Page 47 of Ruthless Arrangement

“But you want to.”

I feel heat climbing up my neck. “That’s so inappropriate.”

“That’s not a no.” She studies me over the rim of her cup. “Look, I’m not judging. The man is walking sex appeal wrapped in designer suits. But he’s also fucking dangerous, Lea. Like, genuinely fucking dangerous.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of: ‘I know this is a terrible idea but I’m going to do it, anyway’.”

I wince at the insinuation. “This is totally not that . Entirely different,” I insist. “It’s professional.”

Sienna snorts. “Right.”

“I’m being careful,” I promise, though the words feel hollow.How careful can I be when I’ve already crossed so many lines I once considered uncrossable?

We finish our coffees, chatting about safer topics, like her upcoming article, the latest fail by some celebrity, the super high rent on Sienna’s new apartment. For twenty precious minutes, I almost feel like a normal person.

“I should get going,” she says eventually, checking her watch. “Deadlines crisis waits for no woman.” She stands, gathering her things. “Same time Tuesday? Or will you be too busy with your ‘professional’ assignment?”

“I’ll be here,” I say, hoping it’s not a lie.

She hesitates, then leans down to hug me. “If you need to talk, like…really talk, I’m here. No judgment, just listening. Not just work stuff, you know.”

“I know.” My throat tightens. “Thanks, Sienna.”

After she leaves, I order another coffee, not ready to face my empty apartment yet. The caffeine jitters through my system, but I welcome the artificial alertness. Sleep has become a luxury I can’t seem to afford, not when every time I close my eyes, I see Nico’s face, or worse, feel his hands on me.

I pull out my laptop, determined to make some progress on my article. The document stares back at me, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a paragraph about Nico’s connections to city officials. I’ve been careful to encode certain details, using initials instead of names, creating a system only I can decipher. The real names and connections are stored in my head, ready to be inserted once the article is safely filed.

As I type, I feel the weight of someone watching me. The sensation prickles, raising the fine hairs on my arms. Slowly, I glance up.

A man sits by the window, pretending to read a newspaper. His worn shoes are scuffed at the toes. Our eyes meet before he hastily looks away, his discomfort too obvious to be professional surveillance. Something about his posture, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers clench the paper, sets off warning bells in my head.

I save my document, close my laptop, and gather my things with deliberate calm. Then, instead of heading for the door, I approach his table.

“Are you following me?” I keep my voice quiet but firm, channeling the confidence I’ve seen Nico use to disarm opponents.

The man flinches, gaze darting around the café as if mapping escape routes. He’s younger than I initially thought, maybe early thirties, with nondescript features that would blend into any crowd.

“Not exactly,” he mumbles, reaching into his jacket pocket.

My body tenses, preparing to run, but instead of a weapon, he withdraws a folded piece of paper. He thrusts it into my hand, his fingers cold and damp against mine.

“You are in danger,” he murmurs. “Your mother is not what she seems.”

Before I can respond, he slips past me and out the back door, moving with the efficiency of someone used to quick exits. I stand frozen, the paper clutched in my fist, as his parting words linger in my head.

Heart pounding, I unfold the note. The same warning is scrawled across the page in jagged handwriting. I stare at the words, uncertainty crawling through me like ice water.

Moretti claims one thing about my mother; now this random man offers a warning about her.What do I believe? The criminal who threatened me, or the stranger who just ran away? Both? Noone?

A chill traces my neck. I dart outside, scanning the crowded sidewalk, but the man has vanished, swallowed by the sea of pedestrians rushing through their Friday routines.

I pull out my phone and call my mother, pacing in tight circles as I wait for her to answer. The connection clicks after four rings.

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