Page 11 of The Bonventi Rise

7 PM. Dinner. A car will pick you up. Tell me the weakness and how we're going to win.

The text makes me want to scream, to throw the phone against the wall, to break something—anything. But I can't move. Can't breathe. Everything feels like it's closing in, and all I can do is slide down to the ground, clutching my knees to my chest as my world crumbles around as I entertain meeting with this man again.

7

ALINA

Tears blur my vision as I stare at Marco's message. My fingers hover over the screen. Delete it. Block his number. Take your flight home and forget ever meeting him.

But I can't.

One, because I don't really want to return to D.C. now with everything going on, and two, he said he'd help. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't put much weight into anything a hopeful candidate said, or any politician for that matter, but he knew about Harrison before the news broke. That kind of reach can maybe work for me. Leaving now will cement it against me. I don't know if Marco is this big bad mafia man, but he's clearly got connections. And if I am to be wrongfully arrested, I'll need all the help I can get.

The least I can do is hear him out, find out if I can get anything from all of this, and if not, get the hell out of here.

I wipe my tears away and stand. I take a few deep breaths and give myself a pep talk as I walk into the kitchen to make coffee. Once it's ready, I slide into the bar chair and open my laptop.

"Know your enemy," I say, typing Marco's name into the search bar.

But is that what he is now? My enemy? Or my only lifeline? Either way, I'll be damned if I walk into that dinner unprepared.

Besides a few hours' break for lunch in the downstairs restaurant, I've spent most of the day preparing my standard file on a candidate.

Nothing scandalous appears. No harassment claims. No bitter exes. Just the same carefully curated photos at galas and fundraisers, with a woman more stunning than the last.

None stick around. Interesting.

"What's your game?" I mutter, scrolling through images. In each one, the same manufactured smile I saw yesterday is plastered on his face.

My throat tightens.

God, Harrison. How did I miss it?

No. Focus. Come on.

I pull up Marco's voting record, public statements, business dealings. Hours slip by as I build his profile. Young, ambitious, intelligent. Dangerous. The perfect candidate—except for one glaring weakness.

The bedside phone rings, making me jump.

"Hello?" I answer hesitantly.

"Ms. Carter? Your car will arrive in thirty minutes."

I glance at the clock. 6:30 already.

"Thank you," I say and hang up.

I walk to my suitcase, my legs stiff from sitting so long. The black dress I packed catches my eye. Professional enough for dinner, but with an edge of power. I need every advantage I can get.

As I zip up the dress, my phone buzzes again. My father's name flashes on the screen.

My heart stutters. After months of silence, now he calls?

I let it ring.

Whatever game Marco's playing, whatever trap he's laid, I have no choice but to walk into it. But I'll do it on my terms.

I check my reflection one final time. The woman staring back looks collected, controlled. Only I can see how close to breaking she is.