Page 29 of Ruthless Arrangement

It’s not a question, but I still answer. “Yes.”

“And what did you observe, beyond the obvious territorial disputes?”

I turn to face him, acutely aware of how little space separates us in the confined interior of the car. “That Vincent wasn’t just Moretti’s messenger. He was there to provoke a specific reaction from you.”

Nico’s mouth curves slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. “Go on.”

“The gun was theater,” I continue, warming to my analysis. “He knew he wouldn’t get a shot off in that room. He wanted to force your hand, make you look either weak if you didn’t respond, or brutal if you did.”

“And which was I?”

“Neither,” I answer honestly. “You let Marco handle the immediate physical threat, but what came after…” I pause, the image of the severed ear piece flashing in my mind. “That was something else entirely. Methodical. Precise.”

Something shifts in his expression. A subtle lightening around the eyes, a deepening of that almost-smile. He leans fractionally closer.

“You understand the dynamics of power,” he says, his voice resonating against my skin. “That’s rare.”

The compliment, if that’s what it is, sends an unwelcome flush of warmth through me. I’m hyper aware of our isolation in the backseat, the privacy partition raised between us and the driver.

“I’ve been watching powerful men manipulate situations my entire life,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady. “My mother’s academic world isn’t so different from yours, just less honest about its brutality.”

His laugh is unexpected, a brief, genuine sound that transforms his face for an instant before the careful control returns.

“Honesty is what separates my world from theirs,” he says. “Strip away the pretense of civilization, and all relationships reduce to power; who has it, who wants it, what price they’ll pay to get it.”

His eyes holds mine, dark and intense in the shadowed interior of the car. “The question for you, Lea, isn’t whether you understand power dynamics. It’s what you intend to do with that understanding.”

The heat of him seems to intensify, though he hasn’t moved closer. Or perhaps it’s something inside me responding to his proximity, to the undercurrent in his voice that suggests layers of meaning beyond the words themselves.

“I intend to write the truth,” I say, the answer sounding hollow.

“The truth,” he repeats, skepticism clear. “And what truth did you see today when Vincent pulled his gun? When half his ear came off in my hand? When the meeting continued as if nothing had happened?”

I swallow, searching for the professional detachment that seems increasingly difficult to maintain in Nico’s presence.

“I saw that you’re capable of clinical violence when it serves a purpose,” I begin. “And I saw that your power comes from precision, not just force. They fear you not because you’re unpredictable, but because you’re deliberate in everything you do.”

Something darkens in his eyes. “And did that frighten you, Lea? Seeing what I’m capable of?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. The honest answer terrifies me more than anything I witnessed in the warehouse.

“No,” I admit, the word barely audible even in the quiet car. “It didn’t frighten me.”

His eyes never leave mine as he registers my confession. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously in the charged silence that follows.

“That,” he finally says, “is what should frighten you.”

The car moves through the night without a word between us, streetlights washing over Nico’s composed features, illuminating the sharp lines but giving nothing away. The earlier intensity has drained out of me, leaving an exhaustion settled deep in my bones.

As the car glides to a stop in the secure underground garage of a building I don’t recognize, another of his anonymous holdings, no doubt, the sharp buzz of my phone slices through the silence. Instinctively, I glance at the screen. The name flashes bright and demanding against the dark interior: Harrison Wells. The preview text beneath it leaves no room for interpretation:Song. My office. Tomorrow morning. 9 AM sharp. Updates.

My gut twists. The harsh command crashes in from a world that feels impossibly distant, a blunt recall of duties so ordinary they feel ridiculous next to the bloodshed and power games defining my present.

Beside me, Nico shifts. He hadn’t needed to lean over; his gaze sharp enough to have caught the name and the tone even from his seat. I feel his attention lock onto the screen, onto my reaction.

“Your editor is impatient,” he observes, his voice neutral, devoid of the intimacy or threat from moments before. The strategist is back, analyzing the new variable. “Understandable. He smells a big story.”

I look up, meeting his eyes. “I have to go. Need sleep. I have to check in at The Journal tomorrow morning.”

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