Page 28 of Ruthless Arrangement

“You’re fucking crazy,” Vincent snarls, but there’s panic leaking through his bravado now.

“Which one are you right now?” Nico asks, not bothering to acknowledge the denial. “Vincent or Matteo? Even your employer sometimes wonders, doesn’t he? Why don’t I make it easier for him to tell you apart?”

He moves behind Vincent, out of my direct line of sight. I should look away. I know. But I don’t.

“Marco,” Nico says, “ensure his head remains still.”

Marco’s grip shifts, one massive hand moving to grasp Vincent’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing the side of his face. Vincent thrashes in earnest now, his panic fully formed.

“Jesus Christ, Varela,” the heavyset man interjects, “is this necessary?”

Nico doesn’t respond to him. Instead, he leans down close to Vincent’s ear, his right ear, and says just loud enough for everyone to hear: “Now I’ll always know who I’m dealing with.”

Nico’s hand moves in one swift, deliberate motion, a sickening slice that cuts through the air, followed by Vincent’s scream tearing through the warehouse. It’s raw, animal, ripped from the very depths of him.

Blood blooms bright against his skin, spattering onto the maps below like abstract art. The coppery tang of it hits the air, sharp and metallic, mingling with the underlying scents of dust and chemicals. My vision tunnels, the sounds of the warehouse momentarily muffled by a roaring in my ears. My stomach clenches, but I don’t look away. Can’t look away. There’s a strange, horrifying disconnection, as if I’m watching a film projected onto the concrete wall; brutal, graphic, yet somehow unreal.

When Nico steps back, he’s holding something small and bloody between his thumb and forefinger, the upper half of Vincent’s ear. He drops it onto the table in front of the still-screaming man, the wet slap of it against the paper loud in the sudden echo of the scream.

“A small price for deception,” Nico says, his voice chillingly calm. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the knife clean before returning it to Marco. His eyes find mine across the table, gauging my reaction with scientific detachment.

My breath is trapped somewhere in my chest. Horror claws at my throat, bile rising. This wasn’t just punishment; it was mutilation, a permanent marking delivered with the casual indifference of swatting a fly. Yet, beneath the revulsion, a colder, more analytical part of my brain, a part I barely recognize, registers the terrifying effectiveness of the act. The challenge neutralized instantly. The message sent unequivocally to everyone present. In the brutal logic of this world, it was efficient. The thought is sickening, alien, yet undeniably present. I meet Nico’s gaze, my expression neutral despite the roaring in my ears and the war raging inside me, the journalist recoiling, the strategist acknowledging, the woman utterly horrified yet disturbingly captivated.

Something passes between us in that moment, an understanding that transcends the horror of what I’ve just witnessed. I’ve seen behind the veil, been admitted to an inner circle that few journalists ever access. And the price of admission is witnessing acts like this, understanding their necessity within this dark ecosystem.

“Now,” Nico says, turning back to the stunned room as if nothing unusual has occurred, “when Vittorio arrives for our next meeting, the asymmetry will be informative.” He adjusts his cuff, that signature gesture that now reads to me as a punctuation mark at the end of violence. “Marco, please ensure Mr. Rizzo finds his way back to his employer. Perhaps the hospital route.”

Vincent is hunched over, one hand clasped to his bleeding ear, the other holding the handkerchief containing his ear tip, shock and hatred warring in his eyes. The ear might be saved if he hurries, but a scar will always remain. As Marco hauls him toward the exit, Nico addresses the remaining men, whose expressions range from grudging respect to poorly concealed horror.

“Gentlemen, shall we continue? I believe we were discussing the South Shore change.”

Just like that, the meeting resumes. Another of Nico’s men, one who had been positioned by the door so discreetly that I hadn’t even registered his presence, moves to clear away the blood-stained maps, replacing them with fresh copies.

I stand still, processing what I’ve just witnessed. Not just the swift, systematic violence, but its aftermath; how quickly order reasserted itself, how completely Nico’s authority absorbed the disruption without being diminished by it.

My heart is erratic, doing crazy somersaults, but not entirely from fear. There’s another ingredient mixed in, like a humming awareness that feels uncomfortably close to exhilaration. The man I’ve been shadowing can inflict permanent damage without hesitation or remorse. He’s shown me who he is, with no pretense or apology. And I’m still here, notebook in hand, oddly captivated.What the fuck?

When the meeting concludes, the men leave in a orchestrated sequence. Never all at once, never creating the appearance of a gathering when viewed from outside. Nico remains until the last has departed, then turns to me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Questions?” he asks, as if we’ve just left a corporate board meeting instead of a criminal negotiation that erupted into violence.

A dozen queries crowd my mind, fighting for precedence. What I manage is: “The Koreans you mentioned, is that connected to the pharmaceutical suppliers Marco briefed you about at the club? The delayed shipment?”

Something flickers in his eyes: surprise, perhaps, that this is my first question rather than something about the violence we just witnessed. Or maybe approval of the connection I’ve made.

“Perceptive,” he acknowledges. “Yes. The legitimate pharmaceutical channel and the distribution network Vincent referenced share certain logistics challenges.”

“And the university district?—”

“Not here,” he interrupts. “The car.”

I nod, tucking my notebook away. As we walk toward the exit, I’m struck by how different the warehouse feels now. It’s emptier but also charged with residual tension, like the air after lightning strikes.

Marco is waiting by the Bentley, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning our surroundings. Vincent is nowhere to be seen, though a dark stain on the concrete near where the blue sedan had parked suggests his departure wasn’t entirely dignified.

The drive begins in silence. I expect Nico to sit opposite me as usual, maintaining the careful distance he’s established in our previous car rides. Instead, he slides into the seat directly beside me, close enough for me to feel his body heat, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. The proximity is deliberate, I’m certain. Another test, another boundary being probed.

“You were taking mental notes,” he says after several minutes, his voice low enough that it seems to vibrate in the space between us. “Beyond what you wrote down.”

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