Page 42 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Tell me something,” she says after a moment, her voice casual but her eyes sharp with curiosity. “How does someone like you end up doing what you do?”

I consider deflecting, as I always do when personal questions arise. Information is currency in my world, and I’ve built my empire on controlling its flow. But tonight feels different somehow. The dim lighting, the excellent food, the way she’s looking at me with something other than fear or calculation. It creates a pocket of suspended reality where the usual rules seem less rigid.

“I was only six years old when my father died,” I say, surprising myself with the admission. “Heart attack. Left nothing but debts and a reputation for weakness.”

Her eyes widen, clearly not expecting me to answer. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, swirling the wine in my glass. “Don’t be. He was a mediocre man who made mediocre choices. My mother had already left years before, couldn’t handle the lifestyle. My uncle Alessandro took me in.”

“The man I met at the estate?”

“Yes.” I take a sip of wine, letting the rich flavor coat my tongue before continuing. “Alessandro was different. Respected. Feared. He saw potential in me that my father never did.”

I don’t tell her about my unusual “home schooling,” after my uncle took me in. The brutal lessons in control, in strategy, in never showing weakness. Negotiation and interrogation techniques. The nights spent memorizing financial records and political connections until my eyes burned. The first time Alessandro put a gun in my hand and told me to choose between my loyalty to a childhood friend who’d betrayed us and my future in the family business. I was fourteen.

Some things don’t belong at a dinner table.

“He taught me that power isn’t about violence,” I continue instead. “It’s about positioning. About knowing where to stand when the dominoes fall.”

She tilts her head, studying me with that journalist’s intensity that both irritates and intrigues me. “And where do you stand now?”

“In the middle,” I reply. “Between forces that would tear each other apart if left unchecked. I create balance.”

“Through intimidation and blackmail,” she points out, though there’s less judgment in her tone than I’d expect.

I smile. “Through whatever means necessary. The world runs on conflict, Lea. I just make sure it’s a controlled conflict.”

“Like a pressure valve.”

“Exactly.” I lean forward, surprised and pleased by her understanding. “Someone has to regulate the tension. Otherwise?—”

“Explosion,” she finishes, mirroring my posture.

For a moment, we’re aligned, two minds meeting in unexpected harmony. It’s disconcerting.

“What about you?” I ask, steering us toward safer ground. “Always desired to be a journalist?”

She laughs, a soft, genuine sound that catches me off guard. “God, no. I wanted to be a ballerina until I was twelve. Then I realized I had absolutely no talent for it.”

I try to picture her in a tutu, all determination and no grace. “Hard truth to face at twelve.” I crack a bitter smile.

“Devastating,” she agrees with mock seriousness. “I spent a week locked in my room listening to Swan Lake on repeat and declaring my life was over.”

“And then?”

“And then my dad gave me my first camera.” Her expression softens with the memory. “He said if I couldn’t be in the show, I could capture it instead. Tell the story my way.”

There’s something in her voice when she mentions her father that resonates with some long-buried part of me. I know from her file that Gene Robert died in a car accident when she was sixteen. The official report cited brake failure. The unofficial report, which I accessed through less conventional channels, suggested potential tampering.

I’d never mention this to her. Some truths serve no purpose but pain.

“He sounds like a wise man,” I say instead.

“He was.” She takes another sip of wine.

For a moment, I imagine a different reality: one where I met Lea Song in some ordinary way. A charity event, perhaps, or a gallery opening. A world where I could pursue her without calculation, without the weight of ulterior motives.

The fantasy is as attractive as it is pointless.

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