Page 4 of Ruthless Arrangement

Kostya protests, a flush rising on his neck. “This doesn’t account for?—”

I arch an eyebrow. The objection dies in his throat. Silence returns, absolute. The speed with which they learn obedience is always informative.

“The terms,” I state, making it clear there will be no discussion, “are not suggestions. They are the new reality. A reality caused by your inability to manage your affairs without disturbing the ecosystem.” A small smile plays on my lips. “You seem surprised I understand the intricacies of your operations so thoroughly. A lapse in judgment on your part.”

I let my gaze drift between them. “My neutrality allows business to function. When that function is disrupted, my solutions become mandatory.”

Diaz, quicker to grasp the inevitable or perhaps just more afraid, reaches for the pen Marco offers. Kostya hesitates for three seconds, his pride warring with the obvious, unspoken threat, before following suit. Pens scratch against paper in the heavy silence.

Marco collects the signed agreements and provides copies. His movements are economical, practiced.

“Your organizations will understand a resolution has been reached.” I rise, the signal for dismissal clear. “Ensure it remains resolved.”

Diaz mutters a hasty thanks, avoiding my eyes. Kostya offers a stiff nod, pride wounded but survival instincts intact. Marco escorts them out.

When the door closes behind them, I take a moment of stillness, as the quiet hum of control restored settles over me.

Marco returns, locking the door behind him. “They’ll hold to it,” he says, not a question but an assessment.

“For now.” I loosen my tie, the only concession to comfort I permit myself during business hours. “Kostya will test boundaries within a month. Have Emilio keep eyes on the northwest hospital supply chains.”

Marco nods, making a note on his phone. Our relationship requires few words; after fifteen years working together, he anticipates my thoughts with unsettling accuracy.

“And the journalist?” he asks, tucking his phone away.

The journalist. Lea Song. The file clutched against her chest like armor. The flash of fear and defiance in her eyes when she recognized me. An unexpected variable, yes, but one proceeding according to plan. “The Publisher delivered. She has the assignment,” I confirm, a smile touching my lips. “Phase one complete. Now we wait.” Her reaction in the lobby was intriguing. She didn’t crumble. There’s fire there, beneath the initial shock. That fire will make her useful. And breaking it will be satisfying.

Marco studies me. “The encounter in the lobby was unplanned. You could have ignored her. Kept her in the dark.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I counter. “Let her know I see her. Let her feel the pressure early on. She needs to understand who holds the board.” I move to the window, gazing down as the city lights ignite against the twilight sky, scattering like jewels on black velvet.Mycity.Myboard. “She thinks she’s hunting a story about her father’s ghost. She has no idea she’s walking into a cage I built specifically for her.”

Marco remains silent, knowing better than to question my methods when it comes to manipulation. He’s seen them work too many times.

“Surveillance,” I instruct, turning back from the window. “Full coverage. Her apartment, her communications, her movements.” I pause, considering the most effective way to undermine her confidence, to understand her vulnerabilities. “Also, search her apartment. Discreetly. I want a full inventory of her life. Find out what drives her besides this obsession with her father.” A predatory edge creep into my voice. “And bring me something personal. A journal, maybe. Something that reveals her secrets. I want to know her weaknesses before she even realizes she has them.”

Possessing something intimate, something she believes is hidden, is the first step to possessing her.

Marco nods, the professional mask firmly in place, though I detect a flicker of understanding of the game I’m playing. “And the strategic objective?”

“Remains the same,” I confirm. “Her mother. According to our reliable source, Professor Song is the key to intercepting the Korean pipeline before Dante Moretti locks it down. Lea is our way to control the mother. Ambitious, driven, blinded by pride and vengeance. She’ll chase the breadcrumbs I lay down, thinking she’s uncovering the truth.” I glance toward the city again, the skyline spread out below like my personal playground. “She just doesn’t realize the truth will lead her to where I need her to be. And that she, herself, is a story I’m writing.”

Marco processes this, his loyalty absolute. “How deep do we let her dig before we leverage her?”

“Deep enough for her to believe she’s winning,” I reply, picturing Lea’s defiant eyes. “Deep enough that when I pull the curtain, she won’t just be compromised. She’ll be broken.” A wave of satisfaction settles over me. The game is afoot, and I always win.

CHAPTERTHREE

Lea

I dragthe red string from Nico Varela’s club, Purgatorio, a name dripping with ironic salvation, to the zoning commissioner’s name, pinning it to my living room wall.Click. Another from the commissioner to three property acquisitions that sailed through approval despite neighborhood protests. The pin sinks into the plasterboard. A third connects those properties to shell companies.Thwack.

“Got you,” I say to the empty apartment, stepping back to survey my work. Or maybe I’m saying it to the man whose image stares back from a dozen grainy surveillance photos tacked between the documents. My personal devil, enshrined on plasterboard.

My once-normal living room has morphed into what my mother would call a “conspiracy cave,” laying Nico Varela’s invisible empire bare on my wall. News clippings, property records, corporate filings, and my own frantic notes are all connected by a web of colored strings. Red for confirmed connections. Yellow for suspected. Blue for the agonizing gaps, the questions still unanswered.

There are far too many blue strings. And too many pictures of him. That sharp jawline, those eyes that promise nothing good, a mouth that looks like it could ruin you with a word or a kiss. I trace the outline of his face in one photo, my finger hesitating over his lips before I snatch it back, disgusted with myself.Focus, Song.He’s the target, the monster who maybe…probably…had your father killed. He’s not a fixation. But the lie feels hollow, brittle. He is a fixation. Has been for six long years.

I rub my eyes, which feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper. Three days. Since Harrison dropped that file in my lap, I’ve been lost in this research fugue, surfacing only for bathroom breaks and to accept food deliveries I barely taste. My laptop screen glows accusingly from the coffee table, surrounded by empty coffee cups and half-eaten containers of takeout.

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