Page 20 of Ruthless Arrangement

The leather seatsof the Bentley are buttery soft beneath me, unlike the knot tightening in my stomach. My fingers trace the sleek lines of the new phone Nico provided last night, the cool glass doing little to soothe the residual tremor in my hands. The memory plays on a loop, unbidden: Nico, standing over the terrified guitarist, the sickening snap of bone breaking in the plush silence of his private lounge, followed by screams that still claw at the edges of my hearing.

I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but the image burns behind my eyelids. The casual brutality, the chilling efficiency; it was like watching a surgeon perform a delicate procedure, only the instrument was pain and the outcome was measured destruction. A shudder racks my frame. Part fear, part recoil, and part something darker, a morbid fascination that leaves a coppery taste in my mouth. He hadn’t even raised his voice. The violence was cold, precise, almost impersonal, yet utterly dominating.

And then, minutes later, we were downstairs, Nico introducing me to State Senator Abernathy and Alderman Ross as if nothing had happened. “Ms. Song is observing my operations for an article,” he’d said, his hand on my back, a subtle claim of ownership. Both politicians, men whose faces frequently graced the front page of the Journal, had greeted me with practiced smiles, their eyes holding a flicker of wary curiosity but mostly acceptance.Theyknew my name. They acted like my presence beside Nico was normal, expected even.

His operations. The phrase lingered in my mind. Last night wasn’t just about punishing an abusive boyfriend; it was a demonstration. A lesson in consequences, as he’d called it. And the seamless shift from breaking fingers to shaking hands with elected officials? That was the actual show of force. His power wasn’t just in violence; it was woven into the very fabric of the city’s legitimate structures.

The car glides through Chicago traffic, the city awakening around us with delivery trucks rumbling, commuters rushing, the rhythmic clang of the L train overhead. Inside this luxurious cocoon, the city noise silenced to a distant hum, the world feels unreal. My world, it seems, now consists only of Nico Varela and the increasingly murky depths I’m descending into.

My gaze returns to the phone in my lap. His phone. I know, with absolute certainty, that it’s a listening device, a tracker, a digital leash. Every call, every text, every search query logged and likely reported back to him or Marco. The thought makes my skin crawl. Yet tossing it out the window isn’t an option. Not if I want this story. And maybe there’s a sliver of truth in his claim of protection. Being under his surveillance feels suffocating, but perhaps it also places me within the boundaries of his territory, a space where others might hesitate to tread. Or maybe that’s just what I need to tell myself to justify holding onto this electronic Trojan horse.

The car slows, pulling to the curb in front of an elegant, ivy-covered brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in Lincoln Park. The driver cuts the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the nervous thrumming in my chest. A moment later, the front door of the house opens, and Nico steps out, looking immaculate in a charcoal gray suit. There’s no trace of the menace from last night, only cool, controlled composure.

He doesn’t look surprised to see the car waiting. He slides into the seat beside me without a word, just a brief, almost imperceptible nod in my direction. The small space instantly feels charged with his presence. The faint, expensive scent of his cologne fills the air, a disorienting reminder of his proximity.

The driver pulls back into traffic. Silence stretches between us. I stare resolutely out the window, focusing on the blur of buildings passing by, pretending my heart isn’t hammering against my ribs. What am I supposed to say?Beautiful morning after the bone-breaking? How’s the “hand cording only” going for the guy you maimed?

He breaks the silence first, his voice calm, measured. “The restaurant is called Oriole. Two Michelin stars. Their tasting menu is exceptional.”

Food. He’s talking about food. As if we’re just two colleagues heading to a business lunch. The cognitive dissonance is staggering.

“I’m sure it is,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral.

He glances at me, a faint flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “You seem tense, Ms. Song.”

You think?“Just processing,” I say, opting for vague truth. “Last night was instructive.”

“Good,” he replies, turning his gaze back to the front. “That was the intention.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence. We pull up to a discreet entrance, marked only by a small, tasteful plaque bearing the restaurant’s name. A valet rushes forward, opening Nico’s door with practiced deference before hurrying around to mine. Inside, the ambiance is hushed and elegant, with crisp white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, minimalist décor that speaks of understated wealth. The few patrons already seated are impeccably dressed, their conversations muted, creating a sophisticated buzz.

The maître d' approaches immediately, his smile professional, but his eyes fixed solely on Nico. “Mr. Varela. Your party is waiting in the private dining room.”

Party? I thought this was just lunch. Nico gestures for me to precede him, his hand hovering near my back again, not quite touching but radiating warmth. We follow the maître d' through the main dining area to a secluded room at the back.

The door opens to reveal a long table already occupied by about a dozen people, men and women, mostly middle-aged, dressed in expensive business attire. The air hums with conversation and the clink of glasses, but it all stops the moment Nico enters. Every head turns, every smile freezes, every gaze locks onto him with a mixture of respect and fear. It’s like watching a predator enter a clearing.

“Nico, glad you could make it,” one man says, rising from his seat. I know him; a property developer whose face I’ve seen in the business section.

Nico nods curtly, scanning the table. “Gentlemen. Ladies.” His gaze lingers for a second on each person, a silent acknowledgement, a subtle assertion of dominance. He then gestures toward me. “This is Lea Song. She’s observing.”

A murmur of polite greetings follows. Some offer tight smiles, others brief nods. Their eyes flicker over me, assessing, categorizing. I see recognition in a few faces. It’s the same city officials and business figures whose photos often accompany articles about zoning variances, development deals, and political fundraising. Just like last night, they seem to be familiar with my name, though we’ve never met before. More unsettling still is how they accept my entrance at Nico’s side; not with surprise, but casual acknowledgment, as if my presence here is routine. These aren’t just anybody; these are the puppet masters of Chicago, the ones who keep the city’s gears turning, or more accurately, the ones who collect the toll at every turn.

Nico gestures to an empty chair near the head of the table opposite him. I slide into it, pulling out the small, discreet notepad and pen I’d tucked into my purse. The conversation resumes, but the energy in the room has shifted. It’s lighter, more performative, everyone acutely aware of The Diplomat.

Platters of intricate appetizers circulate, delicate bites of seafood, artfully arranged vegetable terrines, foie gras parfait. Waiters move silently, refilling water glasses, offering wine. On the surface, it’s a perfectly normal, upscale business lunch. Discussions revolve around upcoming city projects, potential investment opportunities, the feasibility study for a new downtown high-rise.

I take notes diligently, capturing snippets of conversation, observing the dynamics. Who defers to whom? Who interrupts? And who seeks Nico’s approval before speaking? The patterns are subtle but clear. Nico rarely speaks, but when he does, the room falls silent. His contributions are brief, insightful, often reframing the issue in a way that subtly steers the consensus toward his preferred outcome. He doesn’t command; he guides, manipulates, orchestrates.

The main course arrives. Pan-seared scallops with truffle risotto for me, a perfectly cooked filet mignon for Nico. The conversation shifts to a major infrastructure contract currently under review by the city council. An older gentleman, Thomas Abernathy, not the senator I met last night, but perhaps a relative, his nameplate identifying him as head of a prominent construction firm, is outlining his company’s proposal. He seems confident, jovial, occasionally directing remarks toward Nico with an air of camaraderie.

But as he gets into the financial specifics, his voice falters. He fumbles with the figures, corrects himself twice, his face flushing slightly. He takes a large gulp of water, then clears his throat. “Apologies,” he says with a forced chuckle, dabbing his forehead with a napkin. “Must be the heat. Or perhaps the excellent wine.” He jogs his chair back. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”

He heads toward the door leading out of the private room, presumably toward the restrooms, as Nico watches him go. The conversation at the table pauses awkwardly for a beat before someone else picks up the thread, steering it toward safer territory.

Nico catches my eye across the table. He gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a silent instruction for me to stay put. Then, he rises smoothly and follows Abernathy out the same door.

My reporter’s instinct screams. Something just happened. That wasn’t just a momentary lapse; Abernathy looked genuinely unnerved. Nico’s quiet pursuit confirms it. His instruction to stay means he doesn’t want me to witness whatever comes next. Which, naturally, means I absolutely have to.

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