Page 81 of Ruthless Arrangement

The barb hits its mark, but I push past it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No,” he agrees, checking his watch with exaggerated casualness. “I didn’t.”

I take a risk, stepping closer rather than retreating. “My mother is an academic. A professor of political science. Whatever you think she’s involved in?—”

“Is what Varela is trying to control,” Moretti interrupts, all pretense of amusement vanishing. “Ask yourself, Ms. Song, why is a man like Nico Varela suddenly interested in a junior journalist? Why is he keeping you so close? What does he hope to gain that’s worth the risk you represent?”

The questions strike too close to my own doubts, my own suspicions about Nico’s motivations for bringing me into his world. I struggle to maintain my composure.

“You should return to the party,” Moretti continues, straightening his already-perfect tie. “Your keeper will be looking for you. But remember my warning, Varela’s interest in you has nothing to do with your charm or your body. It’s about what you represent, what you can lead him to.”

“And what’s that?” I demand, voice steadier than I feel.

His smile returns, sharp as a blade. “The same thing I already have, your mother’s cooperation in matters far beyond your understanding.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Choose carefully which puppet master pulls your strings, Ms. Song. Only one of us will still be standing when this is over.”

With that parting shot, he slips out, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and pounding blood.

I grip the counter, force myself to breathe, to think through the implications of what just happened.

Moretti knows my mother. Is doing business with her. And believes Nico is using me to access whatever she’s involved in.

The pieces don’t quite fit, my mother, the dedicated academic, involved with not one but two of Chicago’s most powerful criminal figures? It seems impossible, yet the evidence keeps mounting. First the Korean delegation’s familiarity with her work, now Moretti’s explicit confirmation of their “association.”

I splash cold water on my wrists, a trick my mother taught me years ago to calm a racing pulse. My mother. The woman who raised me alone after my father’s death, who pushed me to excel, who always kept certain parts of her life compartmentalized. Who’s been increasingly distant and secretive in recent months.

Who might be at the center of whatever power struggle is playing out between Nico and Moretti.

I need to find her, to demand answers. But first, I need to get through this evening without revealing to Nico that Moretti approached me.Something tells me that information is valuable currency I should hold on to until I understand more.

After reapplying my lipstick and pinching color back into my cheeks, I exit the bathroom, scanning the room with newfound awareness. The gathering no longer appears elegant and exclusive, it’s a battlefield where invisible currents of power and information flow beneath polite conversation and crystal champagne flutes.

I spot Nico, his tall figure commanding attention even in a room full of powerful people. He’s engaged in conversation with a Japanese businessman, but his eyes find me the moment I emerge, tracking my movement across the room.I wonder if he can read the confrontation on my face, if my mask of composure has slipped enough to reveal the turmoil beneath.

As I approach, Nico extends his hand, drawing me to his side with practiced ease. His fingers interlock with mine, warm and steady.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice pitched for my ears alone.

I smile, the expression not quite reaching my eyes. “Of course. Just needed a moment to freshen up.”

His gaze lingers, searching my face for something, lies, perhaps, or signs of distress. I meet it steadily, revealing nothing. After a beat, he turns back to the Japanese businessman, reintegrating me into the conversation.

“Mr. Tanaka was just discussing the challenges of navigating regulatory differences between markets,” Nico explains, his thumb tracing small circles against my palm, a gesture that appears affectionate but feels possessive, evaluative.

I slip back into my role with practiced ease, making appropriate comments, asking intelligent questions, playing the part of the captivating companion. But beneath the performance, my mind races with new questions and suspicions.

What does my mother know about all this? How deeply is she involved? And most pressingly, is Nico’s interest in me just a means to access her?

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

Nico

I feelit before anything happens, that electric charge in the air that precedes catastrophe. Some men call it intuition. I call it survival instinct, honed through years of navigating Chicago’s underworld. Tonight, that instinct screams danger.

The security feeds stream across multiple screens in my office, the low electronic hum a familiar counterpoint to the taste of the Macallan on my tongue. I watch my client’s latest shipment arriving at the warehouse. Everything appears normal, the men efficient, the transfer smooth. Yet something feels wrong. I can’t place it, but the sensation prickles at the back of my neck, a phantom warning I’ve learned never to ignore.

“Third checkpoint confirmed delivery,” Marco says, standing by the window overlooking the main floor of Purgatorio. The club is busy below us, unaware of the tension building in this room. “All inventory accounted for.”

I nod, eyes still tracking movement on the screens. “And our lookouts?”

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