Page 27 of Ruthless Arrangement

Behind me, I sense rather than see Marco tensing, his weight shifting forward on the balls of his feet. My heart quickens in response. The atmosphere has changed, a subtle recalibration from tense negotiation to something more volatile.

“Your concerns have been noted,” Nico says, his tone unchanged but somehow carrying more weight. “If you have specific evidence of interference, I’m happy to review it. Otherwise, we’ll move on to the South Shore adjustment.”

Vincent’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “Evidence? You want evidence? How about the Koreans all of a sudden getting premium access to the university district while our product gets held up at every checkpoint? I’m talking about the university district gateway, not the trade to students.”

My breath catches. The Koreans. An oblique reference to the North Korea pharmaceutical connection that’s been rumored to supply much of Chicago’s high-grade fentanyl. Sienna mentioned it a couple of days ago. Not confirmed by any officials yet, though. But, the university district, the place my mother teaches?No way that’s a gateway.Selling to students? Maybe.Probably.

Nico’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the surrounding air seems to crystalize, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm.

“The distribution arrangements through the university corridor were established last year,” Nico says, his eyes never leaving Vincent. “All parties agreed to the terms. If Moretti has concerns about the arrangement, he knows how to reach me.”

Vincent takes another step forward, and now I can see what makes him so unnerving; his eyes never quite focus on one spot, darting between points as if calculating angles of attack.

“There is more at stake now. And Moretti thinks maybe you’ve forgotten who helped establish your position,” Vincent says, voice rising. “Maybe you need reminding that neutrality only works when the neutral party stays fucking neutral.”

The Latino man clears his throat. “Perhaps we should?—”

“Perhaps you should shut your mouth, Ramirez,” Vincent snaps. “This isn’t about your corner of the world.”

Ramirez stiffens, one hand disappearing beneath the table. The Russians exchange a glance. The temperature in the room drops several degrees.

“Vincent,” Nico says, his voice so controlled it functions like a blade, “you’re addressing my guests in my territory. Weigh your next words carefully.”

For the first time, Vincent looks directly at me, his eyes raking over my face with deliberate slowness. “Brought a secretary today, Varela? Or is she something more personal? Somebody you value?”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral, meeting his stare without flinching. A single week in Nico’s world has taught me that showing fear is like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

“Ms. Song’s role is not your concern,” Nico says. His tone hasn’t changed, but something in the air has; a near-imperceptible shift that raises the hair on my arms.

Vincent smirks, taking another step toward the table. “Moretti thinks maybe your judgment is getting clouded. New faces, new distractions. He doesn’t like it.” His hand moves toward the inside of his jacket. “Maybe time for new leadership in these discussions.”

Everything happens in a blur of coordinated movement. Marco lunges forward as Vincent’s hand emerges with something metallic. Before I can process what’s happening, Marco has Vincent’s arm twisted at an unnatural angle, Vincent’s gun clattering to the concrete floor.

Vincent howls, a sound more rage than pain, as Marco drives him face-first onto the table, scattering maps and papers. The other men have either frozen in place or taken strategic steps backward, hands hovering near concealed weapons but not drawing them.

Through it all, Nico hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even raised his voice. He observes the situation with all the emotional investment of someone watching a mildly interesting chess move.

“Hold him there, Marco,” Nico says, his voice carrying in the sudden silence punctuated only by Vincent’s labored breathing.

For the first time since entering the warehouse, Nico looks directly at me. Something passes between us, a silent communication that sends a chill through my body. Not a warning, but an invitation. A test.

Then he turns his attention back to Vincent.

“You know what the problem is with identical twins?” Nico asks, as if they’re discussing a minor business inconvenience.

Vincent spits blood onto the scattered papers. “Fuck you.”

“The problem with identical twins,” Nico continues, ignoring the outburst, “is that they’re difficult to tell apart.” He holds out his hand toward Marco without looking at him. “Your knife.”

The room goes quiet. Even Vincent stops struggling against Marco’s grip, his body tensing in sudden comprehension.

Marco reaches inside his jacket with his free hand and produces a sleek folding knife, placing it in Nico’s palm with practiced efficiency. The softsnickof the blade opening seems loud in the silence.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Vincent’s voice has lost its earlier aggression, replaced by something thinned with growing fear.

Nico examines the blade with detached interest. “You think I don’t know that you and your brother take turns representing Moretti? Trading places, gathering intelligence, testing for inconsistencies in my responses?” He steps closer, the knife catching the harsh warehouse light. “You’re Vincent today. Maybe Matteo tomorrow. It’s a clever tactic.”

I watch, frozen, as understanding dawns on the faces around the table. Several of the men exchange uneasy glances.

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