Page 50 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Nico—”

Whatever I was going to say is lost as his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is ferocious. All teeth and tongue and pent-up hunger. My back hits the door as he presses against me, one hand still at my throat, the other tangling in my hair. I should resist, should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I kiss him back with equal fervor, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I can reach. He tastes like coffee and mint and something darker, something uniquely him. The world spins away until there’s nothing but this—his mouth on mine, his body pinning me to the door, the low growl in his throat when I bite his lower lip.

Then, abruptly, he tears himself away. We stand there, breathing hard, staring at each other in the sudden, stark silence. His pupils are blown wide, a flush high on his cheekbones. I must look just as wrecked—lips swollen, hair mussed where he grabbed it.

He steps back, smoothing his shirt. If not for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, he might appear unaffected.

“We’re going out,” he says, voice clipped and final. He crosses to the sofa and picks up a remote, flicking on my TV as if nothing just happened between us. “You have half an hour, Lea. Dress appropriately.”

I stand frozen by the door, heart hammering, mouth still tingling from his kiss. He won’t look at me again, his attention locked on the news scrolling across the screen. The abrupt shift leaves me reeling, caught between fury at his presumption and lingering desire that makes my body hum like a plucked string.

With a shaky breath, I realize I’ve got no choice but to comply. Whatever game we’re playing, he’s determined to control the next move. I straighten my shoulders, forcing steel into my spine.

My half-hour starts now.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Nico

The bass thrumsbeneath my fingertips as I press my palm against the unmarked metal door. I can feel it even before we enter, a heartbeat promising secrets, power, and desires best kept hidden from daylight. Beside me, Lea shifts her weight from one heel to another, uncertainty radiating from her despite the confident tilt of her chin.

I knock three times, pause, then twice more. A pattern as old as the establishment itself.

“Is this really necessary?” Lea murmurs, her breath warm against my ear as she leans closer. “The secret knock thing? Another club? Isn’t Purgatorio exclusive enough?”

I smirk, turning toward her. “Purgatorio is where the city sees what I permit it to see, piccola. It’s controlled exposure, a velvet glove over an iron fist. Undertow, on the other hand…” I pause, letting the implication hang before continuing, “this is the fist itself.” She swallows and I give her a second to compose herself.

“This is where the real mechanisms operate, far from any spotlight. Different levels of business require different levels of discretion. Would you prefer we let in just anyone? This place is where politicians mingle directly with syndicate heads. Not exactly the kind of guest list they want publicized.”

“To a journalist like me?” she suggests, the challenge still there.

I shrug with a grin as the door opens. “Precisely.”

Her eyes widen, and I savor the brief flash of alarm that crosses her features.She’s still underestimating what she’s about to witness. Good. The shock value will make tonight’s lesson all the more effective.

A small viewing panel slides open, revealing a pair of watchful eyes. Recognition flashes, and the door swings inward with a well-oiled silence.

“Mr. Varela,” the bouncer murmurs, offering a respectful nod that stops just short of a bow. His gaze slides to Lea, lingering a beat too long for my liking. I feel my jaw tighten, a primal, territorial response I hadn’t anticipated. “Please, come in,” he adds hastily, unhooking the velvet rope that separates the entryway from the main floor.

My hand is on Lea’s back, guiding her forward. The pressure of my palm against the silk of her dress sends a current of awareness up my arm. I’ve touched countless women with this same practiced gesture, yet something about the heat of her skin through the thin fabric feels different. More consequential.Or maybe I just need to get fucking laid?

We step from the dimly lit entry corridor into the main space of Undertow, Chicago’s most exclusive club that doesn’t officially exist. The air feels different here, scrubbed clean of outside signals. Dim neon lights cast everyone in flattering shadows, while low, throbbing music provides both ambiance and convenient cover for conversations not meant for recording devices.

Lea’s fingers grip my forearm, her nails pressing through my suit jacket. Not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor herself as she takes in the scene before us.

The club sprawls in elegant decadence. Plush velvet booths line the perimeter, many obscured by sheer curtains that provide privacy. A gleaming onyx bar stretches along one wall, staffed by bartenders whose discretion is worth more than the top-shelf liquor they pour. The central dance floor is thick with bodies moving to a beat that’s felt more than heard, while the elevated VIP section offers the perfect vantage point to observe without being observed.

But it’s not the opulent surroundings that have Lea clutching my arm, it’s the clientele. The faces here weren’t just the city’s elite mingling with known associates; these were the shadow puppeteers themselves. International players, heads of families usually only whispered about, men and women, whose presence together in any public space, could trigger federal investigations.

“Is that…?” she breathes, nodding toward a booth where Chicago’s deputy mayor leans in close to a woman notorious for running the city’s most lucrative escort service.

“Yes,” I answer, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. “At Purgatorio, he might avoid direct contact with certain associates. Down here, pretenses are dropped. Deals require direct conversation, regardless of titles held in the daylight.”

Everywhere we look, the lines between legitimate and criminal blur to nonexistence: a renowned banker shares cigars with the head of the Ukrainian syndicate; a federal judge laughs at something muttered by a money launderer who handles cash for three different organizations; a celebrated philanthropist discusses “investment opportunities” with one of Moretti’s lieutenants.

This is my true domain, not the polished nightclub upstairs where I maintain my public persona, but this underground realm where real power flows like the whiskey in everyone’s glasses.She needed to see this layer. To understand that the deals done over champagne upstairs are merely reflections of the actual power brokered down here in the dark.

---