Page 7 of Ruthless Arrangement

My breath catches. I set the noodles aside, heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. I open the message.

Ms. Song. Your persistence has been noted. Purgatorio. Tomorrow. 9 PM. Nico.

He responded. Not through official channels. Personally. To my private cell number, which I never shared with The Journal, never put on any application.

How?

The lamp. The microphone icon. Feeling being watched. It wasn’t paranoia. He’s been in my life, in my apartment. The violation is staggering, intimate. And terrifyingly thrilling.

This isn’t just an interview offer; it’s a summons. A display of power.I see you. I know how to reach you. Come.

My fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard. The smart response, the safe response, is to suggest a public place, and demand professional boundaries. Safety. Caution.

What would Dad have done?

He would have walked straight into the fire, notebook in hand.

Before doubt can take root, before the fear can paralyze me, I type my response:I’ll be there.

The reply is instantaneous, a digital echo of command:Come alone.

Two words. A blatant disregard for safety protocols. A test. A dare.

Instead of alarm bells, a perverse thrill shoots through me, sharp and undeniable, raising goosebumps despite the fear coiling in my gut. This is it. The abyss Harrison mentioned. The chance to look into the eyes of the man behind the myth, the man who might hold the answers about my father, the man who’s already invaded my life without ever properly meeting me.

I set my phone down, looking back at my wall. Each string, each document, feels like a weapon I’m forging for tomorrow night.

Nico Varela thinks he’s summoning me to his domain, establishing dominance. He doesn’t realize I’ve been preparing for this moment for six years, obsessed, consumed.

Tomorrow night, I will meet the devil. And I will be ready.

CHAPTERFOUR

Nico

The manila folder lies open,its contents spread across my desk like a map of someone else’s life. Lea Song stares back at me from half a dozen photographs; candid shots captured over the past week. Here she is at a coffee shop, typing like hell on her laptop, that intense crease between her brows. Crossing the street outside her apartment, head tilted up toward the sky during a rare moment of sunshine, a flicker of vulnerability I long to exploit. Leaving the Journal offices late at night, shoulders squared with determination despite obvious exhaustion.

Twenty-three years old. Five-foot-five. Northwestern University graduate, summa cum laude. Daughter of Professor Eunji Song and the late Gene Robert. She immigrated with her parents from England at twelve, after her mother took the Political Science professorship at Chicago University. Interestingly, her mother and father never married, and she took her mother’s last name, Song.

And now, Lea is a pawn in my game. She could end up a potential problem, but I suspect she’ll prove to be more of a fascinating acquisition.

I lift one of the surveillance photos, studying her face closer. It holds a blend of Southern European and Korean features with high cheekbones, full lips that look soft, inviting. Dark, intense, and challenging eyes that reveal an intelligence rarely found in someone so young.

I trace her face.Beautiful.There’s something in her expression, like a fierce, unwavering focus that I’ve seen before, in boardrooms and back alleys alike. The look of someone who believes they can bend the world to their will through sheer determination. Admirable. Dangerous. And ultimately, something I intend to break. The thought sends a low thrum of excitement through me. Recalling her in the lobby, that flash of fear mixed with defiance when our eyes met through the revolving glass, only sharpens the edge of my interest. She didn’t crumble then, either.

“What do you think?” Marco asks from where he stands by the window of my private office above Purgatorio. The club won’t open for another three hours, but the space is already humming with preparation. The staff restocking the bar, security checking systems, bartenders prepping their stations.

I set the photo down and lean back in my chair, reaching for the tumbler of whiskey at my elbow. The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it thoughtfully.

“I think Ms. Song is progressing as expected,” I reply, my voice measured. “Though her research is more thorough than I anticipated. She’s building connections I didn’t think she’d find for weeks.”

Marco snorts. “Journalists. They never know when to quit.”

“That’s what makes them useful,” I remind him, taking a sip of the Macallan 25. The peat and honey notes linger on my tongue as I set the glass down precisely where it had been. “When properly directed.”

I return my attention to the dossier. Marco has been thorough as always. Academic transcripts, social media profiles (sparse, curated), financial records (student loans, modest savings), family connections. The girl’s entire life distilled into paper and pixels, laid bare for my examination.

Her thesis catches my eye: “Power Dynamics in Political Reporting: How Journalists Become Complicit in the Systems They Cover.” I pull it from the stack, flipping through the pages with growing interest. Her analysis of how reporters gradually adopt the worldviews of their sources, how access becomes a form of subtle corruption is remarkably insightful for someone so young.

---