Page 41 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Then stop fighting it,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Stop fighting me.”

Before I can respond, the sound of the French doors opening startles us both. We step apart, not quickly enough to hide what was happening, but enough to create the illusion of propriety. A waiter stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable.

“Mr. Varela,” he says, his gaze fixed somewhere over our shoulders. “The auction is about to begin. Your table is ready.”

Nico nods dismissal, and the waiter retreats. When we’re alone again, Nico turns back to me, his composure restored while I’m still struggling to steady my breathing.

“We should rejoin the party,” he says. “Let’s continue this conversation later.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.

He offers his arm, every inch the polished gentleman again, as if he hadn’t just been devouring my mouth moments ago. As if my lipstick wasn’t now smudged across his lips, marking him as clearly as he’s marked me.

I take his arm, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my fingers. As we walk back toward the dazzling lights and music of the gala, I can’t shake the sensation that I’ve just crossed a line from which there’s no return. That with one kiss, I’ve sealed some fate I don’t fully understand.

But as Nico’s hand covers mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles, a gesture that feels possessive and intimate,I wonder if perhaps, just this once, my mother might be wrong.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

Nico

I watchher across the table, my attention caught in the simple pleasure of her enjoyment. Lea twirls linguine around her fork, a small furrow of concentration between her brows. When she takes the bite, her eyes close briefly, a flash of genuine pleasure that’s unexpectedly compelling.

The restaurant hums around us. Ristorante Milano is one of Chicago’s finest Italian establishments, tucked away on a quiet street where the old money dines discreetly. Piano notes drift through the air, mingling with the gentle clink of silverware against fine china and the indistinct murmur of conversations designed not to carry. I’ve owned this place for six years now, though that’s not common knowledge. The staff knows me as a valued patron, nothing more, which suits my purposes perfectly.

Tonight, however, I’m not calculating profit margins or assessing which tables host potential assets. I’m simply enjoying watching Lea Song eat pasta.

“This is incredible,” she says, gesturing with her fork toward her plate of seafood linguine. “How did you know I love seafood?”

I give a small smile. “I pay attention.”

What I don’t say: I watched the surveillance footage of your grocery trips. I know you lingered in the seafood section each time. I saw the recipe for cioppino you bookmarked on your laptop.

The candlelight flickers across her features, softening the ever-present wariness in her gaze. There’s something almost vulnerable about her tonight in the simple black dress she chose. Elegant but not trying too hard, as though she couldn’t decide if this was a date or a business meeting.

I resist the impulse, just like I’ve been resisting a lot of impulses where Lea Song is concerned.

“Wine?” I offer, reaching for the bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo the sommelier selected. It’s a good vintage, with notes of dark cherry and spice. It’s complex but approachable, like the woman sitting across from me.

She nods, holding out her glass. “Please.”

As I pour, I study the graceful line of her neck, the delicate curve of her wrist. There’s strength beneath that softness. I’ve seen it firsthand. Watched her hold her own in situations that would make seasoned players falter. It’s part of what makes her so captivating.

“You handled yourself well last week,” I say, setting down the bottle. “That ex-cop we had to question? You read his intentions before any of my men did.”

I rarely offer praise. It creates expectations, sets precedents I prefer to avoid. But the words feel right in this moment, hanging between us like an offering.

Surprise flickers across her face, a split-second of unguarded reaction before she can mask it. Then, something even more unexpected: a small, genuine smile that reaches her eyes.

“He was fidgeting with his watch,” she says with a slight shrug. “Classic tell. My journalism professor called it the ‘liar’s timepiece’ when someone keeps checking the time. It means they’re usually planning their escape.”

“Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m not most people,” she counters, taking a sip of her wine.

“No,” I agree, holding her gaze. “You’re not.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she looks away, focusing on her plate again. Something shifts in my chest that I acknowledge with clinical detachment. Physical attraction is nothing new. I’ve wanted her since I first saw her photograph in the dossier Marco prepared. But this quiet moment of connection feels unfamiliar, unexpectedly pleasant.

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