Page 8 of Ruthless Arrangement

“She’s smarter than her file suggested,” I murmur, half to myself. “Astute. That could speed up our timeline.” Or make her more difficult to control. The challenge is invigorating.

“Smart enough to realize she’s being manipulated?” Marco asks, crossing his arms.

I consider the question, turning it over in my mind like a curious artifact. Smart journalists are both useful and dangerous. Their intelligence makes them valuable conduits, but also means they might see through the narratives I construct.

“That’s a risk we’ve already accounted for,” I say. “If she connects dots we don’t want connected, we have contingencies. But for now, her intelligence serves our purpose. The more convincing her reporting, the more effectively she’ll lead us to her mother’s operation.”

I continue through the dossier, noting her workout routine: yoga three times weekly, supplemented with kickboxing.Compelling, a fighter beneath the surface, maybe?Her browser history: heavily focused on investigative techniques and Chicago crime statistics.Dedicated.Each detail adds brushstrokes to the portrait forming in my mind, sharpens the focus of my interest.

“What’s the latest on her mother?” I ask, knowing Marco has the most current intelligence.

He moves to the desk, pulling out another folder. “Nothing new. Professor Eunji Song continues her pattern. Weekly meetings with the Korean attaché, followed by encrypted communications we still can’t crack. The university schedule provides perfect cover. No one questions why a political science professor would meet with diplomatic staff.”

I nod, processing the implications. “And the pharmaceutical angle?”

“Three shipments have arrived at the medical research facility where she consults. All legitimate on paper, but our source confirms the manifests have been doctored. Whatever they’re bringing in, it’s not standard research materials.”

The Chicago Investigative Journal assigning Lea to investigate me wasn’t a coincidence. It was my orchestrated first move in a complex game. Her mother’s possible connection to the new fentanyl pipeline is the prize, and Lea herself is my unwitting pawn. Or perhaps, not so unwitting soon.

“Have we confirmed she’s still unaware of her mother’s activities?” I ask.

“She has no clue,” Marco replies. “Her research is focused entirely on you, not her mother. She’s built that wall in her apartment, connecting you to everything from zoning approvals to judicial appointments. Red strings, yellow strings, blue strings—color-coded like a detective show.”

A dark spark ignites at the thought of Marco prowling through her space while she slept, rifling through her private things. That invasion, knowing her secrets. The urge to dominate coils tight within me. “Like I said,” I say, letting a hint of grudging admiration color my tone. “She’s got skills.”

“Dangerous,” Marco counters.

“Perhaps.” I stand, moving to the window that overlooks the empty club below. The soft glow of ambient lighting reflects off polished surfaces, creating pools of shadow and illumination throughout the space. Purgatorio is my creation, my domain. The visible manifestation of my power in Chicago. Lea Song wants to peer behind that curtain. Most would call her naive or suicidal. I find myself intrigued.

“I’ve invited her here tonight,” I say. “Nine o’clock.”

Marco’s head turns. “Already? I thought we were keeping our distance for another week.”

“Plans change,” I reply, turning to face him. “She’s progressed faster than expected. It’s time to escalate.”

Marco reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, clear evidence bag. Inside is a crumpled, wallet-sized photograph. “Almost forgot. Recovered this during the apartment search. As requested, something personal.” He places the bag on my desk.

I pick it up. It’s an old photo, faded and worn at the edges. A younger Lea, maybe fourteen, laughing, sandwiched between her parents. Her father, Gene Robert, his face familiar from the old Journal archives, is looking proud. Her mother, Eunji, a younger version of the woman in Marco’s intelligence files, her smile is not quite reaching her eyes, even then.

“Lea kept this near her bed,” Marco says.

I turn the photo. An inscription on the back, in faded ink:Lea-bug, some truths hide in dark places. Be brave enough to look, but smart enough to know when to turn back toward the light. Your heart is too good for their games. Always, Dad.

I feel a cold, possessive satisfaction. Knowing what drives her, what hurts her most deeply—this is power.

“That’s…sentimental,” Marco observes flatly.

“Useful,” I correct, tucking the bagged photo into my desk drawer. A piece of her history, now under my control. I’ll study it later, dissect the emotions captured within that faded image. For now, it serves as a reminder of the leverage I hold. “Have Damien prepare an Americano with an extra espresso shot, her exact preference, to be served when she arrives,” I instruct Marco. “And make sure Tony and Miguel are working the door.”

Marco pauses at the threshold. “The usual initiation?”

“With a twist,” I reply, returning to my desk to finish my whiskey. “I want to see what she’s made of before I decide how to proceed with the next phase.”

Marco nods, already pulling out his phone to relay the instructions. “And if she fails?”

I consider the question, studying Lea’s face in the photographs once more. There is something compelling in her determination, that fire in her eyes. A quality that would be wasted if extinguished too soon.

“Then we find a more appropriate use for her talents,” I say. “But she won’t fail. She can’t afford to.”

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