Page 87 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Alessandro’s men briefed me on the extraction. You saved his life.” He glances up. “That’s not something Alessandro will forget.”

I don’t know what to say to that.I don’t want Alessandro’s gratitude or his memory. I don’t want any of this to have happened. I want to be back in my apartment with my article half-written, my biggest worry being whether Harrison will approve my draft.

But that world doesn’t exist anymore. It disappeared the moment I pulled the trigger. Actually, the moment I agreed to shadow Nico.

“Will he be okay?” I ask instead.

“He’ll live. Infection is the primary concern now.” The doctor finishes the last suture and begins applying antiseptic. “He’ll need monitoring through the night. Fever is likely given the circumstances.”

When he’s done with the bandaging, he leaves detailed instructions about when to change dressings, what signs of infection to watch for, how often to check his temperature. He hands me a small case of medical supplies and medications.

“You’re leaving?” The panic in my voice surprises me.

“I have other patients who need attention, Ms. Song. Mr. Varela is stable.” His voice softens at my obvious distress. “The staff will check in regularly, but it’s best to limit who has access to him right now. Alessandro’s orders.”

And just like that, I’ve become Nico Varela’s nursemaid. The absurdity of the situation would be laughable if I weren’t so exhausted and traumatized.Four weeks ago, I was pursuing him for an interview. Now I’m changing his bandages after killing a man to save him.

The doctor leaves, and silence fills the vast bedroom. I sink into a chair beside the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by everything that’s happened. My muscles ache from tension and exertion. My head pounds. I haven’t eaten since before we went to the club, and that feels like a lifetime ago.

I look at Nico’s sleeping form. He seems almost human like this, no calculating gaze, no controlled movements. Just a man, wounded and vulnerable. His breathing is even but shallow, careful even in unconsciousness to avoid straining his injured ribs.

Without thinking, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture is so intimate it startles me. I jerk my hand back as if burned.

What the hell am I doing?

This man has manipulated me from the beginning. He’s been surveilling me, used me, drawn me into a world of violence and moral compromise. I should hate him for that. I should use this opportunity to gather information for my article, to finally gain the upper hand in our ongoing power struggle.

Instead, I watch the rise and fall of his chest, reassuring myself that he’s still breathing.

I killed a man tonight.

The thought keeps returning, relentless as a tide. Each time it feels less shocking, which terrifies me more than the act itself.Is this how it happens? How someone like me becomes someone like them? One compromise, one act of violence at a time, until the extraordinary becomes mundane?

I press my hands against my eyes, trying to block out the thoughts, the images. I need to focus on something immediate and concrete. Nico needs monitoring. I’ll check his temperature, change his bandages as instructed, watch for infection. One step at a time.

When I lower my hands, Nico’s eyes are open, watching me.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice rough with pain and medication.

“Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze before his eyes drift closed again. I’m not sure if it’s a genuine question or if he’s too drugged to maintain a conversation. Either way, it hangs in the air between us.

Where else would I be? Running as far from this world as possible, if I had any sense of self-preservation. Going to the police, if I believed in their ability to protect me from Moretti. Writing my article, if I were still the journalist I thought I was.

Instead, I’m here, watching over the man whose world has consumed mine. The man for whom I crossed a line I can never uncross.

I settle in deeper, preparing for a long night. Outside the window, rain falls, soft and steady against the glass, washing away another day I never could have imagined.

I jerk awake to the sound of muttering. The room is dark except for a small lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure where I am or why my neck aches from sleeping upright.

Then I see Nico.

He’s moving restlessly in the bed, sheets tangled around his waist. Even in the dim light, I can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. His head turns back and forth on the pillow, lips moving in words too low to catch.

Fever. The doctor warned this might happen.

I hasten to his side, laying my palm against his forehead. His skin burns under my touch. Too hot. Much too hot.

---