Page 43 of Ruthless Arrangement

Our waiter appears with dessert, breaking the charged moment. Tiramisu for her, espresso for me. As he sets the plates down, I notice Lea’s gaze drifting toward the entrance. A reflexive scan of the room, the journalist’s habit of situational awareness.

Without thinking, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, drawing her attention back to me. Her skin, warm and soft beneath my palm, the contrast with my callused fingers striking. She doesn’t pull away, which I count as a small victory.

“It’s delicious,” she says after taking a bite of the dessert, though her eyes remain locked with mine.

“Of course.” I run my thumb over her knuckles before withdrawing. “I would never bring you somewhere subpar.”

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “God forbid the great Nico Varela associate with anything less than excellence.”

There’s a teasing note in her voice I’ve never heard before, almost playful. It catches me off guard, this glimpse of the woman she might be outside the pressure cooker of our arrangement. I want more of it.

My phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with Marco’s name. I resist the urge to check it, an unusual restraint for me. Usually, business takes precedence over everything. Tonight, however, I’m reluctant to break this fragile peace we’ve constructed.

Lea arches a brow, her gaze flicking to the phone and back to me. “Trouble?”

I shrug, turning the device face-down. “Business. It can wait.”

Even as I say it, a cold certainty settles in my gut. Marco wouldn’t contact me during a dinner I’d requested privacy unless something significant was happening. But I let myself have this small moment, this moment of chosen ignorance.

“That’s a first,” Lea remarks, finishing the last bite of her tiramisu. “The great Nico Varela, ignoring a call.”

“Perhaps I find the current company more compelling,” I say, watching for her reaction.

She meets my gaze, neither flinching nor preening at the implied compliment. “Or perhaps you’re simply biding your time.”

“Suspicious by nature, aren’t you?”

“Professional hazard,” she counters. “Though in your company, it seems more like a survival skill.”

I rise from the table, reluctant to end the evening despite the nagging awareness of Marco’s message waiting for my attention. The waiter approaches, but I dismiss him with a subtle nod that he understands immediately.

As we walk toward the exit, Lea pauses, looking back at the table. “Wait, we didn’t get the check.”

I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward. “It’s been taken care of.”

Her journalist’s instinct kicks in. “Taken care of? We didn’t even see the bill.”

“Let’s just say I have an arrangement with the management,” I reply, watching her process this information.

“An ‘arrangement,’” she repeats, giving me a knowing look. “Let me guess, you either own this place or you have something on the owner.”

I permit a small smile. “I appreciate quality, Lea. In all its forms.”

“That’s not an answer,” she challenges, but there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Isn’t it?” I counter, holding the door open for her as we head to my car.

Outside, the evening air carries a sharp bite, the promise of fall etched in the crystalline clarity of the night. City lights glitter against the darkness, reflecting off the sleek surfaces of passing cars. The low rumble of traffic provides a constant city soundtrack. Chicago at night has always held a particular beauty for me, an interplay of shadow and illumination, of power and possibility.

Lea draws closer to my side as we step onto the sidewalk, whether seeking warmth or simply responding to the instinctive urge for protection in the darkness, I can’t be sure. Either way, I welcome the proximity, as I guide her toward the curb where Dominic waits with the car.

“You’re in a hurry all of a sudden,” she observes, glancing up at me.

I don’t voice my unease. A prickling awareness at the base of my skull that warns of approaching complications. Years of navigating Chicago’s underworld have honed my instincts for danger, and right now, they’re humming like a live wire.

“It’s cold,” I say, scanning the street with practiced casualness.

That’s when I see it. A black Audi S8 with tinted windows gliding to a stop beside us. My muscles tense in automatic response, hand moving toward the concealed holster beneath my jacket. Then the passenger window lowers, and I relax, though my guard remains firmly in place.

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