Page 10 of Ruthless Arrangement

I gesture to the seat across from me, an invitation that is really a command. She takes it smoothly, settling into the cool leather with the careful positioning of someone aware they are being assessed.

“Your coffee,” I say, nodding toward the cup. “I believe it’s to your preference.”

Her eyes flicker to the untouched Americano, then back to me. “That’s very specific hospitality.”

“I believe in knowing who I’m dealing with,” I reply, picking up my whiskey and taking a measured sip. The liquid burns pleasantly down my throat, warming without dulling my senses. “You’ve been investigating me for days. It seemed only fair that I return the favor.”

A slight furrow appears between her brows. Not fear, but recalculation. She hadn’t expected me to be so direct about my surveillance. Most people in my position would maintain the polite fiction that we are meeting as equals, almost strangers introducing themselves for the first time. But Lea Song doesn’t strike me as someone who appreciates fiction, polite or otherwise.

“Is that how you see this?” she asks, leaning forward. “As a favor?”

I set my glass down. “Let’s be clear about what’s happening here, Ms. Song. You’re a junior reporter who’s been assigned a story far above your experience level. You’ve spent the past few days building an impressive, if somewhat fanciful, wall of connections in your apartment, using public records and second-hand accounts to construct a narrative about me and my business interests.”

Her eyes widen, as she realizes Marco was indeed in her apartment. She recovers quickly, though, her expression smoothing into professional neutrality.

“And now,” I continue, “you’re sitting across from me in my club, drinking coffee prepared to your exact specifications, wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake by coming alone.”

“Have I?” she asks, her voice remarkably steady despite the implication.

I study her for a moment, noting the slight acceleration in her pulse visible at the base of her throat. Nervous, then, but controlling it admirably.

“That depends entirely on your next move,” I reply, allowing a small smile to curve my lips. “Chess or checkers, Ms. Song?”

She blinks, confused by the apparent non sequitur. “I’m sorry?”

“Are you playing chess or checkers?” I clarify, leaning back. “Checkers players see only the move directly in front of them. They react rather than anticipate. Chess players see five, ten moves ahead. They understand that sometimes a sacrifice now leads to victory later.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a flash of something that might be appreciation. “And which do you think I’m playing?”

“That’s what I’m determining,” I say.

She considers this, then reaches for the coffee I’ve provided. A studied risk accepting something prepared at my direction. She takes a small sip, her expression revealing nothing as she recognizes her exact preference.

“You’ve gone to considerable trouble,” she observes, setting the cup down. “Research, surveillance, personalized refreshments. Most people would simply have their secretary decline the interview request.”

“I’m not most people,” I reply, letting my gaze drift over her, taking in the defiant set of her jaw. “And you’re not most reporters, are you, Ms. Song?”

“Evidently not.” She reaches into her bag, withdrawing a notebook and pen.Old-school, not digital. Noteworthy.“May I?”

I nod, leaning back, curious. Let her think she’s driving this. “By all means. Begin your interrogation.”

She opens the notebook to a fresh page, handwriting neat, precise. When she looks up, the steel is back in her eyes. The journalist attempting to reclaim control.Cute.

“Mr. Varela,” she begins, tone crisp, “your background is law, yet you built Purgatorio. Why the shift from courtrooms to this?” She gestures at the opulent club around us.

“The law taught me where the actual rules are written, Ms. Song.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “The ones that aren’t debated by men in robes but enforced in shadows. Purgatorio is just a more honest venue for the same games.” I observe her. “A game you seem eager to join.”

She ignores the bait, pen scratching quickly. “And what games are played here? Beyond selling expensive liquor?”

“Ah, the probing question.” A hunter's smile curves my mouth. “What do you think I’m selling, Ms. Song? You’ve plastered my face all over your apartment wall, built quite the monument. What does your gut tell you? Or perhaps, what do you want me to be selling?”

Color flares on her cheekbones, but her voice remains steady. “Public records show you facilitate meetings between competitors. Meetings after which certain criminal conflicts often resolve.”

“Public records are so dry, don’t you think?” I pick up my whiskey, swirling the amber liquid. “They capture transactions, not motivations. Not the thrill of brokering peace or ensuring compliance.” I take a slow sip, eyes locked on hers. “They don’t capture the look in a man’s eyes when he realizes his future rests entirely in my hands.”

Her pen pauses. I see the flicker of fascination warring with professional duty.

“Is that what you enjoy?” she asks, voice neutral. “Holding futures in your hands?”

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