Page 68 of The Bonventi Rise

MARCO

The engine roars as I push the speedometer past 90 mph, weaving through Chicago's streets like a man possessed. I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard I can feel the leather creaking under my palms. I slam my hand on the dashboard, cursing as Alina's phone goes straight to voicemail for God knows how many times.

"FUCK!" I yell, hitting the passenger seat.

My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. All I can think about is Alina. Alone. In danger.

Horns blare as I cut through traffic, but I couldn't care less about angry drivers right now. I need to get to her.

"Come on, come on." I hit redial. The phone rings, each unanswered tone driving another spike of panic through my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free.

"Goddammit." I slam the steering wheel again when her voicemail picks up. "Answer me!"

Horrible scenarios flash through my mind: Alina bleeding out on her apartment floor. Alina being tortured for information about my family. Alina dead because I didn't warn her in time about the Russians.

I shake my head violently, trying to remove the images from my thoughts.

"Please, God," I whisper, surprising myself with the prayer. I haven't believed in years, but right now, I'd sell my soul to any deity listening if it meant Alina was safe. "Please let her be okay."

I unlock my phone again and open my texts with her, hoping I missed something. But those two words stare back at me.

Please help.

It almost makes me sick.

My phone vibrates, and I nearly crash trying to hit the answer button. It's not Alina. It's Gio.

"What?" I bark into the speaker.

"Marco, where the hell are you?" Gio asks. "The Russians?—"

"Fuck the Russians!" I cut him off, my voice a feral growl. "They've got Alina. Or they're after her. I don't know. I'm heading to her place now."

"Shit," Gio says. "I'll send some men."

"No!" I shout, swerving to avoid a cyclist. "No one else. This is on me. I'll handle it."

"Marco, you can't?—"

I end the call. My brother means well, but this isn't family business. This is personal. If those Russian bastards have touched a hair on her head, I'll tear them apart with my bare hands.

I take a hard right, tires screeching. Alina's building is just up ahead, and even from here, I can see her windows are dark. No movement, no sign of life.

I slam on the brakes as I jump the curb. The car rocks violently as it climbs the sidewalk. My heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat as I leap out of the car, leaving the engine running and the door wide open.

I sprint into the building, running straight to the elevator. My finger presses the call button repeatedly.

The elevator opens and I burst inside, stabbing Alina's floor number and frantically pressing the 'close door' button.

As the elevator starts its climb, I slide my hand under my jacket, wrapping my fingers around the grip of my gun, ready to draw at a moment's notice.

Second floor.

Third floor.

Fourth floor.

The numbers tick by too slowly. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts.