Page 34 of Ruthless Arrangement

He pauses, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of the unspoken danger, the actual threat illustrated by Vincent and Matteo’s brazen attack, settle between us.

“Or you accept my protection,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration that resonates deep inside me. “Absolute protection. But it comes with conditions. My conditions. No more half-measures, Lea. No more pretending you’re just a journalist observing my life.”

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, sending electric sparks across my skin despite the fear coiling in my stomach. “If you stay, you’re mine. In every way that matters. You answer to me. You obey me. And you trust I will handle threats like the Moretti twins in my way.”

His thumb brushes across my lower lip. My breath hitches. This is insane. He’s offering safety from men like Vincent and Matteo, but demanding complete possession in return. Every rational thought screams at me to pull away, to run back to Sienna, to the life I understood.

But the memory of the alley, the fear ignited by the targeted violence from Moretti’s trusted lieutenants, the certainty that this won’t be the last time it holds me frozen.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a phantom limb reaching from another life. I know without looking its Harrison, probably asking why I haven’t checked in, demanding an update for The Journal. I ignore the summons. This is beyond The Journal now, beyond any story I thought I was chasing.

“What are the conditions?” I ask, voice barely a thread of sound, the words feeling like the first step over a cliff edge, like surrender.

Nico’s eyes darken, a predatory light entering their depths. His lips curve into that knowing smile that promises danger and intrigue, things I shouldn’t want but do.

“Total access to me,” he murmurs, leaning closer still, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers through me. “Requires total submission.”

My pulse hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped against his proximity.Submission.The word hangs there, terrifying and thrilling all at once. This isn’t about the story anymore. It isn’t even just about protection from men like Vincent. This is about him. About the undeniable, consuming pull he exerts. About the boundaries I know, with chilling certainty, I’m about to let him shatter completely.

God help me.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Nico

Power isn’tabout what you can do; it’s about what others believe you can do.

My uncle Alessandro’s words resonate in my mind as I relax in my chair, watching Lea Song shift uncomfortably across from me. The air conditioning hums, a low, constant thrum beneath the silence. She’s trying to mask her anxiety with defiance, chin tilted up, shoulders squared, but I can read the truth in every micro expression. The slight tremor in her hands as she tucks a strand behind her ear. The rapid pulse visible at the hollow of her throat. The way her eyes dart toward the door, calculating distance and escape.

It’s been forty-eight minutes since Marco brought her to me, her wrist bruised from Moretti’s warning. Forty-eight minutes of watching her process the reality of her situation. She’s no longer merely an observer, but irrevocably marked as mine. An extension of my operation.

“So these are your terms,” she says, breaking the tense silence that’s fallen between us. Her voice carries a forced steadiness that I find strangely admirable. “Complete schedule transparency. On-call status for whatever you decide.”

I don’t immediately respond. Instead, I rise and circle my desk with measured slowness, savoring how her body tenses with each step I take closer. Fear and anticipation are so often indistinguishable in their physical manifestations. Both make the blood rush, the pupils dilate, the breath quicken.

“Not terms,” I correct, stopping beside her. “Necessities. Moretti’s men were delivering a message today, Lea. Next time, they’ll deliver consequences.”

My gaze drift to her injured wrist, which she’s cradling in her lap. The bruises are darkening already, purple-blue marks in the distinct pattern of fingerprints. Anger flares in my chest at the sight. Those marks should never have been made by another man’s hand.

“You think I can’t handle myself? I’m a journalist—danger comes with the territory.” Her attempt at bravado would be more convincing if her voice didn’t catch on the last word.

“You’re not in journalist territory anymore,” I say, my tone soft. Gentle, even. It’s an intentional contrast to the harshness of my words. “You crossed that border the moment you agreed to shadow me. Today was just your first taste of the consequences.”

I watch the reality of this sink in, see the slight widening of her eyes as she grasps the gravity of her position. She’s intelligent enough to understand the implications, that she’s become a pawn in a game far larger than her investigative piece. What she doesn’t comprehend is that she’s always been a piece on this board. I’ve simply moved her from one square to another.

“I could walk away,” she says, though we both know it’s an empty threat. “Go to the police, tell them everything I’ve seen.”

I smile at that, just enough to let her see my amusement without revealing genuine mirth. “Could you? The police who frequent my club after hours? The ones whose pensions are secretly managed by investment firms I control? Or perhaps you mean the commissioner, who called me when his daughter got caught with enough cocaine to qualify for intent to distribute.”

I lean down, placing my hands on the armrests of her chair, caging her in without touching her. Her scent fills my nostrils, something floral underlying the sharp tang of fear. Her pupils dilate further as I invade her space, and I note with satisfaction how she doesn’t shrink back, despite her obvious discomfort.

“You’re in too deep already, piccola. The only way out is through.”

She swallows, her throat working visibly. I can see the war being waged behind those expressive eyes, her journalistic integrity battling with self-preservation, curiosity wrestling with caution. And beneath it all, something else. Something she’s trying to hide, even from herself.

Desire.

Not just physical, though that element is undeniably present in the flush creeping up her neck, the slight parting of her lips. No, it’s a more complex hunger for knowledge, for access to a world few ever glimpse from the inside. For the power that comes with proximity to men like me.

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