Page 16 of Ruthless Arrangement

Wariness replaces relief in her expression. “Michael. Michael Reeves.” She hesitates, then adds, “He’s a musician. Plays guitar at The Blue Note on Thursdays.”

“A musician,” I repeat, the word tasting like copper in my mouth. “How…creative.”

I leave without another word, ignoring her stammered thanks for not firing her. The backstage corridor hums with pre-show activity, such as technicians checking lighting cues, servers stocking the VIP bars, and security personnel getting settled at their posts. My club, my people, my orchestrated system of pleasure and profit. All of it requiring precise control.

The first staff member I see is a young woman sorting through costume pieces on a rolling rack. “Find Marco,” I order, not bothering to soften my tone. “Tell him I need him backstage. Now.”

She scurries away without question, abandoning her task mid-count. Smart girl. She understands priorities.

I return to the dressing room area, this time stopping at the door to the performers’ lounge, where several dancers are stretching before the first show. Conversations die as I enter, bodies straightening instinctively, eyes lowered in deference.

“Selina,” I call, locating the willowy blonde among the group.

She steps forward. “Yes, Mr. Varela?”

“You’re taking Jasmine’s aerial silk routine tonight. And for the foreseeable future.”

A flash of ambition brightens her eyes before she composes her features into an expression of concern. “Is Jasmine alright?”

“She will be,” I reply, the promise in my tone causing several of the dancers to exchange glances. They know what that means. They all do.

The heavy tread of steps approaches from behind me. Marco, right on time, as always.

“You needed me?” His voice is low, meant only for my ears despite the sudden silence in the room.

I turn, gesturing for him to follow me to a more private corner of the backstage area. The lighting is dimmer here, the sounds of the club a distant bass thrum through the walls. Marco waits, patient as always, his broad shoulders blocking the view from any curious onlookers.

“Jasmine’s boyfriend used her as a punching bag,” I say without preamble. “A musician named Michael Reeves. Plays at The Blue Note.”

Marco nods once, his expression unchanged. In the fifteen years he’s worked for me, I’ve never needed to explain the implications of such information. He understands immediately what is required.

“Find him. Bring him here tonight.” I check my watch—7:38 PM. “After the first show. I want a private conversation.”

“Of course.” Marco’s tone betrays nothing, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes, the only outward sign of the controlled violence that makes him so valuable to me. “Any particular condition you want him in when he arrives?”

I consider this. “Functional. Coherent. Unharmed.” A thin smile crosses my lips. “Make him think it’s a business meeting.”

Marco’s answering smile is hard. “Understood.”

I leave him to make the arrangements and head toward my private elevator at the end of the main floor, accessible only with a key card and fingerprint scan. As the doors close, sealing me into momentary silence, I allow myself the luxury of focusing on the night’s other appointment.

Lea Song.The journalist with the sharp eyes and sharper tongue, who walked into my trap thinking it’s her story. The convenient daughter of a woman with ties useful in my larger strategy. She’ll be the perfect pawn, if played correctly.

Alessandro’s warnings still linger in my mind as the elevator ascends to my office suite. My uncle rarely involves himself in my operational decisions, but Lea has triggered something in him.

“A journalist is never just gathering information, Nicolò,” he’d said, using my full name as he always does when delivering what he considers essential wisdom. “They are building weapons. The question is not whether they will use them, but when.”

Perhaps. But weapons can be redirected. And Lea Song, for all her education and ambition, is still painfully young. Inexperienced in the game I’ve been playing since before she entered kindergarten.

The elevator doors open directly into my private office, an intentional blend of luxury and functionality. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline, though privacy glass ensures no one can see in. The furnishings are minimal but expensive: a custom desk of polished black granite, a leather executive chair, and a seating area.

Along one wall stands a bank of monitors displaying security feeds from throughout the club and its perimeter. Another shows real-time data on the night’s reservations, VIP arrivals, and bar sales. Everything I need to maintain a perfect awareness of my domain.

I cross to my desk, checking the time: 8:40 PM. Lea will arrive soon, assuming she follows instructions. The dress I’ve sent would have been delivered to her apartment hours ago. I’d picked a deep red silk that the designer assured will make her skin glow and her dark eyes seem bottomless. Revealing enough to ensure every man in the club will notice her, modest enough that she can tell herself she isn’t compromising her journalistic integrity by wearing it.

I picture her now, stepping out of a taxi, shoulders rigid with determination and uncertainty. Perhaps checking her phone one last time before surrendering to the night I have orchestrated. Will she be nervous? Excited? Both, I suspect. The combination looks good on her.

Alessandro is right about one thing: Lea Song represents a risk. But calculated risks are the foundation of empire-building. And I have plans that extend far beyond Purgatorio’s profitable nightlife business, plans that reach into the lucrative intersection of legitimate pharmaceuticals and their more profitable street alternatives.

---