Page 14 of Ruthless Arrangement

But the thought of backing out feels hollow. This isn’t an ordinary story. He isn’t an ordinary subject. And this burning need for answers, for justice for my dad; it outweighs the fear. Almost.

Instead of calling Nico to cancel, I draft a detailed email to myself. Everything that happened last night, every word, every touch, every threat implied and stated. My suspicions about Dad. Nico’s known connection to the publisher. Insurance. If something goes wrong, if I disappear, there’s a record. The act feels chillingly necessary. A final breadcrumb dropped before stepping willingly into the wolf’s den.

* * *

“We’ve arrived, Ms. Song.”The driver’s voice, filtered through the intercom, is the first sound I hear in what felt like an hour of suffocating silence inside the Bentley.

Before I can even process, before my hand reaches for the door handle, it swings open from the outside. Not the driver this time, but a man in formal attire, face impassive, holding the door as if he has been waiting for this millisecond. The air that rushes in is different here: clean, crisp, like the smell of damp earth and old money.

My legs feel unsteady as my heels hit the gravel drive. The house looms—no, presides—over the landscape. Italian Renaissance, honey-colored stone bleeding power under a gray sky, columns reaching like grasping fingers. A fortress built not just of stone, but of generations of influence I can’t begin to comprehend. It seems to watch me, its tall windows like cold, evaluating eyes. My charcoal skirt and silk blouse, chosen as armor, feel paper thin.

“This way, please.” The butler, because he has to be a butler, speaks without inflection, already turning, expecting me to follow.

He leads me up marble steps wide enough for an army, through massive double doors that open before us, swallowing me into an entryway designed to diminish. Soaring ceilings drip crystal tears from chandeliers the size of a Mini-Cooper. Dark wood paneling drinks the light, punctuated by museum-quality art. A brutal Caravaggio painting dominates one wall, violence rendered beautiful, visceral. The silence is the most unnerving part, heavy, expectant, sucking the sound from my breathing. This isn’t Nico’s world of pulsing bass and artful cool; this is a legacy made manifest in silent stone and judging eyes, radiating a power so old it feels suffocating. I feel like an intruder, an impurity marring the perfect surface.

We move down a wide corridor. Portraits line the walls—Varela ancestors, judging me with dark eyes and sharp jawlines that mirror Nico’s. Their painted stares feel unnervingly real, following me, assessing my worthiness to breathe their rarefied air.

The butler pauses before ajar double doors crafted from dark, gleaming wood. From within drifts the faint clink of silverware on china, the indistinct murmur of conversation. He pushes the doors open, announcing, “Ms. Song,” into the room beyond before stepping aside, leaving me exposed on the threshold.

It isn’t a study, but a sun-drenched breakfast saloon. Tall windows overlook manicured gardens still glistening with morning dew. A long table, laden with silver serving dishes, pastries, fruit, and steaming coffee, dominates the space. At the head of the table sits Alessandro Varela, the silver-haired patriarch I’ve only glimpsed in photos. Opposite him, nursing a cup of coffee, sits Nico.

He looks different here. Less the predator in his natural habitat, more constrained. He glances up as I enter, but he offers no greeting, his attention returning to his uncle. Alessandro, however, fixes me with those pale blue eyes, like ice chips in a weathered, powerful face, and gestures to an empty chair placed down the table, isolating me.

“Ms. Song,” Alessandro says, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of command. “Join us.”

I cross the room, feeling like I am walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes. The chair scrapes as I pull it out, the sound grating in the otherwise quiet room. A servant appears, pouring coffee into a delicate china cup before vanishing as silently as he arrived.

“Cream? Sugar?” Alessandro inquires, though his tone suggests my preferences are irrelevant.

“Black, thank you,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup’s warmth.

Nico still hasn’t spoken to me, his focus on a silver pot of jam he is ignoring. His deference to his uncle is a contrast to the absolute authority he wields everywhere else. It is jarring, throwing my perception of him off balance.

“So,” Alessandro begins, setting down his own cup with meticulous care. “The journalist. Nico tells me you have ambitious plans for this profile.”

“I plan to write an accurate portrait, Mr. Varela,” I reply, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.

“Accurate,” Alessandro muses, taking a slow bite of pastry. He chews thoughtfully before continuing. “Accuracy is subjective, wouldn’t you agree? Depends entirely on the angle of observation.” His gaze sharpens. “Your father, for example. He sought accuracy. Look where it led him.”

My breath hitches. The casual, almost bored way he references my father’s fate, his ruined career, the suspicious death six years ago that screamed of foul play, possiblytheirfoul play, sends heat surging up my neck, blurring my vision for a second with pure, fiery anger.

“My father was an excellent journalist,” I say, my voice tight. “He pursued truths others were afraid to touch.”

“Commendable,” Alessandro replies, though the word drips with condescension. “And ultimately, futile. Some truths are best left buried, Ms. Song. For everyone’s benefit.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Like the circumstances of certain traffic accidents.”

Ice forms around my heart. He isn’t just acknowledging Dad’s death; he is dangling the possibility of foul play right in front of me, testing my reaction, enjoying my discomfort. Nico shifts in his seat, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but says nothing.

“Are you suggesting my father’s death wasn’t an accident?” I ask, keeping my voice level despite the tremor beneath.

Alessandro waves a dismissive hand. “Tragedies happen. Engines fail. Brakes give out.” His eyes glitter with cold amusement. “Especially when someone becomes inconvenient.”

That does it. The implication, the smug superiority, the casual disregard for the shattered lives, my life, my father’s life, snaps something inside me.

“Inconvenient to whom, Mr. Varela?” I lean forward, abandoning caution. “To men like you? Men who build empires on foundations others would rather not examine too closely? Men who silence anyone asking uncomfortable questions, perhaps by arranging ‘accidents’?”

The air thickens instantly. The cheerful sunlight streaming through the windows suddenly feels tauntingly insincere. Alessandro’s smile vanishes, replaced by a stillness more menacing than any overt anger. Nico goes rigid beside him, his knuckles white where he grips his coffee cup. Shit. Too far.

“I believe,” Alessandro says, his voice dropping to a glacial calm, “this breakfast is concluded.” He dabs his lips with a linen napkin, then rises from his chair. “Bennett will see you out.”

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