Page 11 of Savage Reckoning
“The Peninsula. I have a meeting that requires your presence.”
This is unexpected. Interesting. Potentially useful.
“I’ll need thirty minutes,” I say, carefully rising from my chair, my healing feet still tender.
“You have twenty,” he replies, checking his watch.
In the bedroom, I find three new outfits hanging in the closet. They are all elegant, conservative business attire. I pick a navy-blue sheath dress with a matching blazer.
As I apply makeup, I consider the implications of this outing. It’s the first time I’ll be leaving the lake house since my capture. It represents both a risk and an opportunity. On one hand, Nico wouldn’t be taking me into public if he wasn’t confident in his control over me. On the other hand, any change in routine creates possibilities.
I finish dressing and step into the living room where Nico waits, phone in hand, reading messages.
“Acceptable?” I ask, gesturing to my outfit.
He looks up, his eyes moving over me. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Blake drives the Bentley while Nico sits beside me in the back. The privacy partition is up.
“Who are we meeting?” I ask, watching the lakefront scenery pass by the tinted windows.
“A business associate. You’ll be there as my companion, nothing more. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions. You will not make notes, mental or otherwise.” His tone is flat, brooking no argument.
“I understand.”
“If anyone asks, we’re in a relationship. You’re a former journalist who now assists with my charitable foundation.”
I nod, storing away this additional detail.A charitable foundation, seriously?Just another ploy to appear legitimate, I’m sure. And the ideal method to accumulate favors, or “bribe” politicians.
“And if anyone asks about my mother?” I venture.
His jaw tightens. “You haven’t spoken to her in weeks. You’re estranged over personal matters. Nothing more specific than that.”
“Is she still in Seoul?”
“That’s not your concern.”
But his quick deflection tells me something. He might not know where she is. The thought gives me a strange, cold comfort. My mother, the spy and manipulator, is beyond even Nico’s reach.
We arrive at The Peninsula,and the world shifts from the tinted quiet of the Bentley to the hushed opulence of the lobby.Nico’s hand is a firm, possessive weight on my arm, a silent warning.
The maître d’ of the hotel’s restaurant greets Nico not with deference, but with the quiet respect reserved for a man who owns the very air he breathes. He leads us not through the main dining room, but down a discreet hallway to a private suite. Inside, the silence is heavy, broken only by the faint clink of ice as a man rises from his seat at a table set for three. He is in his sixties, Asian, and dressed in a tailored gray suit.
“Mr. Varela,” he says, his voice smooth, his English perfect. He extends a hand.
“Mr. Kang,” Nico replies, his grip on my arm never loosening as he shakes the man’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. This is Lea Song.”
Mr. Kang’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, turn to me. They widen, but only for a fraction of a second. “Ms. Song? Professor Eunji Song’s daughter?”
I feel the pressure of Nico’s fingers increase on my arm, a microscopic signal to be cautious.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady. “You know my mother?”
“By reputation only,” Mr. Kang replies, though his eyes are doing more than recognizing a reputation; they are dissecting me, searching for an allegiance, a weakness. “Her work on international supply chains is quite influential in certain circles.”
My mind races, but I keep my expression a careful, pleasant blank. He knows.
We sit. Waiters appear as if from nowhere, pouring water into heavy crystal glasses. Mr. Kang declines wine, as does Nico. I follow their lead, a silent act of alignment.
