Page 59 of Ruthless Arrangement

It’s a question I’ve been avoiding, one that grows more complicated with each day I spend in his world. The black-and-white morality I arrived with has dissolved into countless shades of gray, and I’m no longer certain where to draw the line, or if lines even matter in a world where everyone seems to have their own version of right and wrong.

“I don’t know,” I admit, the honesty surprising us both.

His hand tightens around mine, a gentle pressure that feels like approval. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night.”

The moment is broken by the tinkling of a spoon against crystal, signaling the senator’s closing remarks. As attention shifts to our host, I’m left with the uncomfortable awareness that I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. My journalistic objectivity is compromised, my moral compass spinning without a clear north.

And the most terrifying part? I’m not sure I want to find my way back.

* * *

My apartment feels smallerthan usual when I return, the walls closing in with the weight of unanswered questions. I kick off my heels, wincing as my feet throb from hours of standing on marble floors and pretending to belong among the wealthy and powerful.

The dress joins a growing pile of laundry in the corner, another aspect of my life that’s fallen into disarray since Nico Varela entered it. I slip into an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts, then pad to my desk where my laptop waits, screen dark and accusing.

With a sigh, I open it, pulling up the document that has become both my salvation and my damnation:

Varela Investigation—CONFIDENTIAL

The file has grown to over thirty pages of notes, observations, recorded conversations, those I could sneak without detection, and cross-referenced connections between Nico’s various associates.

I scroll through it, eyes catching on phrases that leap from the screen:

Primary source confirms Varela’s involvement in mediating territory dispute between Ukranian and Polish factions.

City contract awarded to GreenSpace Development, suspected Varela shell company, despite three lower bids.

Judge Hernandez’s son’s DUI charges mysteriously disappeared following a private meeting with Varela.

But what strikes me most are the omissions, the details I’ve chosen not to record. I’ve left out how Nico intervened when one of his club employees was being stalked by an ex, ensuring the man was arrested on outstanding warrants before he could cause harm. I’ve omitted the way he funds a shelter for trafficked women, requiring absolute anonymity for his donations.

I’ve said nothing about the genuine concern in his voice when he called me during my nightmare, or how it anchored me when panic threatened to pull me under.

These are the complexities that don’t fit into the narrative of “criminal empire builder” I set out to expose. They’re the inconvenient truths that challenge my preconceptions and blur the lines I thought were so clearly drawn.

With growing unease, I realize I’m censoring myself, protecting Nico from the very exposure I promised to deliver. The journalist I was when this assignment began would be appalled at my selective reporting, my willingness to look away from certain truths while highlighting others.

I close the laptop without adding a single word about tonight’s dinner, about Professor Wong’s warning, or about the pharmaceutical connection I discovered in my mother’s office. These threads are beginning to weave together into a pattern I’m afraid to see clearly, one that might implicate not just Nico, but my own mother in something darker than I’m prepared to face.

The question that gnaws at me now isn’t just about Nico’s world and how deeply I’ve sunk into it. It’s about whether I’ll be able to extricate myself at all when the time comes. And more disturbing still: whether I’ll want to.

Because the truth, the one I can barely admit even to myself as I curl up on my couch, phone clutched in my hand as if expecting another late-night call, is that I’m starting to crave the complexity of his world. The power, the danger, the inexplicable safety I feel when his hand finds mine under a table full of criminals and politicians.

What kind of person does that make me?

The question hangs in the darkness of my apartment, unanswered, as I drift into a fitful sleep haunted by dreams of my mother running through endless corridors, a red folder clutched to her chest, never quite escaping the shadows that pursue her, or the ones that have taken root in my heart.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Nico

The security feedsstream across six different monitors, each displaying a different angle of Purgatorio’s main floor. I relax in my chair, fingers steepled as I track the movements of a particular guest, a city councilman with gambling debts who’s been making noise about increased police presence in my territory. His nervous glances toward the VIP area tell me he received my message.Good. One less problem to manage.

My office is silent except for the soft hum of electronics and the occasional ice cube settling in my whiskey. This is where I’m most comfortable, surrounded by information, watching the pieces move across my board, orchestrating from a distance. The dim lighting casts everything in shadow, the way I prefer it. Darkness has always been where I excel.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts.

“Come in,” I say, not taking my eyes off the monitors.

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