Page 32 of Ruthless Arrangement

Harrison’s eyes bore into mine, his expression giving no quarter. He runs a hand through his messy hair, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken suspicion.

“Foundation,” he spits, clearly unconvinced. He slumps back into his chair, looking older, wearier. “Alright, Song. Fine. Play it your way. For now.” He pins me with a look that promises consequences. “But the leash is short. One more week. Then I want something substantive. Something that makes the front page shake. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And routinely check-ins,” he adds, an edge in his voice. “Email. Phone. Carrier pigeon, I don’t fucking care. Every single day. I want to know you’re still digging, not just polishing Varela’s shoes.” He pauses, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “And watch your back, kid. No story is worth dying for.”

I nod and turn, escaping his office before my composure can crack. Back at my desk, surrounded by the oblivious chaos of the newsroom, I feel alone, trapped between the journalistic ethics I am betraying and the dangerous world I can’t seem to escape. The foundation isn’t for the story. It is for the tightrope I’m now walking, with hungry predators circling below on both sides. Fuck Harrison’s daily check in’s. How would I even do that being 24/7 in Nico’s world?

* * *

Lunch with Siennaat Briar Café should be my anchor to normalcy after my confrontation with Harrison, but the normalcy feels paper thin. Even the cheerful chatter and clinking silverware can’t drown out the background hum of vigilance that has become my new baseline.

“You look like shit,” Sienna says the moment I sit down, concern etched on her face.

“You’re repeating yourself,” I reply, attempting a weak smile. “And Harrison already chewed me out.”

“As he should have!” She leans forward. “Lea, after our last talk, I looked into some old cold cases. Your dad’s ‘accident’… there were whispers back then, things that never made the official reports. Loose ends. Unanswered questions pointing toward…” She hesitates. “toward Varela’s circle.”

A paralyzing chill grips me. “What kind of whispers?”

“Enough to make me seriously worried about what you’re doing.” Her gaze is intense. “This isn’t just about your dad anymore, is it? You’re fucking drawn to him.”

Before I can deny it, before I can process the implications of what she’s found, movement outside the window catches my eye. Leather jacket. A stark white bandage wrapped around his ear. That bandage. Vincent, Moretti’s top lieutenant. Watching us.

His lips curl into that chilling half-smile as our eyes meet through the glass. He gives a subtle nod, not reaching for a phone, but acknowledging he sees me.

“Lea?” Sienna’s voice is sharp with alarm, seeing my reaction. “What is it?”

My blood turns to ice. “He knows me, Sienna.” The words are barely a breath. “The man from the warehouse. The one Nico…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence, realizing I never told her any details.

Sienna follows my gaze, her face paling as she sees Vincent now joined by a second man standing just behind him, identical in every way, both now staring into the café. Twins. Cold, hard eyes fixed on us. “Oh my god. Lea, we need to get out of here. Back exit. Now. Don’t argue.”

The realization hits me again, harder this time: I’m not just writing about this world anymore. I’m trapped inside its crosshairs.

We move without another thought, abandoning our half-eaten lunch, weaving through tables toward the rear of the café.

Outside, the fall air carries a bite. We turn into the narrow alley beside the building, the shortcut to the parking garage. The smell of damp brick and stale garbage hits me.

“Well, well. Leaving so soon?”

The voice stops us cold. We spin around. Vincent blocks the alley entrance, his twin brother, Matteo, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Two against two. Vincent touches the bandage on his ear almost possessively, his eyes burning into me with raw hatred.

“I told you not to get in too deep,” Sienna mutters beside me, her hand reaching for the heavy camera bag slung over her shoulder.

“What do you want, Vincent?” I ask, trying to project a calm I don’t feel, using his name deliberately.

“You,” he spits, taking a step closer, Matteo mirroring his advance. Vincent gestures toward his bandaged ear. “Because of your precious boyfriend, The Diplomat, I almost lost my fucking ear. Thought you could just walk away unharmed after watching that?” His voice trembles with rage. “Thought you could hide behind Varela forever?”

His twin brother, Matteo remains silent, but his eyes are just as cold, just as dangerous, scanning Sienna before returning his full attention to me, his posture coiled like a snake ready to strike.

Vincent sneers, “Messing with Varela’s affairs is bad enough. Moretti doesn’t appreciate it.” He glances at Sienna. “And he doesn’t like loose ends or witnesses.”

His hand darts out faster than I can react, grabbing my wrist. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and sickening. I cry out, stumbling back against the alley wall.

“Get your hands off her!” Sienna shouts, swinging her heavy camera bag with surprising force. It connects solidly with the side of Vincent’s head. He staggers back with a grunt of pain and surprise, releasing my wrist.

Vincent recovers, fury blazing in his eyes. Matteo tenses, stepping forward, knuckles white. This is escalating dangerously fast.

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