Page 96 of Ruthless Arrangement

The words pour out, filthy and reverent, as I lose myself in her. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I angle my hips, hitting that spot that makes her cry out. “That’s it,” I murmur, my lips grazing her throat. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch.”

She’s close again, her walls fluttering around me, and I’m right there with her, the pressure building. “Come with me,” I say, my voice raw. “I wanna feel you come when I fill you up.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, and the trust there, the raw, unguarded vulnerability, undoes me. We move together, frantic now, chasing the edge. She comes first, her scream muffled against my shoulder, and the feel of her pulsing around me sends me over. I bury myself deep, my release hitting like a freight train, her name a ragged prayer on my lips.

For a moment, we’re suspended, bodies locked, hearts pounding. I collapse beside her, pulling her into my arms, her head resting on my chest. Her breathing slows, and I stroke her, contentment settling over me like a rare, fragile thing. I truly care about her.

But as she drifts toward sleep, the weight of what comes next creeps in. Love is a luxury I cannot afford, not when the stakes are this high. The warmth I felt earlier recedes, replaced by the familiar detachment that has served me so well for so long.

I disentangle myself from Lea’s sleeping form, sliding out of bed without waking her. I dress quietly in the darkness, movements precise despite my injuries. Looking back at her one last time, I feel the weight of what might have been.

Then I turn away, heading to Alessandro’s office to plan our next move. The Diplomat is back in control, even as part of me mourns.

I close the door behind me, leaving her to sleep in peaceful ignorance of the storm that’s coming.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

Lea

Cold sheets.That’s what wakes me. Not a sound, not a nightmare, but the absence of warmth where Nico’s body should be. I blink in the darkness, disoriented, my hand patting the empty space beside me. The indentation of his head on the pillow remains, but the sheets have long since cooled. He’s been gone awhile.

I squint at the ornate clock on the bedside table: 3:17 AM. My throat feels dry, cottony. I tell myself that’s why I’m getting up, for water, but even in my half-awake state, I recognize the lie.I’m looking for him.

Sliding out from beneath the silken sheets, I wince as my bare feet touch the cold hardwood floor. Alessandro’s estate is all old-world luxury, but apparently heated floors didn’t make the cut in whatever century this place was built. I grab Nico’s discarded shirt from the floor and pull it on. It smells like him, that indefinable scent that’s just him. My chest tightens at the comforting smell, at how quickly it’s become a comfort to me.

The hallway outside our bedroom is dimly lit by small wall sconces that cast more shadows than light. During daylight hours, Alessandro’s mansion hums with quiet efficiency, staff moving purposefully, security personnel checking in, phones ringing in distant offices. Now, it’s unnervingly silent, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

My tread seems obscenely loud against the polished floor as I make my way toward the grand staircase. The massive oil paintings of Varela ancestors watch me pass, their eyes following my movements with aristocratic disapproval.You don’t belong here,they seem to say.You’re just passing through.

Maybe they’re right.

I pause at the top of the stairs, listening. The house remains stubbornly silent, but there’s a tension in the air that I can’t quite place, like the pressure drop before a storm. My journalistic instinct, the same one that’s led me into countless dangerous situations in pursuit of a story, prickles at the base of my neck.

Something’s happening. Something important.

I descend the stairs, careful to avoid the third step from the bottom that I’ve learned creaks loudly. The main floor is darker than upstairs, the elaborate chandelier in the foyer extinguished, leaving only the ambient glow from outside security lights filtering through the windows.

I’m halfway to the kitchen when I notice it. There’s a thin sliver of light beneath a door down the hallway. Nico’s office. The one place in Alessandro’s mansion that is exclusively his territory, where even the house staff enter only by invitation.

Water forgotten, I change direction, drawn to that ribbon of light like a moth to flame. It’s likely nothing, Nico suffering from insomnia, catching up on business, making calls to associates in different time zones. There are a dozen innocent explanations.

Then why does my heart suddenly hammer against my ribs?

As I approach the door, I hear the low murmur of voices, Nico’s and Alessandro’s, their tones hushed but intense. The rich scent of old wood polish hangs heavy in the corridor. I slow my pace, years of investigative instinct taking over. My bare feet make no sound on the thick carpet as I move closer, close enough to see that the door isn’t fully closed. A gap of perhaps two inches provides a partial view into the room.

I shouldn’t eavesdrop. This is the kind of boundary violation that would reinforce every suspicion Nico has about journalists, about my motives. We’ve moved beyond that in the past few days, found something real beneath the layers of calculation and performance.

Haven’t we?

I lean closer, telling myself I’ll just check if he’s okay. If it’s nothing important, I’ll announce myself, make up some excuse about insomnia or thirst. But what I see freezes me in place.

Nico is hunched over his desk, posture rigid with tension, so unlike his usual fluid confidence. Alessandro stands beside him, one hand braced on the desk’s edge, the other gesturing emphatically as he speaks. Between them, documents are spread across the polished wood surface, and Nico’s laptop casts a blue glow across both their faces.

“—confirmed by three separate sources,” Alessandro is saying, his voice sharp with urgency. “The timeline matches.”

Nico shakes his head. “It can’t be a coincidence. Not with the Moretti connection. Not with the university shipments.”

Alessandro’s response is too quiet for me to catch, but Nico’s reaction is immediate. His head snaps up, eyes hardening.

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