Page 9 of Ruthless Arrangement

Marco leaves to make the arrangements, and I return to the dossier, spending another hour absorbing every detail of Lea Song’s life. By the time I finish, I know her better than most of her friends do, perhaps better than she knows herself. Knowledge is power. I never enter an encounter without securing every advantage.

* * *

Hours later,I sit in my usual corner booth at Purgatorio, positioned with clear sightlines to both the entrance and the main floor. The club vibrates around me. A low, driving beat thrums beneath the murmur of conversation. Beautiful people in expensive clothes move through the space like exotic fish in a well-maintained aquarium, while my security personnel circulate, their vigilance masked by tailored suits and easy smiles.

A glass of Macallan 18 rests on the table, untouched. A steaming cup of coffee waits next to my whiskey: an Americano with an extra shot, just like Lea Song likes it. Little details matter. They are the foundation upon which control is built.

The high-definition security feed displayed on the discrete screen embedded in my table shows the street outside. Nine o’clock approaches, and I’m curious whether she’ll arrive on time or succumb to the temptation to appear fashionably late; a common mistake among those trying to establish dominance in an unfamiliar situation.

At 8:57, Lea appears on the screen, approaching the club with purposeful strides. Early as I predicted. Her black trousers hugs her curves, paired with a simple, elegant top under a fitted leather jacket. Professional enough to be taken seriously, stylish enough to blend into the club environment. Her long dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and her expression holds that steel focus I recognize from the surveillance photos. She has dressed for battle. Good. She’ll need that armor.

I turn my attention to a second feed, showing Tony and Miguel at the entrance. They have specific instructions to test her, push her, see if she crumbles under pressure. If she can’t handle my bouncers, she certainly can’t handle me.

Lea approaches the entrance with her head high, confident without arrogance. As she reaches the door, Tony, who’s six-foot-four and built like a brick wall, steps directly into her path.

“Not hot enough,” he says, his voice clear through the feed’s audio.

I’m glued to the screen. This test reveals character. Most people would flinch at such a direct insult; especially women who cultivate their appearance as carefully as Lea obviously has. The shock, the hurt, the scramble for dignity are the predictable human responses.

Lea stops short, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Tony replies, crossing his thick arms across his chest. “Not up to standards. Nico likes them sexy.”

I lean forward, anticipating her response. This is the moment most crumble, where embarrassment seeps in; they shrink away or beg for reconsideration.

Lea does neither. She tilts her head, assessing Tony as if he is the one being scrutinized. Then, to my genuine surprise, she exhales as if bored and smirks.

“Not sexy enough, you say?” she murmurs, reaching for the zipper of her jacket. With zero hesitation, she pulls it open, revealing smooth skin above the edge of a dark lace bra. The hint of cleavage is defiant, not desperate.

Tony freezes, caught off guard.

“These,” she says, tipping her chin up, “are the best tits you’ll ever see in your life. Now, are you going to let me in for my meeting with Mr. Varela, or are you going to keep standing there pretending you’ve seen better while I walk right past you?”

A brief, stunned silence follows, stretching through the club’s security room as well, I’m certain. Then, without a word, Tony steps aside, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath as she walks past.

A quiet chuckle escapes me. “Compelling.”

Marco, who has joined me moments before, whistles. “Are you sure about this? She’s got some fire, that one.”

I watch in silence from behind the floor-to-ceiling glass, tracking Lea as she cuts through my club. Head high, shoulders back. Not a hint of doubt in her posture. The woman moves with the unshakable confidence of someone who’s just won her first battle and knows exactly what she’s worth.

Most people are overwhelmed upon entering Purgatorio for the first time. The deliberated opulence, the beautiful people, the subtle signals of power and wealth. All of it designed to disorient and establish hierarchy before a single word is spoken. Lea takes it all in her gaze sweeping the room once before focusing forward again, stride unbroken. She’s done her homework and studied the club, I realize. Prepared herself for this moment just as thoroughly as I have prepared for her. The unexpected symmetry pleases me.

I watch as she approaches the VIP section, where another of my security staff waits. This time, there is no challenge, just a respectful nod as he steps aside to allow her through. She’s earned that much after her handling of Tony.

My gaze tracks her progress across the VIP area toward my corner booth. No hesitation, no nervous glances. The colored lights of the club play across her features, highlighting the determination in her expression. She is beautiful, yes—but it’s her composure that catches and holds my attention. Beauty is common in my world. Unshakable poise under pressure is far rarer.

As she reaches my table, I let her stand there for three seconds before acknowledging her presence. A small power play to establish that she enters my space on my terms. Her expression remains neutral, though I detect a slight tightening around her eyes. She notices the manipulation but chooses not to react to it. Another noteworthy choice.

I gesture to the coffee cup set out for her. “Americano with an extra shot of espresso.”

Her lips part before she masks her surprise, composure returning almost instantly.

“Ms. Song,” I continue, taking my first good look at her in person, not counting the brief run-in in the revolving doors. The photos didn’t capture the fire in her eyes, the subtle curve of her mouth when she’s assessing a situation. “I’ve been expecting you. For quite some time, actually.”

She holds my gaze without flinching, an uncommon response. Most people find it difficult to maintain eye contact with me for more than a few seconds; a useful tell when assessing potential threats or weaknesses.

“Mr. Varela,” she replies, her voice steady. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

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