Page 71 of Ruthless Arrangement

The driveto my penthouse passes in comfortable silence. Lea gazes out the window, lost in thought, while I review security updates on my phone. Marco’s team has neutralized Moretti’s immediate threats, but the underlying tension remains. This is merely a lull in the conflict, not its resolution.

When we arrive at my building, the doorman greets us with deferential politeness, holding the private elevator open. I touch her lightly on the elbow guiding her inside as we enter. She leans into the touch, playing her role perfectly.

The penthouse doors slide open to reveal Marco waiting in the foyer, tablet in hand. His eyes flick briefly to Lea before settling on me, his expression professional but questioning.

“Everything’s secure,” he reports. “The incidents at the warehouse and shipping yard have been contained. Moretti’s men have retreated for now.”

I nod, removing my jacket and handing it to him. “And our other matter?”

Marco’s eyes shift toward Lea again. “Under observation as discussed.”

Lea pretends not to notice this cryptic exchange, moving further into the penthouse to admire the panoramic view of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows. The morning light streams across the minimalist furnishings, highlighting the curated art collection and the strategic spareness of personal touches. This space, like everything I own, is designed to reveal nothing while impressing everything.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell her. “I need to speak with Marco privately.”

She nods, settling onto one of the sofas with ease. “Take your time.”

I lead Marco to my study, closing the door behind us. The room is soundproofed, one of many precautions built into this fortress disguised as a luxury residence.

“Report,” I say, moving to the desk where a stack of folders awaits my attention.

Marco hands me his tablet, displaying surveillance photos taken over the past twenty-four hours. “Professor Song was spotted in Washington DC yesterday afternoon, entering the Korean Consulate. She stayed for two hours before leaving in a diplomatic vehicle. This wasn’t a casual visit.”

I scroll through the images, noting the professor’s subtle signs of tension, the tight set of her shoulders, the wary glances toward surrounding buildings. “She knows she’s being watched.”

“Yes,” Marco agrees. “And there’s more. Our sources at the university say she’s requested an indefinite leave of absence, effective immediately. The conference mentioned in that email you planted? It’s been moved up by three weeks and moved to Seoul.”

This is unexpected, a rapid acceleration of whatever game Eunji Song is playing. “Moretti’s people?”

“Still monitoring her office and residence, but she hasn’t returned to either location since yesterday morning.”

I lean back in my chair, considering the implications. Eunji Song is making moves that suggest imminent danger or opportunity, perhaps both. And Lea, whether or not she knows it, has just become exponentially more valuable to both myself and Moretti.

“Increase surveillance on all Korean diplomatic channels,” I instruct. “And prepare the jet. If Professor Song is heading to Seoul, we may need to follow.”

Marco nods, making notes on his tablet. “And the journalist? She’s compromised your laptop. How much do you think she knows?”

I smile, remembering the crafted way Lea initiated our encounter last night. “Enough to think she’s gaining the upper hand. Not enough to realize she’s where I want her.”

Marco’s expression remains skeptical. “She’s smart. And motivated. Whatever game you’re playing with her?—”

“Is necessary,” I interrupt, voice hardening. “Her connection to Professor Song is our best leverage in understanding what’s happening with the Korean pipeline. If Moretti secures exclusive access to that supply chain, we can use the welfare of the professor’s daughter to have it go our way instead.”

I don’t need to finish the thought. Marco understands the stakes as well as I do. A single person’s life is no match against controlling the Korean fentanyl pipeline to the Midwest market. The economic implications are staggering, and the potential for massive bloodshed if negotiations fail even more so.

“Just be careful,” Marco says, his concern genuine beneath the professional demeanor. “Women like her, smart, driven, with something to prove, they’re dangerous in ways guns aren’t.”

I laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “I’ve been handling dangerous women since before Ms. Song graduated high school. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Marco doesn’t look convinced, but he knows better than to press the issue. “Your international contacts confirmed for three o’clock at the Blackstone Club. Security protocols are in place.”

“Good,” I nod. “Keep Lea under surveillance while I’m gone. Discreetly.”

“Always,” Marco assures me, heading for the door. He pauses, hand on the knob. “One more thing, Alessandro called. He wants updates on the Song situation. Says you’re getting too personally involved.”

A flicker of irritation courses through me at my uncle’s presumption. “Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow. After I’ve gathered more intelligence.”

Marco nods and exits, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Alessandro isn’t wrong to be concerned. However, emotional entanglement is a risk in our business. But what he fails to understand is that one can simulate intimacy without succumbing to it. I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting that skill.

---