Chapter 36 Alina
ALINA
The Capstone's elevator doors slide open, and Marco gently guides me into the hallway, his hand on the small of my back. I can barely feel it. My entire body feels numb, disconnected.
Everything feels surreal, like a dream—or better yet, a nightmare.
Four gunshots. I counted them.
I close my eyes, but the sounds won't stop echoing.
The first shot made me jump, even though I knew—I knew—what Marco was going to do.
The second one came quickly after. Then the third.
A pause. And the fourth. When Marco reappeared, he looked almost predatory, like a wolf returning from a successful hunt.
We stop in front of the door, and Marco swipes a keycard. The lock beeps, and he pushes the door open, ushering me inside.
The Starlight Suite. The place I first stayed at when Marco brought me to Chicago. With all that's happened, it feels like a lifetime ago I was here.
The suite still looks as beautiful as ever, but all I can think about is the blood. The blood on my clothes, the blood on my skin, the blood on Marco's shoes—all of it.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror by the door. My hair is a mess, mascara and blood streaked down my cheeks, and Marco's shirt, the one I hastily pulled on, is stained dark red. My arms and face are painted with blood, and I look like I've stumbled out of a horror movie.
I glance down and notice for the first time that my leggings are torn at the knees from when I scrambled across my kitchen floor.
Marco comes up beside me. "Firefly." His voice is soft. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I don't look at him. I just stare at my reflection as the reality of what just happened starts to hit me in waves.
The gunshots. The shattering of my harp. The intruder's eyes as I brought the pan down on his head. And Marco—Marco's cold, deadly efficiency as he...
A sob escapes me, and I bury my face in my hands, my body shaking uncontrollably.
"Shh, it's okay," Marco murmurs, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. "You're safe now. I've got you. Come on."
He leads me to a chair, and I sit. He kneels down beside me, rubbing my exposed knee.
"You—you killed him," I say in a low tone.
Marco doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just nods once.
"Yes," he says simply. "I did."
His admission hangs in the air between us. I should be horrified. I should be running for the door. But instead, I feel... relief? Gratitude? Safe?
"He was going to kill me," I say, more to myself than to Marco. "If you hadn't come…"
"But I did come," Marco says, his voice firm. "And I always will. No one touches what's mine, Alina. No one."
The possessiveness in his tone oddly makes me feel protected. Valued. Wanted.
"I think it's amazing that you fought, Alina. Quite the hit you gave him," Marco says, attempting to lighten the mood.
I smile, and a semi-hysterical laugh escapes my lips. "I can't believe I hit him with my pan," I say. "The one I just bought. It was cast iron," I laugh again, "It was expensive."
Marco smiles.
"Oh God, and your lasagna."
"Was that what was in the oven?" he asks.
I nod. "Yeah, I wanted to…" Tears prick my eyes again, but I blink them away and force a smile. "I wanted to make your favorite dish."
"That's okay, Alina. You'll still be able to—and I'm thankful for that."
More things come to mind as I begin relaxing now that I'm with Marco.
"And my harp. He destroyed my harp."
"I'll buy you a hundred harps," Marco says fiercely. "I'll buy you anything you want. But first, let's get you out of these clothes and cleaned up."
I give him a look.
"Not like that." He stands and reaches out for me to take his hand, nodding toward the bedroom. "Come on."
Marco's hands are gentle as he guides me through the bedroom to the en suite bathroom.
He reaches into the glass shower enclosure and turns on the water. Steam begins to fill the spacious bathroom as he tests the temperature with his hand.
"Let me help you," he says, unbuttoning his shirt that I'm wearing.
Marco's hands are soft as he helps me undress. He peels off the bloodstained shirt and then helps me step out of my torn leggings.
There's none of the heat or passion that usually comes with him undressing me. Instead, there's a tenderness I've never seen from him before. Instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable, I feel at ease in his presence.
When I'm completely naked, he helps me into the shower. The hot water hits my skin, and I watch as small streams of red run down my body, carrying away my blood, the Russian's blood. My stomach tightens at the sight.
I watch as the crimson water swirls down the drain—deep red at first, then lighter, then clear.
"I'll be right back," Marco says. "I'm going to go get something."
Panic seizes my chest. "Wait!" I grab his arm, water splashing onto his sleeve. "Is it— is it safe here?"
The thought of being alone, even for a moment, makes my heart race. What if there are more of them?
Marco's hand covers mine where it grips his arm. "This hotel is under Bonventi protection. No one gets in or out of this suite without my say-so. You're safe here, Firefly. I promise."
I nod slowly, forcing myself to release his arm. "Okay."
"I'll be right back," he repeats, and then he's gone, leaving me alone with the steam and the sound of running water.
The water continues to pour over me, but I can't seem to get warm. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering despite the steam. The events of the night play on repeat in my mind. The gunshots. The blood. The look in Marco's eyes as he returned from my apartment.
I know who Marco is. I know his family has connections, power that exists in the shadows. But knowing and seeing are two very different things. Tonight, I saw the man behind the charming politician. The man capable of killing without even thinking twice.
And despite all that, I also learned that even in the face of danger, he'd come for me. He'd protect me, even if it meant operating in the most brutal way possible.
I close my eyes, letting the water run over my face, and wonder what it says about me that I can witness a man's execution and still feel safer with his killer than without him.
It's a question I'm not ready to answer. I grab the soap and clean myself, scrubbing harder in places where the dried blood is persistent. I go to wash my face and wince in pain, forgetting about the pieces of wood from the harp that cut my cheeks.
I work gentle circles around my face, rinsing carefully, then turn off the water.
I step out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy white towel around my body. When I turn to walk into the bedroom, Marco is there, waiting for me. His eyes scan over me, not with lust, but with concern. It's a look I'm not used to seeing from him.
"Come here, beautiful," he says softly, guiding me to a chair. "Sit down."