Page 88 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Shit,” I mutter, fumbling for the thermometer in the medical kit. I press it against his temple, waiting for the digital readout: 102.8. Not life-threatening yet, but definitely cause for concern.

I hesitate, uncertain whether to call for help or try to manage this myself. The doctor left antipyretics, but Nico’s too restless to take pills. Cold compresses then, to bring the fever down.

I hurry to the adjoining bathroom, soaking washcloths in cold water and wringing them out. When I return, Nico’s mumbling has grown more agitated.

“Marco,” he says as I approach, the name like a knife twist in my chest. “Left flank. Check the left.”

He’s reliving the attack,I realize.Trying to warn Marco even now.

I place a cold cloth on his forehead, another on the back of his neck. “Shh,” I soothe. “It’s okay.”

His eyes open but don’t focus, glazed with fever and memory. “They took the shipment,” he mutters. “Have to secure the north side. The families will…” He trails off, gaze drifting past me to some point only he can see.

I replace the cloths, which have already warmed against his overheated skin. “You’re safe,” I tell him, though I have no idea if that’s true.Moretti’s men could be surrounding the estate for all I know.“Try to rest.”

“Can’t rest,” he argues, voice clearer though his eyes remain unfocused. “Too many depending on me. The city needs…” He struggles to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at his stitches.

I press him gently back. “The city will be there tomorrow. Right now, you need to heal.”

He subsides, but his expression remains troubled. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “If I don’t maintain balance, others will fill the void. Moretti doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. The streets will run red.”

I freeze adjusting his bandages.Is this fever talk, or is he revealing something genuine?The idea that Nico sees himself as some kind of necessary evil, a control valve on Chicago’s violence, is not new, but still seems like self-serving justification. And yet there’s something in his intensity that gives me pause.

“Balance,” I repeat cautiously. “Between the crime families?”

He nods, eyes drifting closed again. “Someone has to maintain order. Better me than the alternatives.”

I continue cooling his burning skin, replacing cloths as they warm. His breathing gradually steadies as the fever medications I’ve administered sets in. The restless movement calms.

But his words linger in my mind.Is it possible there’s more to Nico’s role as “The Diplomat” than simple self-interest?The idea that he sees himself as a guardian of sorts who prevents worse violence by controlling and channeling it? The idea is both absurd and strangely compelling.

As the fever spikes higher, his mumbling becomes more disjointed. Fragments of conversation with invisible others. Names, I don’t recognize. And then, unexpectedly, a child’s voice, plaintive and frightened.

“Papa, wake up. There’s blood. Papa, please wake up.”

A chill runs through me despite the heat radiating from his body. This isn’t the calculating crime lord speaking. This is a memory, a child finding something terrible.

“They won’t let me see,” he continues in that younger voice. “Uncle Alessandro says I can’t go in there. Why won’t they let me see Papa?”

I swallow hard, continuing to bathe his face and neck with cool water.I shouldn’t be hearing this. It feels like a violation somehow, accessing memories he would never willingly share.

The fever continues to rise despite my efforts. His restlessness increases, movements growing more agitated until he nearly tears his stitches. I need to cool him more effectively.

I glance at the bathroom door, considering my options. A cool bath would help, but I can’t possibly move him in this state. Which leaves…

“Dammit,” I mutter, making my decision.

I pull back the sheets and begin to remove his remaining clothing. It’s a clinical process, or it should be. But as I expose more of his body, it becomes anything but clinical.

His chest and arms are sculpted muscle, testament to a physical discipline I hadn’t fully appreciated when he was clothed. But it’s the scars that capture my attention. A roadmap of violence and survival. A puckered bullet wound on his abdomen. A long, jagged line across his left pectoral. Smaller marks scattered across his skin like constellations.

Each one represents a moment where he nearly died. Each one a testament to the violence of his world.

By the time I’ve stripped him down to his boxer briefs, my hands are trembling. I focus on my task, running cool, damp cloths over his chest, arms, and legs. His skin is furnace-hot beneath my touch, but gradually, the relentless heat recedes.

Throughout the process, his mumbling continues, fragments of memory and current fears blending together. Marco’s name appears repeatedly. References to Moretti, to balances of power, to protection and territory.

And once, startlingly clear: “Lea.” Just my name, but spoken with such complex emotion that my hands still.

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