Page 64 of Ruthless Arrangement

I should be maintaining professional distance. This man breaks people’s fingers over business disputes. He systematically terrorizes rivals. He’s the subject of my story, not some romantic prospect. Yet here I am, wearing his shirt, sleeping in his bed, letting him press me against walls with my full participation.

The bathroom provides temporary sanctuary. I splash cold water on my face, attempting to wash away the lingering heat of last night’s encounter. The woman in the mirror stares back accusingly.

After using the fancy toothbrush provided, I steel myself and follow the coffee scent to the kitchen.

Nico stands by the expansive windows, already impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. His attention is fixed on a document in one hand, coffee in the other. The morning light casts his profile in sharp relief, all angles and controlled power. He doesn’t look up, though I know he’s registered my presence.

I hover in the doorway, suddenly hyper aware of my bare legs and disheveled appearance. His shirt barely reaches mid-thigh, leaving me feeling more exposed than if I were actually naked. The vulnerability grates against my nerves.

When he glances up, his eyes linger on my legs before meeting my gaze. Satisfaction flickers across his expression, before it’s masked by casual politeness.

“Sleep well?” he asks, as if we hadn’t been moments away from fucking against the living room wall last night.

I cross my arms over my chest, hating the heat that rises to my cheeks. “Fine.” I move toward the coffee maker, focusing on the simple task to avoid his penetrating stare. “Any news about Moretti’s men?”

“They’re still watching your apartment.” He sets his document down, giving me his full attention. “Marco brought your things earlier. There’s a bag over there with clothes and toiletries.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pouring coffee into a sleek white mug. The surreal normalcy of the action feels absurd given our circumstances.

He moves closer, invading my personal space with that deliberate confidence that sets my nerves on edge. “We’ll need to stay here another day, at least until I’ve addressed the Moretti situation.”

I take a step back, coffee clutched between my hands like a shield. “And what does ‘addressing the situation’ involve? More broken fingers? Ear slicing?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing that would make it into your article.”

The reminder of my professional purpose lands straight. I’m here for a story. Yet last night, I’d forgotten that completely when his hands were on me.

“Speaking of which,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, “I should work on my notes. Is my laptop in that bag too?”

He nods. “Everything you requested. I’ll be on calls most of the morning.” He steps closer, fingers brushing a strand from my face with deliberate gentleness. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Before I can formulate a cutting response, his phone rings. He answers without breaking eye contact, his voice shifting into that cool, authoritative tone reserved for business. I use the opportunity to grab the bag, and escape back to the bedroom, coffee sloshing close to the rim of my mug.

An hour later, I’m showered and dressed in my own clothes: jeans and a simple black blouse Marco retrieved from my apartment. The normalcy of my attire provides a thin veneer of control I need.

I set up my laptop at the dining table, opening the document that contains my evolving article on Nico Varela. The cursor blinks against the white background, waiting for words I can’t seem to form.

The facts are all there: his systematic control over Chicago’s criminal landscape, his connections to legitimate businesses, the way he brokers peace between rival factions. I have more firsthand material than any journalist has ever gathered on him.

Yet my fingers hover, paralyzed above the keyboard.

If I write about the warehouse meeting where he sliced off a man’s ear, I will expose his methods. If I detail the way politicians and business leaders flock to his club seeking favors, I implicate dozens of powerful people. If I describe his surveillance network, I compromise operations that while morally questionable, actually prevent bloodshed.

And if I’m honest about how deeply I’ve become involved, I destroy my credibility.

I close my eyes, massaging my temples.When did this become so complicated? When did I start weighing Nico’s safety against journalistic integrity?

The answer comes unbidden:When you let him touch you. When you kissed him back. When you started noticing the real man beneath the monster.

“Fuck,” I mutter, opening my eyes to the damning blank page. This is exactly what they warn about in Journalism Ethics 101, getting too close to your subject, losing objectivity, compromising your reporting.

I force myself to type, documenting the meeting at Purgatorio where Nico broke the guitarist’s fingers. The words come mechanically, devoid of the emotional weight of witnessing such casual violence. I describe the facts but omit my reaction at how I’d been both horrified and fascinated by the methodical way he’d administered punishment.

The resulting paragraph reads like a police report, not the vivid, insightful journalism I pride myself on.

I highlight and delete it all with a frustrated jab at the keyboard.

Through the glass doors to the balcony, I can see Nico pacing as he gestures during a phone call. His back is to me, giving me a rare moment where he isn’t watching, analyzing, calculating.

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