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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nico

Power isn’t about what you can do; it’s about what others believe you can do.

My uncle Alessandro’s words resonate in my mind as I relax in my chair, watching Lea Song shift uncomfortably across from me. The air conditioning hums, a low, constant thrum beneath the silence. She’s trying to mask her anxiety with defiance, chin tilted up, shoulders squared, but I can read the truth in every micro expression. The slight tremor in her hands as she tucks a strand behind her ear. The rapid pulse visible at the hollow of her throat. The way her eyes dart toward the door, calculating distance and escape.

It’s been forty-eight minutes since Marco brought her to me, her wrist bruised from Moretti’s warning. Forty-eight minutes of watching her process the reality of her situation. She’s no longer merely an observer, but irrevocably marked as mine. An extension of my operation.

“So these are your terms,” she says, breaking the tense silence that’s fallen between us. Her voice carries a forced steadiness that I find strangely admirable. “Complete schedule transparency. On-call status for whatever you decide.”

I don’t immediately respond. Instead, I rise and circle my desk with measured slowness, savoring how her body tenses with each step I take closer. Fear and anticipation are so often indistinguishable in their physical manifestations. Both make the blood rush, the pupils dilate, the breath quicken.

“Not terms,” I correct, stopping beside her. “Necessities. Moretti’s men were delivering a message today, Lea. Next time, they’ll deliver consequences.”

My gaze drift to her injured wrist, which she’s cradling in her lap. The bruises are darkening already, purple-blue marks in the distinct pattern of fingerprints. Anger flares in my chest at the sight. Those marks should never have been made by another man’s hand.

“You think I can’t handle myself? I’m a journalist—danger comes with the territory.” Her attempt at bravado would be more convincing if her voice didn’t catch on the last word.

“You’re not in journalist territory anymore,” I say, my tone soft. Gentle, even. It’s an intentional contrast to the harshness of my words. “You crossed that border the moment you agreed to shadow me. Today was just your first taste of the consequences.”

I watch the reality of this sink in, see the slight widening of her eyes as she grasps the gravity of her position. She’s intelligent enough to understand the implications, that she’s become a pawn in a game far larger than her investigative piece. What she doesn’t comprehend is that she’s always been a piece on this board. I’ve simply moved her from one square to another.

“I could walk away,” she says, though we both know it’s an empty threat. “Go to the police, tell them everything I’ve seen.”

I smile at that, just enough to let her see my amusement without revealing genuine mirth. “Could you? The police who frequent my club after hours? The ones whose pensions are secretly managed by investment firms I control? Or perhaps you mean the commissioner, who called me when his daughter got caught with enough cocaine to qualify for intent to distribute.”

I lean down, placing my hands on the armrests of her chair, caging her in without touching her. Her scent fills my nostrils, something floral underlying the sharp tang of fear. Her pupils dilate further as I invade her space, and I note with satisfaction how she doesn’t shrink back, despite her obvious discomfort.

“You’re in too deep already, piccola. The only way out is through.”

She swallows, her throat working visibly. I can see the war being waged behind those expressive eyes, her journalistic integrity battling with self-preservation, curiosity wrestling with caution. And beneath it all, something else. Something she’s trying to hide, even from herself.

Desire.

Not just physical, though that element is undeniably present in the flush creeping up her neck, the slight parting of her lips. No, it’s a more complex hunger for knowledge, for access to a world few ever glimpse from the inside. For the power that comes with proximity to men like me.

I straighten, giving her space to breathe again. Return to my desk and sit on its edge, studying her with clinical detachment. Let her feel the weight of my assessment.

“You don’t have to decide now,” I say, though I already know what her choice will be. “My driver will be at your apartment tomorrow morning at eight. If you’re not waiting, I’ll take that as your answer.”

She’s silent for a long moment, her internal struggle is showing across her features with a transparency I find almost intriguing. So young, so unpracticed at concealment. She hasn’t yet learned that in my world, revealing one’s thoughts is equivalent to baring one’s throat to a predator.

“And if I agree?” she asks. “What guarantees do I have that you’ll hold up your end? That I’ll get my story?”

“You have my word,” I reply simply. “Which, in my business, is the only currency that matters.”

She gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “The word of a criminal?”

“The word of a businessman,” I correct. “One who understands that reputation is everything. Break your word once, and no one will ever trust you again. I’ve never broken mine.”

It’s true, though not for the noble reasons she might infer. My adherence to verbal contracts isn’t born of moral fortitude, but practical necessity. In a world without legal recourse, where disputes are settled with blood rather than lawsuits, your word must be unimpeachable.

She weighs this, trying to separate truth from manipulation. I allow her consideration, though I’ve considered the variables. Her assignment. Her ambition. The threat Moretti now poses. The data points all converge on a single inevitable conclusion: she will agree to my terms.

“Fine,” she says at last, the word exhaled on a shaky breath that betrays more than she intends. “I’ll do it. Daily check-ins. Open schedule. On-call status.”

Victory settles in my gut, warm and clean as fine whiskey. Not that I doubted the outcome, but there’s always a particular pleasure in watching the moment of capitulation, especially from someone as spirited as Lea Song.

I move toward her again, this time extending my hand to help her rise. A small test. Will she accept this first physical contact, this minor submission to my assistance?

After a brief hesitation, she places her uninjured hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers slender but strong, a writer’s hand. I pull her to her feet with controlled gentleness, bringing her close. So close that I can feel the heat from her body.

“There’s something,” I murmur, letting my gaze drop to her mouth. Her lips part in response, an unconscious reaction that confirms what I’ve suspected. She’s not immune to me, despite her best efforts.

“What?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I lift my free hand and brush my thumb across her bottom lip, a gesture both intimate and assertive. “Lipstick smudge,” I explain, though there isn’t one. The real purpose is to establish physical dominance, to cross a boundary that sets a precedent for future encroachments.

Her sharp inhale is audible in the quiet office, a small, involuntary sound that sends a beat of satisfaction through me. My touch linger longer than necessary, gauging her response. She doesn’t pull away, though I can feel the tension thrumming through her like a plucked string.

“Appearances matter, piccola,” I murmur, releasing her hand and stepping back just enough to let her register how easily I’ve invaded her space, and how intentionally I’ve now withdrawn from it.

She blinks rapidly, as if emerging from a trance. A flush has spread across her cheeks, and she clears her throat before speaking. “Is that all for now?”

I nod, resuming my seat behind the desk. “Marco will take you home. Rest. Ice that wrist. Tomorrow we continue.”

She gathers her bag with movements that betray lingering disorientation, thrown by the sudden shift from tension to dismissal. It’s another planned move, keeping her off-balance, unable to anticipate my next action or request.

As she heads for the door, I call after her. “Lea.”

She turns, one hand on the doorknob.

“Wear something formal tomorrow evening. We have a charity gala to attend.”

Her brow furrows. “I don’t have?—”

“Something suitable will be delivered in the morning,” I interrupt. “Along with a few other necessities.”

She opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it. With a stiff nod, she exits, the door clicking shut behind her with quiet finality.

I never doubted she would accept my terms. Her type is predictable, driven by ambition, fueled by curiosity, hampered by ethical constraints they believe are immutable until the moment they bend them. What interests me now is plotting the precise sequence of events that will transform her from reluctant ally to willing accomplice.

The seduction, because that’s what this is, regardless of whether it culminates in physical consummation, must be methodical. Artfully planned. A series of incremental breaches, each one pushing her further from her moral center until she no longer recognizes the boundaries she’s crossed.

My phone vibrates on the desk. Marco’s name flashes on the screen.

“Song’s security measures are up and running,” he reports when I answer. “I’ve stationed Ricci in the building across from hers. Rivera is doing perimeter checks every thirty minutes.”

“The additional surveillance?” I ask, moving to the window that overlooks the Chicago skyline, now bathed in the golden light of the approaching sunset.

“Installed as instructed. Full coverage, all rooms. Audio and visual feeds are live.”

“Good.” I end the call without further comment and return to my desk, opening my laptop to access the new security feed from Lea’s apartment.

The screen flickers to life, revealing multiple grainy views of her modest one-bedroom. The living room, cluttered with books and papers. A small kitchen with its chipped countertops. The bedroom with its unmade bed and overflowing laundry basket. Finally, the bathroom, where the shower curtain hangs askew.

It takes only moments to locate Lea herself, pacing the length of her living room, phone pressed to her ear. I activate the audio feed, adjusting the volume to hear her side of what appears to be an intense conversation.

“—not that simple, Sienna. I can’t just walk away now.”

A pause as she listens to the response from her friend, the same woman who intervened during Moretti’s warning earlier today. Brave, but ultimately inconsequential.

“I know what I’m doing,” Lea continues, though her voice lacks conviction. “This is for my father, you know that.”

Another pause. I sense her frustration.

“Of course I’m being careful! But you didn’t see what I saw at that warehouse meeting. The connections he has, the power he wields, it goes so much deeper than anyone realizes.”

She stops pacing, her expression hardening with determination that’s visible even through the somewhat grainy feed.

“I’m not backing out. Not now. I’ll check in daily, I promise. But I need to see this through.”

The call ends, and she tosses her phone onto the couch with a sigh that seems to deflate her entire body. For several moments, she just stands there, arms wrapped around herself as if for comfort or protection. Then, with sudden violence, she slams her palm against the wall.

“Fuck!” The exclamation is sharp, frustrated. “What am I doing?”

I lean back, watching as she resumes pacing, now muttering to herself, tugging at her hair in agitation. The unguarded display is fascinating, and so different from the composed facade she presents in my presence. This is Lea Song, stripped of performative confidence, wrestling with the consequences of her choices.

I can see her reporter’s mind at work, calculating angles, weighing risks against potential rewards, searching for a path that allows her to maintain some illusion of control. It’s futile, of course. Control was relinquished the moment she accepted my invitation to Purgatorio that first night.

What captivates me, however, is not her strategic deliberation but the flash of vulnerability that breaks through, like the momentary widening of the eyes, a soft sound of distress quickly suppressed, the nervous habit of biting her lower lip when troubled.

These glimpses of her interior state ignite something in me that surveillance photos and background reports never could. There’s an intimacy to witnessing someone’s private struggles, their unguarded moments of doubt and fear. An intimacy that feels almost invasive.

I dismiss the thought as soon as it forms. Invasion is precisely the point. Methodical encroachment on every aspect of her life until no barriers remain between us. Between her and my objectives.

On screen, Lea has moved to the bathroom. She turns on the shower, then undresses with mechanical efficiency. I should look away, not out of any misplaced sense of propriety, but because this surveillance has a specific purpose: security monitoring.

Instead, I lean forward, suddenly aware of the painful tightening in my groin, the shallowing of my breath. My body reacts, primal and demanding, to the sight of her naked, vulnerable, unaware. Every instinct screams to unzip and take release now, to claim this moment, this secret knowledge, physically.

My knuckles pop, bone-white against the chair. That little dip just above her hip? Yeah, I’m claiming that territory. This need to unload is a real ball-ache, making my constructed “cool guy observing” act a goddamn workout. Would be easy, though, and feel real good. Prove a point.

Nope. Get a grip, Romeo. Breathe. Uncurl the fucking knuckles. Not like this. That’s just sad, wanking into the void. The real prize isn’t some quick solo splashdown. It’s the demolition of her world, getting her wired to me, waiting for that beautiful crack when she gives it up, knowing the surveillance state is personal. Making her wait, making me wait. That’s part of the goddamn fun. This hard-on gets put on ice, saved for the big bang.

Okay. Look away from the shower show. Click. I switch screens, pulling up a digital dossier labeled “Song, E.” Professor Eunji Song’s photograph stares back at me. A woman in her fifties with streaks of silver in her dark hair, expression composed and academic. Nothing in her appearance suggests anything beyond an ordinary professor of political science.

But appearances, as I well know, can be deceiving.

The latest intelligence reports reference a covert meeting with a Korean contact suspected of involvement in the fentanyl pipeline flowing into Chicago, a pipeline Dante Moretti has been working to control. The details are sparse, but sufficient to confirm my earlier suspicions: Professor Song’s academic interest in criminal power structures is not merely theoretical.

I scroll through additional data: travel records showing multiple trips to Seoul in the past year, cryptic mentions of “logistics” in intercepted communications, untraceable bank transfers routed through a series of shell companies. Each piece of information reinforces what I’ve long suspected: Eunji Song stands at the crossroads of something massive, something that could reshape the balance of power in Chicago’s underworld.

And Lea, unwittingly, could be the perfect leverage.

If I can secure her trust, I’ll have a direct line to unravel her mother’s operation before Moretti can exploit it. My plan to ensnare Lea isn’t mere whim or distraction; it’s the key to controlling whatever pipeline is being established.

I shut the laptop, eyes still burning with the dual flames of arousal and ambition. On the closed screen, I can almost see Lea’s reflection, no longer the image of her naked in the shower, but as she will be tomorrow: dressed in whatever gown I select, on my arm at the charity gala, a visible declaration of my claim.

The thought satisfies something deep and possessive within me. By the time she realizes how tightly I’ve woven her fate into mine, there will be no escaping, not from me, nor from the truth about her mother’s dangerous associates.

I pour a measure of whiskey, raising the glass in a silent toast to the coming weeks. The game has only just begun.