the harp, there's a lull, and we finally have a break. I approach her, gently grab her arm, and pull her away from the crowd to the corner of the room.
"Firefly, explain yourself," I say in a playful, demanding tone.
She smiles. "Oh, did I not mention I played the harp?"
"Ha, ha, funny. No, you didn't."
"Well, I'm a real person, you know. While you may only look at me as your fake fiancée or manager for your own goals, I do have interests."
Her words, though maybe not intended to sting, cut deep, and I immediately feel that defensive instinct flare—the kind you get when you know you're in the wrong but feel you need to stand your ground anyway.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
She rolls her eyes. "Nothing."
I sigh, because I know she's right. She has to be right. She entered my mind as a pawn for my gain, and I'm sure that's how I've come across despite the turmoil in my head. I mean, if I was so sure of myself or how I felt about her, then why would I avoid her?
"Look, I'm sorry. You're right. Let me start over. You play beautifully."
She gives me a side-eye.
"You don't have to humor me."
"No, no, seriously. I mean, I may not know what the whole B-Flat Major thing is, and I may or may not exactly know who the hell Handel is, but I know what I heard," I say, grabbing her by the shoulders. "And it was amazing, Alina. You were amazing."
I can feel her tense shoulders relax under my fingers.
"Really? You're not just saying that?"
I shake my head and slide my hands down her arms. In one bold, unthinking moment, I grab her hands, squeeze them tightly, and hold them.
I feel something stir in me that I've never felt for any woman before.
After a few seconds, the fear of it overtakes me, and I let go. "Sorry, I don't… anyhow, no, I'm serious. I could watch you play for hours."
There's a slight pause between us, and I feel my face getting hot. I can also see Alina's face flush slightly red.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment we just shared. "So, why the harp?" I ask, genuinely curious. "It's not exactly a common choice."
Alina's eyes flick over to the harp for a moment, and a vulnerable smile crosses her face. "Well, it's not the most practical instrument, that's for sure," she says, looking down at her hands, still warm from where I held them moments ago.
The noise of the kids and reporters fades into the background as she takes a deep breath.
"That was actually the point," she says with a laugh. "My father… he had this habit of comparing me to other kids. You know, 'Why can't you be more like so-and-so?' That sort of thing."
The way she says it makes my jaw clench. I know that tone—it's the voice of a child who grew up trying to measure up to impossible standards.
I feel a flare of anger on her behalf, but I keep my expression neutral. "That must have been tough."
She nods. "Yeah, so I decided to pick an instrument that no one else played. There was literally no one he could compare me to. For once, I could just… be me. Anyway," she says with another humorless laugh. "Take that, Dad."
I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders again. "Smart move," I say softly.
"Yeah, well," she shrugs, some of her usual spark returning. "The downside is I can't exactly lug this thing around easily. Can you imagine trying to fit this in the overhead compartment?"
I laugh, picturing the absurd scene. "I'd pay good money to see you try."
She laughs. "I'm sure you would. It'd probably go viral. 'Crazy campaign manager attempts to smuggle harp onto plane.'"
"Hey," I say, reaching out to touch her arm without thinking.
"No such thing as bad press, right?" I ask with a smile.
"But, you're not crazy. You're…" I struggle to find the right words, ones that won't reveal too much of what I'm feeling.
"You're incredibly talented. And resourceful. I bet you'd find a way."
Alina looks at me, surprise flickering across her face. For a moment, I think I see a softening in her eyes.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "That means a lot, actually."
We stand there for a moment, and I'm acutely aware of how close we are. Part of me wants to pull her closer, to hell with the consequences. But another part—the political, calculating part that's gotten me this far—holds back.
"So," I say, finally dropping my hand. "Any other hidden talents I should know about? Juggling? Lion taming?"
Alina smiles, and this time it's genuine. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I would, actually," I say, more seriously than I intended. "I think I'd like to know everything about you."
She smirks at me, squinting her eyes, as if trying to decide if I'm serious or just putting on my political persona.
"Maybe someday, Marco. Maybe someday."
A kid runs past us, laughing, and Alina turns to watch them.
I find myself wondering how many other sides of her I've missed while I was busy plotting my path to victory. How many layers of Alina Carter have I overlooked because I was too focused on what she could do for me rather than who she is?
I stand there, knowing something fundamental has shifted in me, but I'm not ready to acknowledge it. Damn it if I'm not falling for this woman.