Chapter 23 Alina
ALINA
Irub my wrists with a smile. It's been three days since Marco bound me with his tie, and while there's a little discomfort, I kind of want more of it.
That's got to be crazy. Actually wanting the pain.
After our rendezvous, he insisted on taking me home. He even walked me all the way up to my door, which wasn't necessary since it's basically an elevator ride to my floor, but he insisted.
We kissed again, and I almost—almost—asked him to come inside. I was so caught up in everything, I didn't care about any consequences of my actions. However, he had a flight to catch, one I didn't know about.
It seemed Enzo had surprised him and Gio with a brothers' trip for Marco's birthday. Three days in Mexico on some beach.
Okay, it's not just some beach. It's Cabo, and I may have looked it up.
I haven't heard from him since he left, except for one picture he sent me. It's him between his two brothers, shirtless, with a coconut drink in their hands. I pull it up again and smile.
Damn, Marco's so hot.
That's not to say Enzo and Gio aren't. I mean, this could easily be a freaking model shoot since each of them is tall, muscular, and the right mix of tattoos—well, Enzo and Gio. Marco's skin is clean, like his political record.
I think that's one of his good qualities. He gives off this bad-boy image despite his chiseled face, perfect smile, and political rhetoric.
My eyes shift back to my computer screen, and all sense of happiness fades. I'm reminded why I'm up at almost 3 a.m. doing reconnaissance on this person who's trying to destroy everything I'm working toward.
Sandra Reeves.
This, uh, political adversary as they'd say, is causing huge problems. I learned about it the night Marco and I went viral, but when I had the chance to speak with Marco about it, he decided it was the perfect time to bend me over my desk, and I wasn't going to argue with that.
But now, now she's causing me sleepless nights.
I click on some updated polls. My stomach churns as I see the numbers. Sandra's approval rating has jumped another five points this week. She's closing the gap, and fast.
"Shit," I hiss, pushing my messy hair away from my face.
Three weeks ago, no one had heard of her. Now? She's everywhere. Local news, social media, even getting national attention. Her rallies are drawing crowds, and her message is simple but effective: "Clean up Chicago politics."
And her favorite target to go after? Marco. And it's more than just because he's her running mate, heck, two others are also running—it seems almost personal.
I click on another tab. "Anti-corruption candidate," I mutter, scrolling through her latest X thread. "As if she's some kind of political savior."
The bigger issue here is that everything she does seems like a carefully crafted jab aimed directly at my candidate. She's relentless in painting him as a puppet of the Chicago mob, a wolf in sheep's clothing. The worst part? Her accusations are gaining traction.
And from a logical standpoint, I get it. She speaks very confidently about Marco's supposed connections to organized crime.
Her thread ends with a link. I click it, and a new tab opens to an article.
It starts with a quote from her: "Marco Bonventi claims to fight for the people of Chicago and this great state, but how can we trust a man whose family has blood on their hands?
" The article ends with: "The Bonventi family has operated in shadows for decades.
Now they want to buy their way into the state Senate? Illinois deserves better."
I lean back and rub my tired eyes.
What if she's right? I don't want this to be another Harrison situation where I'm in the fucking dark again.
I think back to my conversations with Marco, the way he's always deflected questions about his family's business interests. The knowing looks exchanged between him and his brothers. The whispered conversations that stop when I enter a room.
"You're being paranoid," I tell myself, but the doubt lingers.
I've mentioned that to myself before, too.
But do I really even want to know? I mean, she hasn't really been specific about exactly what Marco or his family has even done. Just bold claims that can't be legally backed.
Yes, I found my own research when looking, but on paper, it's just rumors. Nothing concrete, nothing a court of law has found. This could all just be her way of swaying people to win the vote.
I open a new document and start compiling a list of Sandra's most damaging claims. Instead of mixing in everything I've read or the crazy thoughts in my head, I'll write down only what she's said—only what we need to focus on and worry about.
It's only her remarks we'll need to address head-on. There is a lingering thought of how I can craft rebuttals when I'm not even sure what's true and what isn't, but I'll suppress that.
Let's just make a list of these bold claims about him and his family.
Money laundering.
Extortion.
Violence.
Witness tampering.
Each claim makes my chest tighter. Maybe this wasn't a good idea right now. It's late.
These can't be about Marco.
The memory of his hands on me floods back. His lips on my skin, the way he made me feel so completely owned. I can't deny the way my body responds to him, but I also can't ignore the gnawing doubt in my gut that it might be clouding my judgment.
I can't let that happen again.
My phone buzzes, startling me. Marco's name flashes across my screen. It's a text from him.
I'm back. Any chance you're still up, Firefly?
I bite my lip, debating whether to respond. Part of me wants to confront him, to demand answers about his family's past. But another part, the part that still feels the fire of his touch on my skin, wants to believe in the man I've come to know and push all the negative thoughts out of my head.
"Yes, I'm up," I type back, then delete it. Rewrite it. Delete again. Finally, I just send,
Yes.
My phone buzzes instantly.
Can't sleep. Mind if I come over? We should talk about Sandra.
My heart skips. Shit, he already knows about her? Ugh, of course he does. He probably has eyes everywhere. I glance around my messy apartment, at the empty coffee mug, scattered papers, and, ugh, my appearance. I don't think gray sweatpants do it for a Marco-type man.
Sure
I reply, trying to sound casual.
I might already be downstairs. Was hoping you'd be awake.
I shoot up, heat flooding my cheeks.
Give me 10 minutes to clean up?
I'm sure you look perfect, Firefly.
That nickname. Every time he uses it, something inside me melts, and I don't even know why he calls me that.
I rush to the bathroom, quickly running a brush through my hair and splashing water on my face.
I go to apply lip gloss. Wait. What am I doing? No one is wearing that at 3 a.m. at home. I don't want to give off—
There's a knock at the door, and I jump. "I said 10 minutes." I quickly take off my sweatpants and throw on some black yoga pants. The oversized UCLA sweater will just have to stay.
I collect some papers, shut my laptop, and toss my mug in the dishwasher. I take a few breaths to calm myself because I don't want to open the door out of breath, looking like a weirdo.
He knocks again, and I open the door.
Marco stands there, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever in a casual button-down white shirt and dress pants. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it. He's a bit tan from his vacation, and it suits him well, bringing out his beautiful brown eyes.
"Hi," I breathe, sounding like I ran a race.
His eyes look me over before he speaks. "Hi, Alina," he says, his voice low. "Can I come in?"
I step back, letting him enter. As he passes, I catch his scent, and it makes my head spin and my body remember the delicious soreness he gave me.
"How was your trip?" I ask, closing the door behind him.
He shrugs and takes a seat in my sofa chair. "It was fine. Needed, I think. But I couldn't stop thinking about everything."
"Like?" I ask, sinking into the couch opposite him.
Marco looks at me, his dark eyes intense now. "The campaign. Sandra Reeves. You."
I swallow hard. "Me?"
He leans forward. "You," he confirms. "I couldn't get you out of my head, Alina. The way you felt, the way you sounded," he says with a grin.
I feel myself turning bright red as my breath comes in heavy bursts. I should stop this. We should talk about Sandra, about the campaign, about all the doubts swirling in my mind. But with Marco so close, his scent enveloping me, I can't think straight.
"Marco," I start, but I'm not sure what I want to say. Push him away? Pull him closer?
He stands and towers over me. He rubs the side of my face. "Tell me you don't want this."
I feel scared, nervous, and anxious all at the same time. "I... I can't."
He lifts my chin so I look directly into his dark, hungry gaze.
"Then tell me what you really want. Right now, in this moment."
My mind races. I want answers. I want to know if Sandra's claims have any truth to them. I want to understand what I'm getting myself into.
But more than anything, in this moment—like he's asked—I just want him. It's as if I need him.
I stand, and before I can speak, our lips crash together, and it's like a dam breaking. All the desire we've been bottling up these past few days comes flooding out.
Marco's hands slide down to my waist. He pulls me flush against him for a moment before he picks me up. I let out a moan as I wrap my legs around him while we make out in my living room.
I can feel how much he wants this, wants me, and that's all I need to allow myself the same thing. I break the kiss, gasping for air.
"Bedroom," I manage to say. "Now."