Page 10

CHAPTER TEN

Lea

I surface from sleep like a drowning victim breaking the surface, gasping, the phantom stench of blood and ozone clinging to my senses. My own bed. My own cramped dusty apartment. It feels alien after the brutal concrete reality of last night’s warehouse and the cold luxury of Nico’s car.

That is what should frighten you. His last words are still fucking resonating in my head. He’s right. The violence hasn’t shattered me. The casual way he mutilated Vincent Gallos, the clinical detachment; it hasn’t sent me screaming into the night. It registers as data, as a demonstration of power I’ve observed with a disturbing lack of revulsion. That is terrifying. What’s happening to the woman who used to cry over sad movies?

Sleep has been a joke for three days now. Every time I lay down to close my eyes, I keep seeing the glint of Nico’s knife, the spray of blood, the chilling calm with which he resumed the meeting. And then I see his eyes in the car afterward, stripping away my journalistic pretense, seeing the disturbing lack of fear I felt.

My body is one big knot of residual stress, muscles locked from hours spent coiled, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the violence to turn on me. I push my legs over the side of the mattress. The cheap flooring shocks my bare feet, so unlike the deep pile carpets I imagine line Nico’s place. Coffee first. Strong enough to strip paint. Then Harrison’s goddamn report. He’d left three increasingly irate voicemails yesterday demanding an update, demanding I show my face at the office.

Nico’s instructions, delivered with that chilling blend of permission and threat in the car three nights ago, are seared into my brain: “Bellamy’s. Riverside project. Nothing more, Lea. Nothing about tonight. Understood?”

Understood. Oh, I understand perfectly. He’s dictating my narrative, controlling the flow of information back to my editor, ensuring his sanitized version of events is the only one Harrison receives. And I, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea of unemployment (or worse, Nico’s displeasure), have no fucking choice but to comply.

Sitting at my cluttered kitchen table, nursing coffee that tastes like bitter grounds, I stare at my laptop screen. How do you write about power dynamics when you’ve just seen a man’s ear sliced off as a negotiating tactic? How do you describe “business meetings” that happen surrounded by armed guards in abandoned warehouses?

You lie. You obfuscate. You polish the turd until it almost gleams.

I type, delete, type again. Sentences feel hollow, sanitized beyond recognition. I write: “Observed Varela mediating complex stakeholder interests regarding the Riverside development.” True, technically. He mediated the fuck out of Vincent Gallos. I continue: “Noted presence of key financial figures, including Richard Calloway, showing Varela’s significant influence in legitimate markets.” Also true. Conveniently omitting the other figures present—the ones whose legitimacy was questionable.

It’s pathetic. A betrayal of every journalistic principle I hold dear. But the image of Nico’s face, expressionless as he wiped the blade clean, remains. Fear, I am discovering, is a meticulous proofreader.

* * *

By 7:45, I have a page and a half of the most carefully constructed bullshit I’ve ever written. I attach it to an email, fingers trembling as I type a brief, professional cover note to Harrison. Hitting send feels like pulling a trigger aimed squarely at my integrity.

Time for a nap.

It feels like I’ve just closed my eyes when a sharp knock rattles my apartment door.

Not the tentative tap of a delivery person. This is insistent. My chest tightens. Nico? Moretti? I look at my alarm clock. 10:30. I slept for almost three hours. I creep toward the door, peering through the peephole.

Sienna. Her face is tight with worry.

Relief washes over me, so potent it leaves my legs trembling. I unlock the door.

“Jesus, Lea, finally!” Sienna pushes past me into the apartment, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. “You look like hell. Harrison’s been blowing up my phone asking where you are. Said you sent some bullshit report this morning. What’s going on? You haven’t been in the office for three days, and now I find you looking like this?”

Then her eyes land on the walls. No longer a wall, but all the walls. The conspiracy cave. Her jaw drops.

“Holy mother of God,” she breathes, stepping further into the room, eyes wide as she takes in the chaotic web of strings, photos, notes, and clippings dominating the space. Her gaze snags on the cluster of Nico photos. “Okay, wow. Last time I saw this it was bad, but this… this is next level. Look at the sheer number of pictures of him! It’s like… like you’re trying to crawl inside his head.”

“It’s organized,” I defend, suddenly seeing it through her eyes, the obsessive grid, the slightly too-many pictures of Nico, the sheer manic energy radiating from the plasterboard altar I’ve built to the man I’m supposed to be destroying.

“Organized insanity!” Sienna turns to face me, grabbing my shoulders. “Lea, talk to me. What happened? What has Varela been showing you? Harrison’s worried, I’m worried. This isn’t just a story anymore, is it?”

Her genuine concern, the anchor she represents to the normal world I’m rapidly losing sight of, makes the constructed barriers around my secret crumble.

“It’s… complicated,” I start, then stop. How do I explain the warehouse? The ear? The way Nico looked at me afterward? The choice he presented? “He’s showing me things, Sienna. How deals get made. How power works in this city. It’s…intense.”

“Intense?” Sienna’s grip tightens. “Lea, I know guys who used to cover the Outfit back in the day. They talk about Varela like he’s the devil himself, only smarter and quieter. People who cross him disappear. You saw what happened to your dad! Nico is not just intense, he’s fucking insanely intense.”

“That’s why I have to do this!” The words burst out, raw with grief and a conviction I cling to like a life raft. “For my father. I need to know what happened to him, Sienna. Nico might be the only one who has the answers. This access… it’s the only way. Period.”

Sienna studies my face, her expression softening with empathy but hardening with resolve. “Okay, I get the dad angle. I do. But this,” she gestures around the room, at the walls, at me, “this feels like more than that. This feels like a fucking obsession. He’s getting to you, isn’t he?” She leans closer. “Lea, be honest with me. Are you sleeping with him?”

“What? No! God, no!” The denial is vehement, immediate. The thought is both horrifying and shamefully, traitorously, not entirely repulsive. Heat floods my cheeks.

Sienna sees the flush, her eyes narrowing further. “Okay. But he wants to. And maybe part of you wants him to, too?” She holds up a hand as I protest. “I’m not judging. The guy radiates dark, dangerous sex appeal. But Lea, that’s how guys like him operate. They pull you in, make you feel special, chosen, privy to their secrets… and then, boom! They own you. This ‘access’ he’s giving you? It comes with strings you can’t even see yet. You need to walk away. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Her words resonate with my internal warnings. She’s right. Walk away. Tell Harrison you can’t do it.

“I can’t,” I murmur, the admission feeling like a betrayal of Sienna, of my father, of myself. “Not yet. I’m close to something.” Or maybe I just can’t let go of him.

Sienna searches my face for a long moment, then sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. “Okay. Okay, I see I can’t talk you out of this right now.” She releases my shoulders. “But you need to go see Harrison. Face the music about that report. And Lea, promise me you’ll keep your head on straight. Don’t forget who he is, what he’s capable of.” She glances at the wall again. “And maybe take down a few of the glamor shots? It’s creeping me out.”

Despite the tension, a small smile touches my lips. “Okay. Deal.”

After Sienna leaves, the apartment feels too quiet, her warnings lingering in the silence. I force myself to get ready, choosing armor once more. A sharp black pantsuit, heels high enough to signal confidence, hair pulled back. A warrior preparing for battle on two fronts: Harrison’s office and whatever Nico has planned next.

* * *

The walk to the Journal feels different. The morning hustle of downtown Chicago seems muted, distant. Every passing face feels like a potential threat, every dark sedan could be a possible tail. Paranoia? Maybe. Or maybe just a necessary adaptation to the world Nico Varela has dragged me into.

The newsroom crashes over my senses like usual since I started, a wall of sound, fluorescent glare, desperate motion. The clatter of keyboards seems louder. But moving toward my desk, the chatter doesn’t just dip; it flat lines. Eyes follow me, sharp and zeroed in, nothing like the idle speculation my first day just three weeks ago. My skin prickles under the weight of their scrutiny.

They fucking know. They might not know details, but they know I’m involved with Varela. The rumors must be flying; the exclusive access, being seen with him at Bellamy’s, maybe even whispers from Purgatorio staff. I’m no longer the rookie. I’m marked. Varela’s girl. The label clings like tar.

My small desk in the corner feels less like a refuge and more like an isolation cell.

The shrill ring of my desk phone makes me jump. Harrison’s extension. Predictable as sunrise.

“My office. Now.” Click.

Here we go. Taking a deep breath, I stand and begin the walk of shame, or maybe the walk of the damned, toward the glass box at the end of the room.

Harrison is pacing when I enter, radiating impatience. He doesn’t offer a seat. He just stops, turns, and jabs a finger at the printout of my email lying on top of the usual chaos on his desk.

“Song.” His voice is low. “Explain this garbage.”

I stand my ground, hands clasped behind my back to hide their tremor. “It’s my initial report, Harrison. As discussed. Covering the Bellamy’s meeting, the Riverside project financing?—”

“Financing?” He snatches the papers, rattling them in my face. “You think I sent you to shadow Nico fucking Varela to get insights on municipal bonds? ‘Key stakeholders discussed financing windows’? ‘Calloway expressed confidence’? Are you writing for the Journal or Varela’s goddamn newsletter?”

“Harrison, I have to build trust?—”

“Trust?” He laughs, a harsh, barking sound. “You build trust by bringing me something real! Something with teeth! This reads like you spent an hour at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon, not embedded with the most dangerous man in Chicago!” He throws the papers down, scattering them across the desk. “Where’s the grit, Song? Where are the backroom deals? The threats? The names?”

My throat feels dry. Nico’s warning, cold and absolute, rings in my ears. Nothing about tonight.

“The access I have is unprecedented, but it’s fragile,” I say, reciting the justification I’ve rehearsed. “Varela operates on loyalty and absolute discretion. If I report unverified details, if I burn sources this early?—”

“Sources?” Harrison leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Are you protecting him?”

The accusation lands like a punch to the gut. He sees it. He suspects.

“I’m protecting the story,” I counter, forcing conviction into my voice. “Long-term access requires short-term patience. The Bellamy’s meeting is significant. Seeing Calloway defer to him, the way the city officials hung on his every word, that shows his reach into legitimate power structures. That’s the foundation.”

Harrison’s eyes bore into mine, his expression giving no quarter. He runs a hand through his messy hair, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken suspicion.

“Foundation,” he spits, clearly unconvinced. He slumps back into his chair, looking older, wearier. “Alright, Song. Fine. Play it your way. For now.” He pins me with a look that promises consequences. “But the leash is short. One more week. Then I want something substantive. Something that makes the front page shake. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And routinely check-ins,” he adds, an edge in his voice. “Email. Phone. Carrier pigeon, I don’t fucking care. Every single day. I want to know you’re still digging, not just polishing Varela’s shoes.” He pauses, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “And watch your back, kid. No story is worth dying for.”

I nod and turn, escaping his office before my composure can crack. Back at my desk, surrounded by the oblivious chaos of the newsroom, I feel alone, trapped between the journalistic ethics I am betraying and the dangerous world I can’t seem to escape. The foundation isn’t for the story. It is for the tightrope I’m now walking, with hungry predators circling below on both sides. Fuck Harrison’s daily check in’s. How would I even do that being 24/7 in Nico’s world?

* * *

Lunch with Sienna at Briar Café should be my anchor to normalcy after my confrontation with Harrison, but the normalcy feels paper thin. Even the cheerful chatter and clinking silverware can’t drown out the background hum of vigilance that has become my new baseline.

“You look like shit,” Sienna says the moment I sit down, concern etched on her face.

“You’re repeating yourself,” I reply, attempting a weak smile. “And Harrison already chewed me out.”

“As he should have!” She leans forward. “Lea, after our last talk, I looked into some old cold cases. Your dad’s ‘accident’… there were whispers back then, things that never made the official reports. Loose ends. Unanswered questions pointing toward…” She hesitates. “toward Varela’s circle.”

A paralyzing chill grips me. “What kind of whispers?”

“Enough to make me seriously worried about what you’re doing.” Her gaze is intense. “This isn’t just about your dad anymore, is it? You’re fucking drawn to him.”

Before I can deny it, before I can process the implications of what she’s found, movement outside the window catches my eye. Leather jacket. A stark white bandage wrapped around his ear. That bandage. Vincent, Moretti’s top lieutenant. Watching us.

His lips curl into that chilling half-smile as our eyes meet through the glass. He gives a subtle nod, not reaching for a phone, but acknowledging he sees me.

“Lea?” Sienna’s voice is sharp with alarm, seeing my reaction. “What is it?”

My blood turns to ice. “He knows me, Sienna.” The words are barely a breath. “The man from the warehouse. The one Nico…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence, realizing I never told her any details.

Sienna follows my gaze, her face paling as she sees Vincent now joined by a second man standing just behind him, identical in every way, both now staring into the café. Twins. Cold, hard eyes fixed on us. “Oh my god. Lea, we need to get out of here. Back exit. Now. Don’t argue.”

The realization hits me again, harder this time: I’m not just writing about this world anymore. I’m trapped inside its crosshairs.

We move without another thought, abandoning our half-eaten lunch, weaving through tables toward the rear of the café.

Outside, the fall air carries a bite. We turn into the narrow alley beside the building, the shortcut to the parking garage. The smell of damp brick and stale garbage hits me.

“Well, well. Leaving so soon?”

The voice stops us cold. We spin around. Vincent blocks the alley entrance, his twin brother, Matteo, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Two against two. Vincent touches the bandage on his ear almost possessively, his eyes burning into me with raw hatred.

“I told you not to get in too deep,” Sienna mutters beside me, her hand reaching for the heavy camera bag slung over her shoulder.

“What do you want, Vincent?” I ask, trying to project a calm I don’t feel, using his name deliberately.

“You,” he spits, taking a step closer, Matteo mirroring his advance. Vincent gestures toward his bandaged ear. “Because of your precious boyfriend, The Diplomat, I almost lost my fucking ear. Thought you could just walk away unharmed after watching that?” His voice trembles with rage. “Thought you could hide behind Varela forever?”

His twin brother, Matteo remains silent, but his eyes are just as cold, just as dangerous, scanning Sienna before returning his full attention to me, his posture coiled like a snake ready to strike.

Vincent sneers, “Messing with Varela’s affairs is bad enough. Moretti doesn’t appreciate it.” He glances at Sienna. “And he doesn’t like loose ends or witnesses.”

His hand darts out faster than I can react, grabbing my wrist. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and sickening. I cry out, stumbling back against the alley wall.

“Get your hands off her!” Sienna shouts, swinging her heavy camera bag with surprising force. It connects solidly with the side of Vincent’s head. He staggers back with a grunt of pain and surprise, releasing my wrist.

Vincent recovers, fury blazing in his eyes. Matteo tenses, stepping forward, knuckles white. This is escalating dangerously fast.

“Run, Lea!” Sienna shoves me toward the parking garage entrance further down the alley. “Go! Get help!”

She turns to face the twins, camera bag held like a shield. She’s trying to buy me time, protect me. Guilt and fear war within me. I can’t just leave her here with them.

But before I can decide, before Vincent or Matteo can make another move, a sleek black SUV screeches around the corner of the alley, its tires protesting as it slides to a halt, blocking their path. The passenger door flies open.

Marco. His face is grim granite, eyes assessing the scene, Vincent’s fury, Matteo’s readiness, Sienna’s defensive stance, my bruised wrist, with lethal efficiency.

Vincent and Matteo freeze. Recognition flashes in their eyes. They know who Marco is and who he represents.

“Problem?” Marco asks, his voice calm, low, carrying easily down the alley as he walks closer.

Vincent glares, spitting on the grimy pavement near his feet, his hatred for me obvious. He says nothing, but the message is clear.

“Leave,” Marco commands, his tone flat, absolute. “Now.”

Vincent hesitates, vibrating with contained violence, wanting to finish what he started. Matteo shifts his weight, perhaps conveying caution. They look at Marco radiating deadly competence. After a tense, silent standoff, Vincent gives a sharp, angry jerk of his head. The twins turn and melt back toward the street, disappearing into the lunchtime crowds.

Marco turns his attention to us. His gaze lingers on my throbbing wrist, then shifts to Sienna’s pale but defiant face.

“Ms. Song.” He nods, his expression unreadable. “The car is waiting.”

Sienna looks from Marco to me, her expression torn between relief and deep worry. “Lea?”

“Go home, Sienna,” I say, my voice shaking now that the adrenaline is receding. “Please. Go. I’ll be okay.”

“Will you?” she asks, clearly unconvinced but seeing she has no choice.

“Get in the car, Ms. Song,” Marco repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I give Sienna a quick, desperate hug. “I’ll call you,” I promise, the words feeling like another unavoidable lie in this new reality.

She watches me go, her face etched with worry, as I climb into the waiting SUV. The doors lock with a heavy, definitive thunk. Marco gets behind the wheel, his movements economical and precise.

“Purgatorio?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

He shakes his head, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. “Penthouse.”

My breath catches. Nico’s penthouse. I’ve only heard rumors about it, a fortress in the sky, impenetrable, accessible only to his innermost circle.

The drive passes in silence. I cradle my wrist, watching the city blur past. The earlier rehearsal of what I’d say to Nico feels pointless now. Events are moving too fast, pulling me deeper into a current I can’t control.

We arrive at a luxury high-rise near the lakefront. Marco leads me through a private underground entrance, past discreet security, and into a dedicated elevator that ascends without stopping. The doors open into a stunning, minimalist space; all glass, steel, and breathtaking views of Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon.

Nico stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city spread below him like a map. He turns as I enter, his expression opaque.

“Report,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding.

I recount the incident, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor beneath the surface. I tell him everything: spotting Vincent outside the cafe, recognizing the bandage from where Nico’s knife had marked him, his identical twin brother Matteo joining him, their deliberate confrontation in the alley, Vincent’s specific, personal threats driven by revenge for his ear, Sienna’s brave intervention with the camera bag, and finally, Marco’s timely arrival forcing Moretti’s lieutenants to flee. Nico listens without interruption, his eyes locked on my face, his stillness radiating a focused intensity.

When I finish, the silence stretches for a beat before he moves toward me. “Show me your wrist.”

I extend my arm with hesitation. He takes it gently, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin where Vincent grabbed me. His touch is cool, controlled, yet it sends an unwanted vibration through me. A muscle tightens momentarily in his jaw as he studies the marks left by his rival’s man.

“Vincent,” he says, the single name flat, devoid of inflection, yet somehow more chilling than any outburst. His eyes lifts to mine, dark and unreadable. “So, Dante’s top dog thinks he can bite the hand that warned him, bringing his twin along for backup.” He releases my wrist but doesn’t step back, closing the distance between us. The air crackles with unspoken tension. “Reckless. They crossed a line targeting you. You understand now, don’t you?” he says, his voice a low murmur that contrasts with the hardness in his eyes. “There is no observing from the sidelines. You’re part of the game whether or not you choose to be. Your association with me makes you a target. And, a pawn.”

“So what happens now?” I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice but needing to know.

“Now,” he says, his gaze dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes, “you make a choice.” He steps closer still, close enough that I can sense the heat from his body, smell the expensive scent of sandalwood and bergamot that clings to him. “You walk away, disappear back into your safe little world, and hope Moretti and his hounds forget you exist. Or…”

He pauses, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of the unspoken danger, the actual threat illustrated by Vincent and Matteo’s brazen attack, settle between us.

“Or you accept my protection,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration that resonates deep inside me. “Absolute protection. But it comes with conditions. My conditions. No more half-measures, Lea. No more pretending you’re just a journalist observing my life.”

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, sending electric sparks across my skin despite the fear coiling in my stomach. “If you stay, you’re mine. In every way that matters. You answer to me. You obey me. And you trust I will handle threats like the Moretti twins in my way.”

His thumb brushes across my lower lip. My breath hitches. This is insane. He’s offering safety from men like Vincent and Matteo, but demanding complete possession in return. Every rational thought screams at me to pull away, to run back to Sienna, to the life I understood.

But the memory of the alley, the fear ignited by the targeted violence from Moretti’s trusted lieutenants, the certainty that this won’t be the last time it holds me frozen.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a phantom limb reaching from another life. I know without looking its Harrison, probably asking why I haven’t checked in, demanding an update for The Journal. I ignore the summons. This is beyond The Journal now, beyond any story I thought I was chasing.

“What are the conditions?” I ask, voice barely a thread of sound, the words feeling like the first step over a cliff edge, like surrender.

Nico’s eyes darken, a predatory light entering their depths. His lips curve into that knowing smile that promises danger and intrigue, things I shouldn’t want but do.

“Total access to me,” he murmurs, leaning closer still, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers through me. “Requires total submission.”

My pulse hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped against his proximity. Submission. The word hangs there, terrifying and thrilling all at once. This isn’t about the story anymore. It isn’t even just about protection from men like Vincent. This is about him. About the undeniable, consuming pull he exerts. About the boundaries I know, with chilling certainty, I’m about to let him shatter completely.

God help me.