Page 45 of Ruthless Arrangement

“There was nothing standard about that encounter,” she insists, shifting to face me more directly. The interior lighting catches the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. “He mentioned my mother, Nico. Why?”

“He’s just messing with you. Trust me.” My phone vibrates again. I check the screen to find two messages from Marco, each more urgent than the last.Shipment intercepted at North Pier. Someone tipped off the Feds. Suppliers demanding immediate report.Mario has spotted Moretti’s men at the university. Advise action.

Cold certainty settles in my gut. These are systematic moves in a game that’s accelerating faster than I thought possible. Moretti wasn’t just sending a message; he was making dangerous moves with stakes so high, they could start a deadly mob war.

“What is it?” Lea asks, reading the tension in my posture.

I meet her gaze, no longer concerned with maintaining the pleasant fiction of our evening. “I’m dropping you off. Something came up.”

“Why? What’s happening? You can’t drop me off. You promised complete access at all times. Those were the rules.” The edge of anger in her voice is clear a day.

I signal to Dominic to change course, then turn back to Lea. “I made the rules, and I can change the rules. Sorry piccola. Decision made.”

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

Lea

The memoryof his lips lingers on mine as I stare at the barista, who glances up.

“Miss? Your order?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been standing at the counter, lost in my head again. The line behind me shifts impatiently.

“Sorry. Large Americano, extra shot,” I manage, fumbling for my wallet. “And a blueberry scone.”

The buzz of Café Lumière envelops me, espresso machines hissing, conversations floating in fragments, laptop keys clicking in rhythmic percussion. It’s Friday and downtown Chicago comes alive with weekend anticipation. I chose this spot for its floor-to-ceiling windows and central location, a place where I could pretend to be normal for an hour.

Normal.I wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore.

My phone vibrates against my hip as I settle into a corner booth. I notice that I have two unread messages from Nico:You’re not in the apartment. Where are you?Followed twenty minutes later by:Why won’t you answer?

I stuff the device back into my purse with more force than necessary. After last night, after he’d ordered me out of the car like some disobedient child, he has the nerve to demand my whereabouts? So much for the promise that I could shadow him whenever I wanted.

The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It’s clarifying, unlike the muddled emotions swirling through me since that dinner with Nico. Since Dante Moretti appeared outside the restaurant with his silky threats about my mother.

My mother.The worry about her hadn’t let me rest.I called her late last night after tossing and turning for hours, worry gnawing at my insides. She’d answered on the fifth ring, her voice carrying that tone of constructed calm that I’ve known since childhood.

“Lea, it’s past midnight. Is everything alright?”

I’d hesitated. “Mom, I met someone tonight who mentioned your work. Dante Moretti. He seemed interested in your research on shadow networks.”

The silence continued so long I had to look at my phone, doubting whether the line was still active. Finally, she spoke.

“Moretti is playing mind games, sweetheart. He wants to rattle you.” Her tone was measured, but with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite identify. “These men operate by creating uncertainty.”

“These men?You know who Dante Moretti is?”

“I’m a political scientist who studies power structures, Lea.” She’d sighed, a soft, tired sound. “Of course I know the major players in Chicago’s underworld.”

“He knew about your lecture. Something about ‘attracting interesting attention.’ What did he mean by that?”

“Nothing. Academic politics can be vicious, you know this.” Another pause. “Be careful with your sources,” she’d said, her voice suddenly tight with concern.

“I will, ” I promised.

The unease remains lodged in my chest like a splinter working its way deeper with each breath after we hung up.

The café door chimes, pulling me from my thoughts. Sienna breezes in, a vision in her red scarf, her photographer’s bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes scan the room until she spots me, and her face lights up with a smile.

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