Page 60 of Ruthless Arrangement

Marco enters and closes the door behind him, waiting for permission to approach. I appreciate this discipline, the understanding that every interaction follows a protocol.

I wave him forward.

“They’ve marked her apartment,” Marco says, sliding several surveillance photos across my desk.

I pick them up, my face betraying nothing as I examine the images. One of the twins photographing entry points to Lea’s building. Mapping security cameras. Timing the doorman’s breaks. Methodical. Professional. Exactly what I’d expect from Moretti’s men.

My jaw tightens. Not from concern for Lea’s safety, but from the cold fury at Moretti’s audacity.

“He’s targeting my assets now,” I state, my voice calm despite the rage building underneath.

Marco nods, understanding the distinction.This isn’t about me going soft on Lea. She’s a chess piece in my larger strategy to control the drug trade flowing through Chicago. Lea Song is valuable precisely because of her connection to her mother and the university pharmaceutical pipeline I’ve been tracking for months. Moretti daring to touch what’s mine is unacceptable.

I rise, buttoning my suit jacket.

“Have the car ready. And initiate Protocol 4 for the safe house on Michigan Avenue.”

“Already on it,” Marco replies, falling into step behind me as I stride toward the door.

“And Marco,” I pause, hand on the doorknob, “double the surveillance on Professor Song’s associates and communications. I want to know the moment she makes contact from her ‘research’ trip. If Moretti is making a move on the daughter, he might try to reach the mother as well.”

I don’t wait for his acknowledgement. It’s unnecessary. In fifteen years, Marco has never failed to execute my orders as intended.

The Chicago Investigative Journal occupies the third floor of a converted warehouse in the West Loop. The space is industrial, exposed brick, steel beams, concrete floors, as if the architectural rawness might somehow translate to journalistic integrity. I find the aesthetic pretentious, much like the profession itself.

Heads turn as I cross the open newsroom, conversations faltering mid-sentence. My reputation precedes me, as always. I’ve cultivated this effect over the years, the blend of respect and fear that compels people to seek my notice while dreading it.

I spot Lea at her desk in the corner, hunched over her keyboard, oblivious to my arrival. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face as her fingers fly across the keys. I stand beside her, not announcing my presence, simply waiting to be acknowledged.

One by one, her colleagues notice me looming over her workspace. Their stares eventually alert her to my presence. She looks up, surprise flashing across her features before she masks it with practiced indifference.

“Nico,” she says, as if my appearance in her workplace is perfectly normal. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to go. Now.”

She frowns, glancing at her screen. “I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait twenty minutes?”

“No.” The single word carries enough weight to silence whatever argument she was preparing. Something in my expression must communicate the urgency, because she saves her work and closes her laptop without further protest.

As she gathers her things, I scan the room. At least three people are already on their phones, no doubt sharing the news that Nico Varela collected the junior reporter who’s been shadowing him. By tomorrow, the rumors will have evolved into something far more salacious.Good. Let them talk. Public perception is another tool in my arsenal.

In the elevator, I position myself close to her, using proximity as both intimidation and protection. She presses herself against the wall, creating distance. I can smell her perfume. It’s becoming recognizable to me now, this scent that means Lea.

“Moretti’s men are planning to take you,” I explain as we descend. “That would be inconvenient for my plans.”

Her eyes widen. “Take me? You mean kidnap me?”

“Yes.” I see no reason to sugarcoat the reality. “They’ve been surveilling your apartment building for the past thirty-six hours. Establishing patterns. Identifying vulnerabilities.”

She swallows hard, absorbing this. “And you know this because?”

“Because I have people watching your building too.”I don’t mention that my surveillance predates Moretti’s by several months. Some details are best kept private.

The elevator doors open, and I guide her through the lobby, my hand touching her back. She doesn’t pull away, which tells me the threat of Moretti has already accomplished what weeks of careful manipulation couldn’t: made her acknowledge her dependence on my protection.

My driver has the car waiting, engine running. I usher Lea into the backseat before sliding in beside her. The vehicle pulls away from the curb, following the evasive route I’ve established for high-security transports.

“Where are we going?” she asks, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield.

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