Page 25 of Ruthless Arrangement

I laugh, the sound genuine despite myself. “Is that what you think it was about? Making you jealous?”

“What else would it be about?” she demands.

“Education.” I release her wrist, but don’t move away. “Everything I show you has a purpose, Lea. Every experience, every introduction, every revelation. I’m teaching you to see beyond the surface, beyond the comfortable fictions most people live within.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “By demonstrating how you own everyone in the room, touching another woman like she’s furniture while staring me down? That’s not education, it’s a power trip.”

“It’s power.” I state it simply, as the fundamental truth it is. “Power expressed, power exchanged, power recognized. On that stage, between Miguel and Elise. Between Loretta and myself, her submission, my control. And yes, between you and me.”

Her breath catches, just slightly, at this last part. “There is no ‘between you and me,’” she insists, but the declaration lacks conviction.

“No?” I reach out again, this time taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward mine. Her skin is warm, soft beneath my touch. “Then why are you still here, Lea? Why do you keep coming back, knowing who and what I am?”

For a moment, I think she might pull away, break contact, retreat into professional detachment. Instead, she holds my gaze, something shifting in her expression. Not surrender, not yet, but a recognition of truth she can no longer deny to herself.

“Because it’s the story,” she says finally. “The biggest story of my career. Most people’s careers.”

“Your career has just begun,” I reminded her. “Is that all it is?”

Before she can answer, the car slows, approaching the industrial wasteland where Warehouse Five stands. The site of tonight’s meeting with Moretti’s crew. Another kind of power play, with stakes far higher than the ones I’ve been exploring with Lea.

“We’re here, sir,” my driver announces through the intercom.

I release Lea’s chin, but my gaze holds hers for one moment longer. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” I promise, my voice dropping. “When we’re not interrupted.”

CHAPTERNINE

Lea

The Bentley slowsas we approach a sprawling warehouse complex on the edge of Chicago’s industrial district. Through tinted windows, I watch rusted chain-link fences give way to crumbling concrete and metal buildings, monuments to a manufacturing era long past. A perfect setting for a meeting that exists between legal lines.

“This won’t be social like the restaurant,” Nico says beside me, his voice low and even. He hasn’t spoken since we left downtown twenty minutes ago, both of us watching the city transform from gleaming skyscrapers to this neglected wasteland of abandoned factories.

I turn to study his profile. In the near darkness, his features appear carved from stone, all sharp angles and controlled stillness. Only his eyes move, scanning the perimeter as we pull up to a nondescript metal building with no signage.

“What should I expect?” I ask, my notebook already in hand. Only a few days into this arrangement, and I’ve learned to always be prepared to document whatever unfolds around Nico Varela.

His dark gaze shifts to me, assessing. “A lesson in territorial negotiation.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s practical.” He straightens his already immaculate cuffs, a gesture I now recognize as his equivalent of checking a weapon. “Several factions need reminding of boundaries.”

The car stops. Through the windshield, I spot three other vehicles parked at irregular angles; a black Escalade, a silver Mercedes, and a blue sedan that in some ways looks more threatening than the luxury cars.

Nico’s driver kills the engine but remains seated. Marco emerges from the passenger seat, surveying the area with practiced efficiency before opening Nico’s door. I reach for the handle, but Nico’s voice stops me.

“You can wait here,” he says, not quite looking at me. “This particular meeting might become volatile.”

It’s the closest thing to concern I’ve heard from him. The words hang there, unexpected. Is it genuine solicitude for my safety? Or just strategic calculation, removing a potential complication? With Nico, the motives are always layered, likely both.

“I thought the arrangement was full access,” I counter, matching his cool tone, pushing back against the flicker of what? Relief? Disappointment? “Volatile sounds like an important part of understanding your world. You can’t keep dismissing me.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “Your choice, Ms. Song. But you stay behind me, and when I tell you to move, you move without question.”

Before I can respond, he exits the vehicle, leaving me to scramble after him.

Marco falls into step behind Nico, his broad shoulders tense beneath his tailored jacket. I’ve witnessed enough by now to recognize the subtle bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his suit.

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