Page 63 of Ruthless Arrangement

My grip on the phone tightens. “Send me the photos.”

“Already did. Check your secure server.”

I end the call and access the encrypted files. The images are clear despite the low light, Professor Eunji Song in animated conversation with a man I’ve identified as connected to the Korean embassy. And there, obscured by a pillar but unmistakable, is Matteo Rizzo, Vincent’s brother.

This confirms my suspicion that Eunji Song is coordinating something between Korean interests and Moretti’s organization, a distribution channel for the fentanyl derivatives that have been flooding Chicago’s streets. But something doesn’t add up. Why would the South Korean government get involved with drug distribution?

I examine the attaché’s face closely His credentials check out. He’s registered with the South Korean embassy, but there’s something in the body language between him and Professor Song that suggests a deeper connection. A shared purpose beyond diplomatic pleasantries.

The implications enhance Lea’s value as leverage exponentially. She’s not just bait for Moretti, but the key to controlling whatever pipeline her mother is establishing and uncovering what appears to be an international conspiracy. If Moretti could indeed secure the Korean connection before me, the balance of power in Chicago will shift dramatically.

I add a note to have Marco dig deeper into Professor Song’s background. Perhaps there are inconsistencies we’ve overlooked. Something that would explain why a respected academic would risk everything to coordinate with known criminals.

“Keep this contained,” I instruct Marco in a follow-up text. “No one else sees these.”

I lock the phone and turn back to find Lea watching me from across the room, arms wrapped around herself again, uncertainty clear in her posture. She’s waiting for me to explain, to continue what we started, but the moment has passed. The strategic landscape has shifted, requiring recalibration.

“Business,” I say, offering no further explanation.

I move past her to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. My mind is clear, calculating the new variables.

I splash cold water on my face, cooling the heat that still lingers from Lea’s touch. Earlier desire is now secondary to strategic objectives. Moretti’s knowledge of the Professor’s involvement changes everything. Using Lea to get to her mother remains the plan for me, but with higher stakes now that I know Moretti has the same objective. Except, Moretti’s version is cruel. If Moretti captures Lea, he will cut her up bit by bit, and return her in pieces to Professor Song until she complies with his commands.

Is Lea aware of her mother’s connections? Possible, but unlikely given her genuine confusion about Moretti’s interest in her. She’s either an exceptional actress or genuinely ignorant of her mother’s extracurricular activities.

I dry my face, decision made: accelerate the timeline, deepen her emotional dependence, then leverage that attachment to access her mother’s operation. The seduction is no longer merely convenient, it’s necessary intelligence gathering.

When I emerge from the bathroom, the apartment is quiet. I find Lea already asleep in the queen bed.I know I could flip her like a switch. The kisses we’ve shared so far prove it. Her body responds to mine instinctively, a chemical reaction she can’t seem to control despite her intellectual resistance. There will be plenty of time for full-scale seduction, for dismantling every one of her defenses, for finding all of Lea’s breaking points and exploiting them for my purposes.

My cock hardens at the thought of all the ways I will control her, binding her resistance until only need remains, obscuring those defiant eyes until she sees only me, guiding her until she inevitably begs for my touch. The fantasy is vivid and arousing, but with stoic willpower, I shift my thoughts to tomorrow’s business matters.

I remove my shirt and trousers, leaving only my boxer briefs, and slide into bed beside her. She stirs, but it doesn’t wake, her breathing remaining deep and even. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, mind cycling through contingencies and scenarios.

Moretti’s move against Lea. Professor Song’s meeting with the Koreans. The potential pipeline for pharmaceutical-grade fentanyl. The leverage points these connections create.

Each piece fits into the larger puzzle of control I’m assembling. And at the center of it all is the woman sleeping beside me, blissfully unaware that her journalistic ambition has placed her at the nexus of a power struggle that extends far beyond Chicago’s criminal underworld.

I turn my head to study her profile in the dim light filtering through the windows. She looks even younger in sleep, vulnerable in a way she never allows when conscious. It’s a reminder that for all her sharp intelligence and stubborn courage, she’s still just a pawn in this game, a valuable one but a pawn, nonetheless.

My phone vibrates once with a final update from Marco for the night:“All secure. Moretti’s men still at primary location. No movement at secondary sites.”

I set the device on the nightstand and close my eyes, allowing my body to rest while my mind continues processing. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new opportunities to advance my position. And Lea Song will be right where I want her, isolated, dependent, and increasingly entangled in my web.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Lea

I jolt awake.For a disorienting moment, I can’t place where I am, the bed is too large, the sheets too soft, the silence too complete. Then memories flood back in a rush: Nico’s men at my office, the warning about Moretti, being whisked away to this luxury safe house.

And last night.God, last night.

My hand moves to the empty space beside me. The sheets are cool to the touch. He’s been gone for a while. I close my eyes, remembering the heat of Nico’s mouth against mine, his hands sliding beneath the borrowed shirt, lifting me against the wall with effortless strength. The way my body betrayed me, arching into his touch despite every rational thought screaming to maintain distance.

The journalist in me, the one with ethics and professional boundaries, is horrified. The woman in me, however, is something else entirely.

The rich aroma of coffee pulls me from my rumination. I slide from bed, tugging the white dress shirt down over my thighs. My reflection in the full-length mirror stops me short. Tousled hair, bare legs, face flushed red. I barely recognize myself.

What are you doing, Lea?

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