Page 61 of Ruthless Arrangement

I don’t answer, instead watching the city blur past the tinted windows. We take three unnecessary turns, double back twice, and drive through a parking garage before emerging onto Lake Shore Drive heading north. Standard protocol to ensure we’re not followed.

I observe Lea’s reflection in the window glass. Her composure is admirable, hands steady, breathing controlled, eyes alert. But there are tells for those who know how to look: the slight tension around her mouth, or the almost imperceptible bounce of her right knee.She’s frightened but refuses to show it. This combination of vulnerability and strength continues to intrigue me, though I’m careful not to let the interest become a liability.

After twenty minutes of silence, the car pulls up to a sleek high-rise overlooking the lake. The doorman is one of my people, though he’s on the building’s official payroll. He give me a subtle nod as we enter the marble lobby. In the private elevator, I press my thumb to the biometric scanner and enter a six-digit code.

“Where are we?” Lea asks as the doors slide open to reveal a private foyer.

“Somewhere Moretti can’t reach you,” I answer, unlocking the apartment door.

I walk in first, performing a habitual scan of the space even though I know it’s secure. The apartment is immaculately designed, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Chicago’s skyline, Italian leather furniture in shades of gray and black, minimalist art on the walls. The air is still, cool, carrying the faint, sterile scent of professional cleaning. Nothing personal, nothing that could reveal anything about me or my tastes. It’s designed to be impressive without being informative.

Lea steps inside, taking in the luxurious surroundings. “This is yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I remove my suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. “The bedroom’s through there.” I gesture down a hallway to the right.

“Bedroom?” she echoes, her expression sharpening. “Singular?”

A slight, predatory smile curve my lips. “This is a safe house meant for one occupant. You’re here on my sufferance.”

The implication hangs in the air.She owes me for this protection, and payment will be expected. Whether that debt will be collected in information, cooperation, or something more physical remains deliberately ambiguous.

She swallows, chin lifting in that defiant gesture I’ve come to recognize. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” I say, rolling up my sleeves, “we wait for Moretti’s next move.”

I’ve established additional surveillance displays in the living room, creating a command center that gives me visual access to the building’s exterior, elevator bank, stairwells, and lobby. A separate feed shows Lea’s apartment building, where two of Moretti’s men remain stationed in a black SUV across the street.

Lea watches me work from her perch on the edge of the sofa, arms crossed defensively. She’s been quiet, processing the rapid shift in circumstances. I prefer her this way, observing rather than questioning, though I know it won’t last.

“Moretti’s targeting you to get to me,” I explain, voice detached as I adjust a camera angle. “You’re seen as my property now.”

She bristles at the word “property,” as I knew she would. “I’m not anyone’s property.”

“Perception matters more than reality in these situations.” I don’t bother looking up from the monitor. “You’ve been seen with me at multiple locations. You’ve been granted access to conversations and meetings no outsider would normally witness. As far as Moretti is concerned, that makes you either very valuable to me or a significant vulnerability.” I turn to face her. “Possibly both.”

Her eyes narrow, processing the implications. “So I’m what…bait? Leverage?”

“You’re a journalist who made a deal for exclusive access,” I remind her. “That access comes with certain complications.”

I continue setting up the security system, outlining the situation with deliberate thoroughness. “The building has armed security. The elevator requires biometric access for this floor. The windows are bulletproof.” I notice her glancing toward the door. “You could leave if you wanted. I’m not your jailer. But Moretti’s men are watching your building already.”

The message is obvious: her choices are my protection or Moretti’s brutality.

She stands, pacing the length of the window wall, arms still wrapped around herself. “How long do I need to stay here?”

“Until I’ve addressed the situation with Moretti.” I don’t offer a timeline because I have no intention of providing one. Uncertainty is a powerful tool for maintaining control.

“And what exactly does ‘addressing the situation’ entail?” She turns to face me, backlit by the city lights behind her.

I manage a cold smile. “Nothing that would interest a legitimate journalist.”

She holds my gaze for a moment before looking away first, a small victory that satisfies something primal in me.She’s learning the hierarchy, whether she realizes it or not.

“I need my laptop,” she says. “And clothes. Toiletries.”

I nod toward a closet by the entryway. “Marco will retrieve your essentials from your apartment tonight. In the meantime, there are basic supplies in there.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You keep women’s toiletries in your safe house?”

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