Page 36 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Song’s security measures are up and running,” he reports when I answer. “I’ve stationed Ricci in the building across from hers. Rivera is doing perimeter checks every thirty minutes.”

“The additional surveillance?” I ask, moving to the window that overlooks the Chicago skyline, now bathed in the golden light of the approaching sunset.

“Installed as instructed. Full coverage, all rooms. Audio and visual feeds are live.”

“Good.” I end the call without further comment and return to my desk, opening my laptop to access the new security feed from Lea’s apartment.

The screen flickers to life, revealing multiple grainy views of her modest one-bedroom. The living room, cluttered with books and papers. A small kitchen with its chipped countertops. The bedroom with its unmade bed and overflowing laundry basket. Finally, the bathroom, where the shower curtain hangs askew.

It takes only moments to locate Lea herself, pacing the length of her living room, phone pressed to her ear. I activate the audio feed, adjusting the volume to hear her side of what appears to be an intense conversation.

“—not that simple, Sienna. I can’t just walk away now.”

A pause as she listens to the response from her friend, the same woman who intervened during Moretti’s warning earlier today. Brave, but ultimately inconsequential.

“I know what I’m doing,” Lea continues, though her voice lacks conviction. “This is for my father, you know that.”

Another pause. I sense her frustration.

“Of course I’m being careful! But you didn’t see what I saw at that warehouse meeting. The connections he has, the power he wields, it goes so much deeper than anyone realizes.”

She stops pacing, her expression hardening with determination that’s visible even through the somewhat grainy feed.

“I’m not backing out. Not now. I’ll check in daily, I promise. But I need to see this through.”

The call ends, and she tosses her phone onto the couch with a sigh that seems to deflate her entire body. For several moments, she just stands there, arms wrapped around herself as if for comfort or protection. Then, with sudden violence, she slams her palm against the wall.

“Fuck!” The exclamation is sharp, frustrated. “What am I doing?”

I lean back, watching as she resumes pacing, now muttering to herself, tugging at her hair in agitation. The unguarded display is fascinating, and so different from the composed facade she presents in my presence. This is Lea Song, stripped of performative confidence, wrestling with the consequences of her choices.

I can see her reporter’s mind at work, calculating angles, weighing risks against potential rewards, searching for a path that allows her to maintain some illusion of control. It’s futile, of course. Control was relinquished the moment she accepted my invitation to Purgatorio that first night.

What captivates me, however, is not her strategic deliberation but the flash of vulnerability that breaks through, like the momentary widening of the eyes, a soft sound of distress quickly suppressed, the nervous habit of biting her lower lip when troubled.

These glimpses of her interior state ignite something in me that surveillance photos and background reports never could. There’s an intimacy to witnessing someone’s private struggles, their unguarded moments of doubt and fear. An intimacy that feels almost invasive.

I dismiss the thought as soon as it forms. Invasion is precisely the point. Methodical encroachment on every aspect of her life until no barriers remain between us. Between her and my objectives.

On screen, Lea has moved to the bathroom. She turns on the shower, then undresses with mechanical efficiency. I should look away, not out of any misplaced sense of propriety, but because this surveillance has a specific purpose: security monitoring.

Instead, I lean forward, suddenly aware of the painful tightening in my groin, the shallowing of my breath. My body reacts, primal and demanding, to the sight of her naked, vulnerable, unaware. Every instinct screams to unzip and take release now, to claim this moment, this secret knowledge, physically.

My knuckles pop, bone-white against the chair. That little dip just above her hip? Yeah, I’m claiming that territory. This need to unload is a real ball-ache, making my constructed “cool guy observing” act a goddamn workout. Would be easy, though, and feel real good. Prove a point.

Nope. Get a grip, Romeo. Breathe. Uncurl the fucking knuckles. Not like this. That’s just sad, wanking into the void. The real prize isn’t some quick solo splashdown. It’s the demolition of her world, getting her wired to me, waiting for that beautiful crack when she gives it up, knowing the surveillance state is personal. Making her wait, making me wait. That’s part of the goddamn fun. This hard-on gets put on ice, saved for the big bang.

Okay. Look away from the shower show. Click. I switch screens, pulling up a digital dossier labeled “Song, E.” Professor Eunji Song’s photograph stares back at me. A woman in her fifties with streaks of silver in her dark hair, expression composed and academic. Nothing in her appearance suggests anything beyond an ordinary professor of political science.

But appearances, as I well know, can be deceiving.

The latest intelligence reports reference a covert meeting with a Korean contact suspected of involvement in the fentanyl pipeline flowing into Chicago, a pipeline Dante Moretti has been working to control. The details are sparse, but sufficient to confirm my earlier suspicions: Professor Song’s academic interest in criminal power structures is not merely theoretical.

I scroll through additional data: travel records showing multiple trips to Seoul in the past year, cryptic mentions of “logistics” in intercepted communications, untraceable bank transfers routed through a series of shell companies. Each piece of information reinforces what I’ve long suspected: Eunji Song stands at the crossroads of something massive, something that could reshape the balance of power in Chicago’s underworld.

And Lea, unwittingly, could be the perfect leverage.

If I can secure her trust, I’ll have a direct line to unravel her mother’s operation before Moretti can exploit it. My plan to ensnare Lea isn’t mere whim or distraction; it’s the key to controlling whatever pipeline is being established.

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