Page 66 of Ruthless Arrangement

I find him in the living room, watching a news report about a warehouse fire on the south side. His expression gives nothing away, but the tension in his shoulders tells me it’s connected to his business.

“Everything okay?” I ask, injecting just enough concern in my voice to seem invested without being nosy.

He glances up, eyes tracking my approach. “Just a minor setback with a competitor.”

I settle on the couch near him, not touching, but close enough to suggest growing comfort with his proximity. “Moretti?”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features; he didn’t expect me to connect those dots so easily. “Yes. Nothing to worry about.”

“When do you think I can go back to my apartment?” I ask, making my tone cautious rather than demanding.

“We’ll need to remain here another night,” he says, watching me for a reaction. “Moretti’s men are still monitoring your building.”

Before I knew him, I would have argued, asserted my independence, demanded more information. Instead, I nod.

“I suppose there are worse places to be trapped,” I say with a small smile that suggests growing comfort with our situation.

The flicker in his eyes is subtle but unmistakable, surprise followed by recalculation. He expected resistance.

“You’re taking this well,” he observes, testing my new demeanor.

I shrug, maintaining eye contact. “You were right about the danger. I’ve seen enough to know when to listen to experts.” I use “we” instead of “I” when I add, “Besides, we have everything we need here.”

His expression shifts as he processes this apparent surrender. I’ve studied human behavior enough to recognize when someone is reassessing their approach, adjusting to unexpected data.

We spend the afternoon in a strange dance of proximity and distance. I work on my laptop, careful to write only innocuous notes about club operations that won’t reveal everything I’ve learned. Nico moves between calls and his own work, occasionally checking security feeds or sending cryptic texts.

I catch him watching me several times, that calculating look in his eyes.Good. Let him wonder what’s changed. Let him think his seduction is working.

By evening, we’ve settled into an uneasy domesticity. I help set the table while Nico heats the prepared meals Marco delivered, pasta with a rich tomato sauce for me, something with fish for him. The normalcy of the scene is surreal given what I now know.

Halfway through dinner, Nico excuses himself to use the bathroom. As he stands, I notice his phone remains on the table beside his half-empty wine glass.

The moment he’s out of sight, I grab his phone just as screen illuminates with an incoming message. My journalist’s instinct kicks in before I can stop myself, eyes darting to the preview displayed on his lock screen:

Moretti making move tonight. Three targets identified. Varela property on Michigan Ave. Shipment at docks. Professor surveillance is in progress.

I stare at the message, heart racing.Professor surveillance is in progress. Is he talking about my mother? No, it can’t be.

I try to open the phone, but it requires facial recognition to unlock. The preview is all I can see, and it’s enough to send a wave of dread through me.

The mention raises genuine alarm.If my mother is in some kind of danger, and Nico knows where my mother is, I should immediately agree to do whatever he wants; whatever game we’re playing, my mother’s safety isn’t part of it. But what if it’s not about that? I would give up all my cards at once.

But before I can decide what to do, Nico returns, noticing his illuminated phone. His expression darkens as he reads the message in full. “We have a situation,” he says, already typing rapidly on his phone. “Moretti’s making multiple moves tonight.”

I school my features to show surprise and concern rather than confirmation. “Moves? What kind of moves?”

“Attempting to breach several properties,” he says vaguely, editing the information for my consumption. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

I watch as he retrieves his laptop, issuing instructions to what must be his security team. I note which properties he prioritizes, how he distributes his forces, the cool efficiency with which he responds to threats.

What he doesn’t mention is my mother. He’s keeping that information from me.

For hours, Nico manages the developing situation, occasionally stepping onto the balcony for private calls. I maintain my role as the concerned but trusting companion, offering coffee and asking just enough questions to seem invested without being intrusive.

All the while, I’m cataloging information, noting whom he calls, what locations are mentioned, the hierarchy of his organization revealed through crisis.

The clock ticks past midnight, and the safe-house kitchen feels like a pressure cooker, the air thick with the aftermath of Nico’s ruthless efficiency. He’s just neutralized a threat, some of Moretti’s men, I presume. His commands barked over the phone with a chilling calm that made my skin prickle.

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