Chapter 29 Alina
ALINA
Ipull into my parking spot, cutting the engine with a sigh.
The weekend with Natalie was exactly what I needed.
It was a whirlwind of champagne, takeout, rom-coms, and girl talk.
Of course, that included boys, and I'm sure I sounded a bit crazy—going from "Fuck Marco" to "Oh, damn, I kind of miss him," and back to being mad.
With the weekend over and Natalie safely on her flight back to D.C., reality crashes back in as I grab my overnight bag from the passenger seat.
I walk into the elevator and press my floor.
As it takes me up, I fish my phone out of my purse. Marco's texts glare up at me, a digital reminder of the shitstorm I left behind. I scroll through them again, my jaw clenching.
Alina, we need to talk. Please call me back.
Firefly, please. I'm sorry. I overreacted. There's more going on than you know. We need to talk.
Plus that voicemail I still haven't listened to. I have that slight Friday voice that says screw his apologies and screw whatever "more" is going on, but the calmer, post-weekend voice is starting to win now, and I know that anger won't serve me in dealing with things.
As I step off the elevator, I fumble with my keys, my mind still churning over Marco's messages.
I open the door to a dark apartment. I walk inside and shut the door.
I hit the light switch with my elbow and freeze.
There, in the middle of my living room, bathed in the soft light from above, stands a breathtaking harp.
The wood is beautiful, shining rich mahogany, the strings catching the light like strands of gold.
"What the hell?" I whisper, my bag slipping from my shoulder and hitting the floor with a thud.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I walk over to it. My fingers hover over the strings, almost afraid to touch something so perfect. It's at least six feet tall, and I know just by looking at it that it's a concert grand—a very, very expensive one at that.
I look down at the stool right next to it and see an envelope with the word Firefly written on it.
As I pick it up, something falls out, landing in my palm with a familiar jingle. My office keys. I stare at them for a moment before opening the envelope and unfolding the letter inside.
Firefly,
I'm sorry.
I overreacted, and I was wrong. The truth is, I can't do this without you—any of it. The campaign, the Senate, none of it matters if you're not by my side. You've become so important to me that I sometimes find it hard to know where I end and you begin.
I saw how the harp at the youth center lit you up from the inside out, and I promise you'll never have to travel without one again. This one is yours. Wherever you go, I will make sure it finds you.
Please come back to me.
Marco
I read the letter twice, then a third time, my vision blurring with tears. The words swim before me as I sink onto the stool. The letter crumples slightly in my grip as tears spill down my cheeks.
I place the letter in my lap, and my hands find the strings. I begin to play, all the pent-up emotions of the past few days pouring out through my fingers. I let the music say everything I can't put into words. The notes fill my apartment—joy, anger, fear, hope—all of it coming through as I cry.
When I finish, an idea pops into my head. This gesture is so amazing. So thoughtful, so sincere. He listens and observes me, and I him, too.
I know Marco wants to win this badly, not just to prove his worth to his family, but to himself. It's a risk, but I think this could secure his win. As they say, fortune favors the bold.
I wipe the tears from my face and find my phone.
I type the number into my phone and hover over the call button, thinking over what I am about to do. I look at the harp and press the button. I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure this man wins.
On the third ring, a cheerful voice answers, "Sandra Reeves' campaign office, how may I help you?"
I clear my throat. "Hi, this is Alina Carter. I need to speak with Ms. Reeves. She's expecting me, I'm sure."
There's a pause. "Please hold."
A minute or two later, just as my mind is telling me to hang up, a different voice gets on the line. "Hello, Ms. Carter! We're very interested in speaking with you. Unfortunately, Ms. Reeves is in a meeting right now with one of her top advisors, Mr. Vashchenko. Can I have her call you back?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Vashchenko," I say, acting like I know who the hell that is. "Sure, please let her know I called."
I hang up and immediately pull out my laptop, opening a new browser tab and typing in the name. My eyes widen as search results populate the screen. Headlines flash before me:
"Yuri Vashchenko Linked to International Crime Syndicate"
"Does Vashchenko Really Run the Russian Mafia?"
And the last one stands out the most, so I click the link: "Will Vashchenko Outbid the Bonventis for New High-rise?"
I scan the article and see a picture of Yuri Vashchenko with a group of other men and another picture of Enzo Bonventi speaking to cameras with Gio in the background. It seems like this Mr. Vashchenko has been going after the same buildings in Chicago that the Bonventis want or wanted.
Okay, so if Marco's family are the Italian mobsters like in the movies, then this Yuri fellow runs what? The Russian mafia? Is that a thing? I mean, everyone associates Italians with the mob, but do other nationalities do it too?
It takes me all of five minutes to learn that basically everyone has a mafia-style crime family, so yeah, the Russian mafia is a thing.
"Shit," I say out loud.
The pieces start falling into place. Sandra's sudden rise, her aggressive anti-corruption stance, her fixation on Marco and his family. She's in bed with the Russians. That corrupt bitch. And she had the nerve to approach me like she did.
I grab my phone, my fingers shaking as I pull up Marco's number. The anger I felt before seems trivial now in the face of this revelation. I hit the call button.
"Alina?" Marco's voice comes through, a mix of relief and concern. "Where are you? Are you okay?"
"I, um, the harp. It's so beautiful, Marco,” I manage to say, my voice showing my emotions.
"Oh, so you're at your apartment?" he asks, his voice softer than I've ever heard it.
"Yes." I run my fingers along the strings again, producing a sweet, gentle cascade of notes. "It's a concert grand. You didn't have to. This must have cost—"
"Don't," he cuts me off. "Did you read my letter?"
"I did." My voice cracks. Damn it. I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure. “And I played it just now. The harp. I haven't played in a bit, and I didn't realize how much I needed to."
"I meant what I wrote," he says. "Wherever you go, I'll make sure it follows. No more borrowed instruments, no more making do with whatever's available. This one is yours."
A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks. I don't bother wiping them away. "Thank you," I whisper. "Not just for the harp, but for understanding why it matters."
"I need to see you. Can I come over and hear you play?"
I take a moment to think over his question, but there's no doubt I want to see him. One, because I think I just discovered something big about Sandra, and two—I just want him.
"Yes. There's something I need to talk to you about as well."
"Me too. I'm on my way," Marco says, and I can hear the urgency in his tone. "Give me fifteen minutes."