Page 54 of Ruthless Arrangement

Instead, as we make our way back toward the club’s main floor, I’m unsettled by the intensity of my response to her. This is to be a detached game, another move in the complex strategy surrounding Eunji Song and Moretti’s ambitions.

Is it become something more?

The question lingers, unanswered, as we step back into the pulsing heart of Undertow, where secrets and desires swirl like smoke beneath the surface of Chicago’s power structure and where, I’m realizing, I might be in danger of losing control of the very game I’ve mastered for so long.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

Lea

I wakewith a scream lodged in my throat, my body jackknifing upright as if pulled by invisible strings. My chest constricts, sweat plastering my thin tank top to my skin. The darkness of my bedroom feels oppressive, closing in around me as I gasp for air.

Mom.

The dream clings to me, my mother running through unfamiliar alleys, her face twisted in terror as someone pursued her. The details are already dissolving, but the raw fear remains, an ache spreading through my chest as if it’s my own lungs burning from the chase.

I press trembling fingers to my lips, trying to steady my breathing.It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.But deep in my gut, a cold certainty tells me it’s more than that. The panic feels too authentic, too visceral to be merely a product of my subconscious.

My fingers fumble for the lamp switch, bathing the room in a soft glow that does little to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners. The clock reads 3:17 AM. Too early to call anyone, too late to fall back asleep. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.

The buzzing of my phone startles me and I nearly knock it off the nightstand. The screen illuminates with a name that sends a different kind of shiver through me.

Nico.

My finger hovers over the screen.It can’t be coincidence that he’s calling at the exact moment I’ve jolted awake from a nightmare.Has he somehow sensed my distress? Or is it something more sinister? A camera hidden in my bedroom, watching my every move?

The thought makes my stomach clench, but I answer anyway, some part of me craving the steady anchor of his voice despite everything.

“Bad dream?” His voice slides through the speaker, low and intimate, as if he’s lying right beside me instead of wherever he is at this ungodly hour.

A chill traces. “How did you know that?”

“Your breathing.” He sounds almost amused. “It’s erratic. Panicked. And it’s the middle of the night. What else would have you so worked up?”

I glance around my bedroom, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow that might conceal a lens. “Are you watching me?” The question comes out more vulnerable than accusatory.

“Not at the moment, no.” His answer leaves room for interpretation, and I’m not sure if that’s worse. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I should hang up. I should be outraged at the invasion of privacy, at the cavalier way he admits to surveillance without actually confirming it. Instead, I’m sinking back against my pillows, my free hand clutching the comforter to my chest.

“I dreamed about my mother,” I confess, surprising myself. “She was running from something, someone. She was terrified.”

Silence stretches between us for a moment. When he speaks again, the usual hard edge is gone from his voice. “Dreams often manifest our deepest fears, not reality.”

“This felt different.” I close my eyes, trying to recapture the fading images. “It felt real.”

“I had nightmares as a child,” Nico says. “About drowning. My uncle would find me thrashing in my bed and tell me that fear was just the mind’s way of preparing for threats that might never materialize.”

The admission catches me off guard. A glimpse of vulnerability from a man who has built his entire existence around projecting strength and control. I try to picture him as a boy, frightened and small, before the world, and his uncle, shaped him into the dangerous force he is now.

“Did they ever stop? The nightmares?”

“Eventually.” There’s a hint of something darker in his tone. “Once I learned to control my environment, to eliminate threats before they could touch me.”

The implication behind his words sends another wave of cold through me, but there’s also something comforting in his brutal honesty. No platitudes, no empty reassurances, just the cold reality of how he’s chosen to face his demons.

“Your mother is a capable woman, Lea,” he continues, steering the conversation back. “More capable than perhaps you realize.”

My eyes snap open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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