Page 44 of Ruthless Arrangement

Dante Moretti.

Not an immediate physical threat, then, but more dangerous in the long term.My grip on Lea’s arm tightens, a protective reflex I don’t disguise. She senses the change in my posture, her own body tensing in response.

“Varela,” Moretti greets, his voice carrying the affected smoothness of old money despite his less genteel origins. He steps out of the car with the fluid grace of a predator, his expensive suit doing little to disguise the street fighter’s build beneath. At forty-three, he’s still in his prime, powerful shoulders, thick black hair with distinguished silver at the temples, and hazel eyes that shift between charm and calculation.

“Moretti,” I respond, keeping my tone neutral despite the surge of irritation at this deliberate intrusion. “Bit far from your usual hunting grounds, aren’t you?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he runs a thumb across the burn scar on his right hand. “Just enjoying some of the finer establishments the city offers.” His eyes slides to Lea, a deliberate assessment that makes my jaw tighten. “And I see you’re doing the same. Ms. Song, isn’t it? The journalist.”

Beside me, Lea stiffens but maintains her composure. “Mr. Moretti,” she acknowledges with a slight nod. No surprise, no confusion, she’s done her research.Of course she has.

“I’ve been hearing rumors you’ve expanded your interests,” Moretti continues, addressing me while keeping his gaze on Lea. The undertone of threat is unmistakable, but the veneer of civility remains intact; we’re both too practiced to break the façade in public.

“I wasn’t aware my life was of such interest to you, Dante,” I reply. “Should I be flattered by the attention?”

He laughs, the sound sharp and devoid of genuine humor. “Professional curiosity only. You’ve always been so focused on business. It’s refreshing to see you take time for pleasure.”

The way he says “pleasure” makes my blood simmer, but I maintain my neutral expression. This is a play of power, a test of boundaries in neutral territory. Any display of emotion would be counted as weakness.

“We all have our diversions,” I say with deliberate blandness.

Moretti’s attention shifts to Lea now, his expression taking on a thoughtful quality that I like even less than his previous assessment.

“I hear Professor Song’s latest lecture is attracting interesting attention,” he says. “She has quite the insights on shadow networks, doesn’t she?”

The mention of Eunji Song sends a spike of alarm through me. Beside me, Lea tenses, her breathing changing almost imperceptibly. Moretti’s knowledge of her mother’s work is too specific, too pointed to be random conversation. It’s a message, he knows about Eunji’s connections, perhaps even more than me.

More concerning, he wants me to know that he knows.

“I’m sure you’ve got your sources,” I reply, voice edged with steel despite my outward calm. “But her work is of no concern to you.”

Moretti’s grin curls like a viper preparing to strike. “Academic freedom is something we should all support, don’t you think? Though sometimes scholars dig into areas they don’t fully understand. Dangerous areas, like shark infested areas.”

The threat is obvious, and I feel Lea’s pulse jump beneath my fingers where they rest against her wrist. I move her behind me, creating a physical barrier between her and Moretti.

“You two enjoy the evening,” Moretti says, lifting a languid hand in farewell. “The night is still young.”

I nod to my driver, Dominic, who steps forward to open the car door. Without waiting for Moretti’s response, I usher Lea inside, every sense alert for any sudden movement. The door closes with a solid thunk of British engineering, sealing us in the quiet interior of the Bentley.

As we pull away from the curb, I catch Moretti’s expression in the side mirror, too pleased, too satisfied. Like a man who’s confirmed something important.

“What the hell was that about?” Lea asks once we’re moving, her voice steady despite the tension radiating from her. “And why does he know about my mother’s work and research?”

I don’t answer, my mind racing through implications and contingencies. Moretti’s interest in Eunji Song can’t be coincidental. If he’s investigating her, it means he’s aware of the same connections I’ve been tracking the pipeline between certain academic circles and Asian pharmaceutical suppliers. The question is whether he’s simply gathering intelligence or actively moving against her.

Either way, it puts Lea in his crosshairs, both as leverage against me and as a potential path to Eunji.

“Nico?” Lea prompts, interrupting my calculations.

I exhale, hooking an arm around her shoulders in a show of reassurance that serves multiple purposes of comfort, protection, and the simple physical need to keep her close.

“Moretti specializes in pharmaceutical distribution,” I explain, choosing my words with care. “Both legitimate and otherwise. Your mother’s research touches on East Asia’s supply chains. It’s possible he sees her work as a threat to his operations.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie either. The best deceptions always contain a solid foundation of reality.

“That doesn’t explain why he was waiting outside the restaurant,” she points out, her analytical mind cutting straight to the core. “Or how he even knew we would be there.”

“He has me under surveillance, just as I have him watched,” I say with a shrug. “Its standard procedure.”

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