Page 80 of Ruthless Arrangement

Before I can respond, she glides away, leaving me frozen with shock and confusion. My mother speaks of me to these people? Enough for it to be “often”? The implications make my head spin.

Nico is pulled into conversation with another group. I touch his arm. “I need a moment,” I murmur, nodding toward the ladies’ room.

He studies me before nodding. “Don’t be long.”

I weave through the crowd, maintaining a composed exterior while my thoughts churn like a storm-tossed sea. The women’s restroom is luxurious. To my relief, it’s empty.

I lean against the counter, releasing a shaky breath as I mutter to myself, gripping the cool marble. “You need clarity, not panic.”

What I need most is to contact my mother, to demand answers about her connection to these people. But that will have to wait. For now, I need to process what I’ve learned and maintain my composure long enough to get through the evening.

I head to one of the stalls, needing a moment of complete privacy to collect myself. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, closing my eyes. My chest feels tight, each beat a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from the relative safety of normal journalism into a realm where information isn’t just power, it’s life and death.

My mother knows these people. They know her, not just as an academic but as someone involved in their operations. And they know about me.The realization sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me.

I take several deep breaths, forcing my racing thoughts into order. Whatever she’s involved in, I need to approach it methodically. Gather information, connect dots, identify leverage points. The investigative process is familiar territory, even if the stakes have escalated beyond anything I anticipated.

After using the facilities, I linger a moment longer, mentally preparing to return to my role as Nico’s attentive companion. When I emerge from the stall, the sight that greets me stops my breath mid-beat.

Dante Moretti leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. The air seems to crackle around him, heavy with something dangerous.

In the men’s bathroom, this would be strange enough. In the women’s restroom, it’s beyond alarming. It’s threatening. I freeze, adrenaline flooding my system as instinct screams danger.

“Ms. Song,” he greets me, voice casual as though we’re meeting at a coffee shop. “Don’t look so frightened. If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t see me coming.”

The statement does nothing to calm my racing heart. I straighten, forcing steel into my backbone as I step toward the sink furthest from him. “Mr. Moretti. This is unexpected.”

“Is it?” He watches me through the mirror as I wash my hands with deliberate care, pretending a composure I don’t feel. “I think we both know this conversation was inevitable.”

I meet his gaze in the reflection, refusing to show weakness. “I wasn’t aware we needed to have a conversation.”

He smiles, a predator’s expression that never reaches his eyes. “Varela’s latest playtoy should know what game she’s playing in.”

“I’m not his toy,” I counter, reaching for a towel to dry my hands. The slight tremor in my fingers betrays me.

“No?” Moretti pushes away from the counter, taking a step closer. “Then what are you? His confidante? His partner? His weakness?”

The last word hangs between us, loaded with implication. I turn to face him, refusing to be cornered against the sinks.

“What do you want, Mr. Moretti?”

He studies me with unsettling intensity, head tilted as though examining a curious specimen. “To offer a warning, out of professional courtesy.”

“Professional courtesy,” I repeat, skepticism clear in my tone. “Why would you extend me any courtesy, professional or otherwise?”

“Not to you,” he clarifies, his smile widening. “To your mother.”

The mention of my mother sends ice through my veins. I struggle to maintain my expression, but something must show in my eyes because Moretti nods, satisfied by my reaction.

“Ah. So he hasn’t told you everything. Interesting.” He takes another step closer, invading my space with deliberate intimidation. “Nico Varela is going down, Ms. Song. I’ve made certain of it. The only question that remains is whether you’ll go down with him.”

I swallow hard, mind racing to process the implications. “Why would you care?”

“I don’t, particularly,” he admits with casual cruelty. “But your mother is a valuable associate. It would be inconvenient if her daughter became collateral damage in Varela’s inevitable fall.”

My breath catches. “What kind of business could my mother possibly have with someone like you?”

Moretti’s expression shifts to something like amusement. “Someone like me? You’re sleeping with Nico Varela. The moral high ground isn’t exactly yours to claim.”

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