Page 26 of Ruthless Arrangement

A giant metal door creaks open as we approach. Nico pauses, turning to face me with a warning in his eyes.

“Stay close. No questions during the meeting. Your phone stays in your pocket.” His voice drops. “And if anyone approaches you directly, you defer to me. Understood?”

I nod, suppressing the instinctive rebellion his commands trigger. This isn’t about journalistic integrity or independence. This is about survival in a world where the wrong word or look can have consequences far beyond professional embarrassment.

Inside, the warehouse is enormous and surprisingly well-maintained compared to its exterior. Bare bulbs hang from high ceilings, casting pools of harsh light over a concrete floor. The air smells of dust and something chemical that burns in my nostrils.

In the center of the space, a makeshift conference area has been arranged. Folding tables pushed together, covered with maps and papers, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Already seated or standing around this improvised meeting point are seven men of varying ages, all radiating the particular alertness of predators in proximity.

Their conversation stops abruptly as Nico enters. Seven pairs of eyes track his movement, then slide to me with expressions ranging from curiosity to cold calculation.

“Gentlemen,” Nico greets them, his voice carrying effortlessly across the concrete expanse. “Thank you for accommodating this meeting on short notice.”

He moves toward the head of the table with the calm confidence of someone who knows his position is unquestioned. I follow a half-step behind, acutely aware of the stares fixed on me rather than my notebook.

“Who’s the girl?” asks a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes like gun barrels.

Nico doesn’t break stride. “Ms. Song is documenting our negotiation for my records.” The explanation is smooth, offering no invitation for further questions. “Let’s begin.”

I position myself behind Nico’s right shoulder, close enough to observe but not so close as to appear as a part of his inner circle. From this vantage point, I can study the assembled men without making direct eye contact.

They represent a visual taxonomy of Chicago’s criminal ecosystem: two middle-aged men in expensive but understated suits, representing established operations with legitimate fronts; a younger Latino man with a careful smile and watchful eyes; two Eastern European looking bodybuilder types, probably Russian; a wiry Black man who stands apart from the others; and finally, leaning against a support column rather than taking a seat, a man whose entire being screams danger.

This last one catches my attention most sharply. Thin but corded with muscle, he wears a leather jacket despite the warehouse’s stuffy atmosphere. His hair is slicked back, and a scar bisects one eyebrow. While the others regard Nico with cautious respect, this man’s expression holds something that makes my skin prickle, contempt barely masked by compliance. No one is noticing me as Nico gets ready to speak, and I snap a couple of pictures from my phone, hidden behind my jacket.

“Let’s be clear about why we’re here,” Nico begins without preamble, placing his palms flat on the table’s surface. “The arrangement we established six months ago is being tested. Borders are being crossed. Merchandise is moving through channels outside our agreement.”

His words are vague, couched in business terminology, but I understand what’s being discussed, drug distribution territories, relating to the fentanyl trade that’s been ravaging Chicago’s neighborhoods. The “arrangements” he references are the negotiated boundaries between competing criminal organizations.

“The North Side corridor remains neutral ground for transit only,” Nico continues, showing an area on the map. “No direct distribution within these boundaries. The West Side divisions remain as established.”

The heavyset man clears his throat. “We’ve had incidents along Pulaski. Three last week.”

“Isolated,” counters one of the Russians. “Not systematic.”

“Three is a pattern,” the heavyset man insists, his voice roughening.

I watch fingers tense on tabletops, shoulders square imperceptibly. The air in the warehouse seems to thicken with each exchange, oxygen replaced by the invisible currents of power and threat.

And through it all, Nico remains still, his presence the gravitational center around which these volatile elements orbit. He doesn’t raise his voice or make grand gestures. He simplyisan immovable object against which these forces test themselves.

“The incidents were addressed,” Nico says, ending the budding argument with four quiet words. “Compensation was arranged. The territory boundaries stand.”

His index finger traces a line on the map, following a street, whose name I can’t quite make out from my position. “What concerns me more is the recent activity here.”

The wiry man by the column straightens, his posture shifting from affected boredom to alertness. The movement is subtle, but in this room of predators, it might as well be a shout.

“Something to add, Vincent?” Nico asks without looking up.

So this is Vincent. I recognize the name as one of Dante Moretti’s top lieutenants. From the files, I remember him as the twin brother to Matteo Rizzo, Dante Moretti’s right-hand man. The Rizzos are Dante’s cousins.

“Funny you should mention that area,” Vincent says, his voice carrying a nasal quality that somehow makes him more unsettling. “My people have noticed unusual traffic there, too. Care to explain why your boys are running your product through our established routes?”

The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. Several of the men shift uncomfortably, gazes darting between Vincent and Nico.

“Misinformation,” Nico replies, unruffled. “My organization maintains neutrality in distribution. As always.”

Vincent pushes off from the column, taking a step toward the table. “Neutrality. Right. That’s not what we call it when you broker access for some while blocking others?”

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