Page 33 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Run, Lea!” Sienna shoves me toward the parking garage entrance further down the alley. “Go! Get help!”

She turns to face the twins, camera bag held like a shield. She’s trying to buy me time, protect me. Guilt and fear war within me. I can’t just leave her here with them.

But before I can decide, before Vincent or Matteo can make another move, a sleek black SUV screeches around the corner of the alley, its tires protesting as it slides to a halt, blocking their path. The passenger door flies open.

Marco. His face is grim granite, eyes assessing the scene, Vincent’s fury, Matteo’s readiness, Sienna’s defensive stance, my bruised wrist, with lethal efficiency.

Vincent and Matteo freeze. Recognition flashes in their eyes. They know who Marco is and who he represents.

“Problem?” Marco asks, his voice calm, low, carrying easily down the alley as he walks closer.

Vincent glares, spitting on the grimy pavement near his feet, his hatred for me obvious. He says nothing, but the message is clear.

“Leave,” Marco commands, his tone flat, absolute. “Now.”

Vincent hesitates, vibrating with contained violence, wanting to finish what he started. Matteo shifts his weight, perhaps conveying caution. They look at Marco radiating deadly competence. After a tense, silent standoff, Vincent gives a sharp, angry jerk of his head. The twins turn and melt back toward the street, disappearing into the lunchtime crowds.

Marco turns his attention to us. His gaze lingers on my throbbing wrist, then shifts to Sienna’s pale but defiant face.

“Ms. Song.” He nods, his expression unreadable. “The car is waiting.”

Sienna looks from Marco to me, her expression torn between relief and deep worry. “Lea?”

“Go home, Sienna,” I say, my voice shaking now that the adrenaline is receding. “Please. Go. I’ll be okay.”

“Will you?” she asks, clearly unconvinced but seeing she has no choice.

“Get in the car, Ms. Song,” Marco repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I give Sienna a quick, desperate hug. “I’ll call you,” I promise, the words feeling like another unavoidable lie in this new reality.

She watches me go, her face etched with worry, as I climb into the waiting SUV. The doors lock with a heavy, definitive thunk. Marco gets behind the wheel, his movements economical and precise.

“Purgatorio?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

He shakes his head, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. “Penthouse.”

My breath catches.Nico’s penthouse. I’ve only heard rumors about it, a fortress in the sky, impenetrable, accessible only to his innermost circle.

The drive passes in silence. I cradle my wrist, watching the city blur past. The earlier rehearsal of what I’d say to Nico feels pointless now. Events are moving too fast, pulling me deeper into a current I can’t control.

We arrive at a luxury high-rise near the lakefront. Marco leads me through a private underground entrance, past discreet security, and into a dedicated elevator that ascends without stopping. The doors open into a stunning, minimalist space; all glass, steel, and breathtaking views of Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon.

Nico stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city spread below him like a map. He turns as I enter, his expression opaque.

“Report,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding.

I recount the incident, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor beneath the surface. I tell him everything: spotting Vincent outside the cafe, recognizing the bandage from where Nico’s knife had marked him, his identical twin brother Matteo joining him, their deliberate confrontation in the alley, Vincent’s specific, personal threats driven by revenge for his ear, Sienna’s brave intervention with the camera bag, and finally, Marco’s timely arrival forcing Moretti’s lieutenants to flee. Nico listens without interruption, his eyes locked on my face, his stillness radiating a focused intensity.

When I finish, the silence stretches for a beat before he moves toward me. “Show me your wrist.”

I extend my arm with hesitation. He takes it gently, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin where Vincent grabbed me. His touch is cool, controlled, yet it sends an unwanted vibration through me. A muscle tightens momentarily in his jaw as he studies the marks left by his rival’s man.

“Vincent,” he says, the single name flat, devoid of inflection, yet somehow more chilling than any outburst. His eyes lifts to mine, dark and unreadable. “So, Dante’s top dog thinks he can bite the hand that warned him, bringing his twin along for backup.” He releases my wrist but doesn’t step back, closing the distance between us. The air crackles with unspoken tension. “Reckless. They crossed a line targeting you. You understand now, don’t you?” he says, his voice a low murmur that contrasts with the hardness in his eyes. “There is no observing from the sidelines. You’re part of the game whether or not you choose to be. Your association with me makes you a target. And, a pawn.”

“So what happens now?” I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice but needing to know.

“Now,” he says, his gaze dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes, “you make a choice.” He steps closer still, close enough that I can sense the heat from his body, smell the expensive scent of sandalwood and bergamot that clings to him. “You walk away, disappear back into your safe little world, and hope Moretti and his hounds forget you exist. Or…”

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