Chapter 42 Alina
ALINA
Islump deeper into the couch, my eyes fixed on the TV screen as the election results trickle in. I've kept the lights dim and the curtains closed, feeling it matches my mood—dark and gloomy. I reach for another tissue, dabbing at my puffy eyes, red and sore from days of crying.
The remnants of my dinner—if you can call three bags of chips and a pint of ice cream dinner—litter the coffee table. My stomach churns, though whether from the junk food or morning sickness, I'm not sure anymore.
The news anchor's voice drones on over exit polls and projected winner graphics, but my eyes are too swollen to properly see them.
"And the numbers coming in from Cook County show Marco Bonventi maintaining his strong lead..."
Marco's name sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest. I grab another tissue, dabbing at eyes that should be dry by now but somehow keep producing tears.
The TV shows footage of him arriving at his campaign headquarters, looking devastatingly handsome in his navy suit.
The same suit I helped him pick out a few weeks ago for tonight.
I take a sip of water, trying to wash away the acidic taste in my mouth. The ice has long since melted, making it tepid and unpleasant. Like everything else in this room, and in my life, it's just wrong. I swallow, wishing it was something stronger. But I can't. Not with the baby.
The baby Marco doesn't even know about.
The room lights up red as a breaking news announcement flashes across the screen.
"I'm getting word that with current early projections, we're getting ready to declare a winner in the race shortly..."
"Well, little one," I whisper down to my stomach through tears, "looks like your daddy's going to be a senator."
The screen cuts to Marco's campaign headquarters. He's there, smiling, waving to supporters. He looks happy. Confident. Like he doesn't even miss me.
A newscaster comes into view. "It's official. We're projecting a win for Marco Bonventi in the race for state Senate," the newscaster announces.
The room erupts in cheers on screen. As everyone celebrates, the camera pans the crowd. I spot Gio, smiling widely. Even Enzo and Livia are there, looking happy. Marco's family, rallying around him.
Fuck, I should be there, I think.
I should be by his side, celebrating this moment we worked so hard for. Instead, I'm alone, watching it all unfold on a stupid hotel TV.
The camera zooms in on a podium, and I see Sarah run up to it and grab the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Marco Bonventi, your new state Senator."
Marco approaches the podium, waving and smiling. He adjusts the microphone, preparing to give some version of a speech we practiced together countless times leading up to today.
"My fellow citizens of Illinois," his smooth voice flows from the TV speakers, filling the hotel room. "Tonight, you have given me the greatest honor of my life."
"Congratulations, Senator Bonventi," someone in the audience yells.
"Thank you," he nods back, and the room cheers again.
"I want to thank everyone who made this night possible," he begins. I lean forward, hanging on his every word. "My family, my team, the people of Chicago who put their trust in me."
He pauses, and for a moment, I find myself praying he'll mention me.
"And my wonderful fiancée, who unfortunately is sick and couldn't be here tonight. We did it, honey," he says, looking at the cameras.
I feel a pain in my core. It’s somehow worse that he mentioned me like that. Especially, with how I know he feels about me right now.
"Together," he continues, "we're going to bring real change to this city, to this state." The crowd erupts in applause.
I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Marco's name. What would I even say? Congratulations? I'm sorry? Oh, by the way, I'm pregnant with your child?
I toss the phone aside again, disgusted with myself. I've made enough of a mess already.
On screen, Marco's wrapping up his speech. "This is just the beginning," he says, his voice full of promise. "Thank you, to the great people of this state. Let's get to work!"
The crowd goes wild. I watch as the camera pans out and Enzo, who's actually smiling, Livia, and Gio start to walk into frame, probably to celebrate for the perfect post-candidacy win photo op.
I close my eyes, my head spinning. And then, I hear it.
A faint pop, almost indistinguishable from the sound of champagne corks or celebratory party poppers. My eyes shoot open and focus on Marco. He looks confused for a split second, his hand moving toward his chest.
There's another pop, sharper this time. Marco's body jerks backward.
Then my heart stops, and all hell breaks loose.
The third shot rings clear as day. Blood suddenly appears across Marco's navy suit. His hands come up, red-stained fingers spreading wide as if in disbelief. More shots ring out, echoing through the room. I watch in horror as Marco's body jerks.
The camera shakes violently, the image on my TV screen flickering to static for a heart-stopping moment.
"MARCO!" I scream at the TV, as if he could hear me.
When it comes back, Marco's on the ground, his hands pressed against his chest, blood seeping between his fingers. The microphone picks up the chaos—screams, stampeding feet, someone shouting, "GET DOWN!"
Enzo and Gio sprint toward him, fury and fear etched into their faces. Gio's hand is already at his waist, pulling out a gun.
He fires—once, twice, three times. The camera pans wildly, catching a glimpse of the gunman falling, Gio's bullets finding their mark with deadly accuracy.
"Oh God," I choke out, fumbling for my phone. My fingers shake so badly I can barely dial 911. "Please, please, please..."
The operator answers as the TV shows Enzo kneeling beside Marco, his hands pressed firmly against the wounds. I can see his lips moving, but the audio is drowned out by the screams.
Gio stands over them, his gun still raised, eyes scanning the crowd for any further threats.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Marco Bonventi," I sob into the phone. "He's been shot. At his victory speech. Please, send help—"
The image cuts to the news anchor, his face shocked and unsure what to say. "Uh, we're receiving reports of shots fired at Senator-elect Bonventi's victory speech. We're going to take a quick—"
A commercial for laundry soap flashes across the screen.
"Ma'am, we're already sending units. Are you there?"
"No," I yell into the phone. "Just please hurry. Please don't let him die."
"Ma'am, we're doing—"
I hang up the phone.
I stare at the TV in disbelief, my mind refusing to process what I've just witnessed. Marco, my Marco, lying in a pool of his own blood. The image burns itself into my retinas, a nightmare I can't wake up from.
"No, no, no," I mutter, my voice rising with each repetition until I'm screaming. "NO!"
This can't be happening. This can't be happening, I tell myself over and over as I rock back and forth on the couch.
The shock gives way to a surge of adrenaline, and my body moves before my mind can catch up. I'm off the couch, knocking over the remnants of my pathetic dinner, barely registering the sharp crack of my knee against the coffee table.
I grab my phone, clutching it like a lifeline, and spring toward the entryway.
My bare feet hit the cold tile floor as I unlock the door with my keycard.
I don't care that I'm wearing only his old t-shirt and a pair of shorts.
I don't care that my face is swollen from crying, that my hair's a mess, or that I have no makeup on. None of it matters.
The hallway spins as I run, disbelief and determination pushing me forward
"Come on, come on" I chant under my breath, punching the elevator button like it will make it move faster.
The digital display shows it's stuck on the 12th floor. Too slow. Too fucking slow.
I spin toward the stairs, shoving through the heavy door with my shoulder. The stairwell echoes with my footsteps as I take the stairs two at a time.
My foot catches on a step. I stumble, slamming against the wall. The rough concrete scrapes my palm, but I don't feel it. All I can see is Marco's face, his confusion, the blood spreading across his chest.
Nine floors to go.
Eight.
Seven.
My lungs burn, and my legs shake, but I keep running. The baby protests the sudden movement, sending a wave of nausea through me. I swallow hard and push through it.
"Don't you dare die," I sob between gasping breaths. "Don't you fucking dare die before I can tell you..."
The lobby door crashes open, and the night doorman jumps to his feet, startled by my sudden entrance.
"Ma'am! Are you—"
I don't stop. I bolt across the lobby, ignoring the shocked gasps of the staff and guests. I burst through the front doors into the cold Chicago night. The sidewalk is rough, but I don't stop. I can't stop.
"HEY!" I yell at a taxi.
I jump in and give him Marco's campaign address. It's only a few blocks, but it feels like an eternity.
As we approach, there is total chaos. I can hear the sirens wailing, see the crowds of people being held back by police barricades. I hop out of the car, leaving the door open and the driver yelling for payment.
I run up to the front of the building. "Ma'am, you can't go in there," a police officer says, stepping in front of me.
"You don't understand," I gasp, trying to push past him. "I'm his fiancée. Please, I need to see him!"
The officer hesitates, and I seize the opportunity to duck under his arm. I sprint toward the entrance, my heart in my throat, and I see him on the gurney coming toward me.
"Marco!" I scream one last time, my voice breaking. Please God let him be okay.