Page 82 of Ruthless Arrangement

Marco shifts his weight, a subtle tell I recognize. He’s concerned. “Garza and Rivera haven’t checked in for the last hour.”

My fingers still on the keyboard.Garza never misses check-in. Even when the feds were crawling all over his neighborhood last month, he found a way to signal all-clear.

“Both of them? Same location?”

“Different posts. East and south approaches.” Marco’s voice remains professional, but I catch the underlying worry. He’s been with me long enough to read the same warning signs.

I lean back, considering.Two lookouts going dark simultaneously isn’t coincidence. It’s coordination.

“Call them again,” I instruct, already rising from my desk. “Then initiate shutdown. I want the club cleared in twenty minutes. Staff too. Keep only security team Alpha.”

Marco nods once, already dialing. I watch as his expression hardens when the call goes straight to voicemail. He switches to the other number with the same result.

“Something’s coming,” I murmur, more to myself than to Marco. I cross to the hidden panel behind my bookshelf, entering the code that reveals a compact arsenal. My Sig Sauer P226 slides into my hand with its usual weight. I check the magazine, the action smooth and practiced.

“Boss, tonight’s revenue—” Marco begins.

“Leave it. If my instinct is wrong, we lose one night’s profit. If I’m right…” I slide the gun into my shoulder holster, adjusting my jacket to conceal it.

Marco doesn’t argue. In fifteen years at my side, he’s seen my instincts proven right too many times. “What about the journalist?”

I pause. Lea. Currently downstairs interviewing my staff for her article. She’s a planned risk that now threatens to become a liability.

“Find her. Bring her up here. We leave in ten minutes.”

As Marco exits, I turn to the security system controls, initiating lockdown protocols. Bulletproof shutters descend over external windows. Access points reduce to minimum essential entries. The system is designed to transform Purgatorio from nightclub to fortress in under two minutes.

I pull out my phone, scrolling to Alessandro’s contact. My finger hovers over the call button, then withdraws.No need to alarm him yet. If this is Moretti making a move, I want confirmation before I involve my uncle.

Instead, I dial our backup team stationed three blocks over.

“Status check,” I say when the line connects.

“All quiet, boss,” comes the response. “Traffic normal. No unusual activity.”

“Move to position Bravo. Be ready to extract on my signal.”

“Copy that. ETA eight minutes.”

I end the call, my mind already mapping contingencies. If this is Moretti, he’ll have planned thoroughly. The man is many things, volatile, ambitious, brutal, but never sloppy. If he’s coming for me, he’ll have multiple angles covered.

The door opens, and Marco returns with Lea. Her expression shifts from mild annoyance to alert concern as she reads the tension in the room.

“What’s happening?” she asks, dark eyes scanning the security monitors, the visible weapon at my side.

“Possible security situation,” I answer, vague. Despite our arrangement, there are limits to what she needs to know. “We’re leaving. Now.”

To her credit, she doesn’t waste time with unnecessary questions. She gathers her materials, notebook, recorder, phone, and slips them into her bag with efficient movements. I’ve noticed this about her: beneath the journalistic persistence and sharp intelligence, there’s a pragmatic survivor.

“Marco, take point. Standard extraction path C.” I turn to Lea. “Stay between us. Move when we move. Stop when we stop. Understand?”

She nods once, eyes steady on mine. No fear yet, just focused attention and the slight flush of adrenaline across her cheekbones.

I check the monitor one final time. The club has emptied considerably in the past few minutes, my security team ushering patrons toward the exits with minimum fuss. Most will assume it’s a routine closure, perhaps for a private event. By tomorrow, they’ll hear about a gas leak or electrical issue that required evacuation.

If tomorrow comes.

The thought flits through my mind unbidden. I dismiss it. Doubt is a luxury I cannot afford.

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