Page 52 of Ruthless Arrangement

Understanding flickers in Lea’s eyes. “And you provide that assurance,” she says.

“For a fee,” I confirm.

“What happens if the guarantee fails?” Lea asks, looking directly at Isabel, seemingly unaware of the subtle proprietary game being played around her.

A beat of silence. “Then we would have a very different conversation,” Isabel says, her smile never wavering, though her eyes briefly meet mine over Lea’s head, a silent challenge. “But Nico’s guarantees rarely fail. That’s why he commands such respect.”

Lea nods. “And these specialty imports,” she continues, “they must be quite valuable…”

Isabel’s gaze flicks to mine, amusement dancing there. “Your journalist has a talent for understatement, Nico.” She turns back to Lea, leaning slightly closer to her. “Let’s just say the markup makes the risk worthwhile.”

The conversation flows, but I track Isabel’s focus. While discussing shipping schedules and port security, her attention is almost entirely on Lea. She listens intently when Lea speaks, her questions occasionally veering toward the personal veiled as professional curiosity. Lea handles it beautifully, deflecting with skill, yet I feel a low growl building in my chest. Not jealousy. It’s control. Isabel is attempting to engagemyasset on her own terms.

Lea's intelligenceisarousing, her quick grasp of the subtext impressive. But Isabel’s appreciative glances, the way her gaze lingers on Lea's mouth when she speaks – it's grating.

“Your distribution network in the university district,” Isabel redirects to me, pulling my attention back. “Has it recovered…?”

The question pulls my attention back to business. She’s referring to Moretti’s recent encroachment on territory I’ve long kept neutral.

“The situation is being managed,” I reply, my tone cooling several degrees. “Temporary fluctuations in market share are to be expected in any enterprise.”

Isabel’s dark eyes glint. “Of course. I merely wondered if our mutual friend’s ambitions might affect our arrangement.”

“Dante Moretti’s ambitions are precisely that, his alone.” I keep my voice level despite the surge of irritation the name provokes. “My guarantees remain solid.”

“Good to hear.” Isabel sets down her glass with a decisive click. “Then I believe we have an understanding about the first shipment.”

I incline my head in agreement, recognizing the natural conclusion of our business. Isabel stands, elegant as a jungle cat. She extends her hand first to me, then turns to Lea, holding her hand perhaps a fraction longer than necessary.

“Ms. Song, it’s been truly enlightening,” she says, her smile directed solely at Lea now. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time? Discuss market dynamics further?”

Lea rises to the occasion. “I always strive for accuracy within the constraints of my agreements,” she replies politely, subtly sidestepping the invitation while meeting Isabel’s gaze.

Isabel’s smile widens. “A diplomatic answer worthy of your companion.” She finally turns to me. “She’s quick, your journalist. And quite captivating. I see why you keep her close.” The possessive pronoun grates. She ismineto keep close.

With that parting observation, she glides away. I watch her go, calculating, yes, but also suppressing the urge to physically mark Lea as mine in front of the entire room. This possessiveness is inconvenient, a potential vulnerability. I dismiss it. Control is paramount. Satisfied that the primary business objective was achieved, I return my attention to Lea.

She’s staring after Isabel, a complicated mix of emotions playing across her face. Fascination, apprehension, curiosity… and perhaps a touch of flattery she hasn't yet processed.

“You just helped arrange a drug shipment, didn’t you?” she asks quietly.

I don’t insult her intelligence by denying it. “I facilitated a business transaction between interested parties,” I correct. “The specific cargo is not my concern.”

“But you know what it is.”

“I know many things, piccola. Knowledge is currency in my world.”

She turns to face me, challenge sparking in her dark eyes. “And what am I supposed to do with what I’ve just learned? Write about how Nico Varela brokers cocaine deals in his underground club while politicians drink at the next table?”

“You’ll write what serves the greater truth,” I reply, placing my hand at the small of her back once more. The contact sends that same current of awareness through me. “Which might not be the same as reporting every detail you witness.”

I guide her away from the VIP section, feeling the subtle resistance in her posture. She’s conflicted. Torn between her journalist’s instinct to expose and her growing understanding of the complex ecosystem she’s witnessing.

“Come,” I say, changing tactics. “There’s more to Undertow than business negotiations.”

We move through the crowd until we reach the sunken dance floor. Here, the music is louder, the bass vibrating through the floorboards and up into my bones. Lasers slice through a low haze of smoke, illuminating bodies moving in sinuous rhythm. The energy here is primal and sensual.

Lea hesitates at the edge, her eyes darting across the throng of dancers. The press of bodies, the heavy throb of music, the swirl of perfumes and colognes and sweat, is an assault on the senses designed to lower inhibitions and heighten physical awareness.

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