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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nico

I watch her across the table, my attention caught in the simple pleasure of her enjoyment. Lea twirls linguine around her fork, a small furrow of concentration between her brows. When she takes the bite, her eyes close briefly, a flash of genuine pleasure that’s unexpectedly compelling.

The restaurant hums around us. Ristorante Milano is one of Chicago’s finest Italian establishments, tucked away on a quiet street where the old money dines discreetly. Piano notes drift through the air, mingling with the gentle clink of silverware against fine china and the indistinct murmur of conversations designed not to carry. I’ve owned this place for six years now, though that’s not common knowledge. The staff knows me as a valued patron, nothing more, which suits my purposes perfectly.

Tonight, however, I’m not calculating profit margins or assessing which tables host potential assets. I’m simply enjoying watching Lea Song eat pasta.

“This is incredible,” she says, gesturing with her fork toward her plate of seafood linguine. “How did you know I love seafood?”

I give a small smile. “I pay attention.”

What I don’t say: I watched the surveillance footage of your grocery trips. I know you lingered in the seafood section each time. I saw the recipe for cioppino you bookmarked on your laptop.

The candlelight flickers across her features, softening the ever-present wariness in her gaze. There’s something almost vulnerable about her tonight in the simple black dress she chose. Elegant but not trying too hard, as though she couldn’t decide if this was a date or a business meeting.

I resist the impulse, just like I’ve been resisting a lot of impulses where Lea Song is concerned.

“Wine?” I offer, reaching for the bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo the sommelier selected. It’s a good vintage, with notes of dark cherry and spice. It’s complex but approachable, like the woman sitting across from me.

She nods, holding out her glass. “Please.”

As I pour, I study the graceful line of her neck, the delicate curve of her wrist. There’s strength beneath that softness. I’ve seen it firsthand. Watched her hold her own in situations that would make seasoned players falter. It’s part of what makes her so captivating.

“You handled yourself well last week,” I say, setting down the bottle. “That ex-cop we had to question? You read his intentions before any of my men did.”

I rarely offer praise. It creates expectations, sets precedents I prefer to avoid. But the words feel right in this moment, hanging between us like an offering.

Surprise flickers across her face, a split-second of unguarded reaction before she can mask it. Then, something even more unexpected: a small, genuine smile that reaches her eyes.

“He was fidgeting with his watch,” she says with a slight shrug. “Classic tell. My journalism professor called it the ‘liar’s timepiece’ when someone keeps checking the time. It means they’re usually planning their escape.”

“Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m not most people,” she counters, taking a sip of her wine.

“No,” I agree, holding her gaze. “You’re not.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she looks away, focusing on her plate again. Something shifts in my chest that I acknowledge with clinical detachment. Physical attraction is nothing new. I’ve wanted her since I first saw her photograph in the dossier Marco prepared. But this quiet moment of connection feels unfamiliar, unexpectedly pleasant.

“Tell me something,” she says after a moment, her voice casual but her eyes sharp with curiosity. “How does someone like you end up doing what you do?”

I consider deflecting, as I always do when personal questions arise. Information is currency in my world, and I’ve built my empire on controlling its flow. But tonight feels different somehow. The dim lighting, the excellent food, the way she’s looking at me with something other than fear or calculation. It creates a pocket of suspended reality where the usual rules seem less rigid.

“I was only six years old when my father died,” I say, surprising myself with the admission. “Heart attack. Left nothing but debts and a reputation for weakness.”

Her eyes widen, clearly not expecting me to answer. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, swirling the wine in my glass. “Don’t be. He was a mediocre man who made mediocre choices. My mother had already left years before, couldn’t handle the lifestyle. My uncle Alessandro took me in.”

“The man I met at the estate?”

“Yes.” I take a sip of wine, letting the rich flavor coat my tongue before continuing. “Alessandro was different. Respected. Feared. He saw potential in me that my father never did.”

I don’t tell her about my unusual “home schooling,” after my uncle took me in. The brutal lessons in control, in strategy, in never showing weakness. Negotiation and interrogation techniques. The nights spent memorizing financial records and political connections until my eyes burned. The first time Alessandro put a gun in my hand and told me to choose between my loyalty to a childhood friend who’d betrayed us and my future in the family business. I was fourteen.

Some things don’t belong at a dinner table.

“He taught me that power isn’t about violence,” I continue instead. “It’s about positioning. About knowing where to stand when the dominoes fall.”

She tilts her head, studying me with that journalist’s intensity that both irritates and intrigues me. “And where do you stand now?”

“In the middle,” I reply. “Between forces that would tear each other apart if left unchecked. I create balance.”

“Through intimidation and blackmail,” she points out, though there’s less judgment in her tone than I’d expect.

I smile. “Through whatever means necessary. The world runs on conflict, Lea. I just make sure it’s a controlled conflict.”

“Like a pressure valve.”

“Exactly.” I lean forward, surprised and pleased by her understanding. “Someone has to regulate the tension. Otherwise?—”

“Explosion,” she finishes, mirroring my posture.

For a moment, we’re aligned, two minds meeting in unexpected harmony. It’s disconcerting.

“What about you?” I ask, steering us toward safer ground. “Always desired to be a journalist?”

She laughs, a soft, genuine sound that catches me off guard. “God, no. I wanted to be a ballerina until I was twelve. Then I realized I had absolutely no talent for it.”

I try to picture her in a tutu, all determination and no grace. “Hard truth to face at twelve.” I crack a bitter smile.

“Devastating,” she agrees with mock seriousness. “I spent a week locked in my room listening to Swan Lake on repeat and declaring my life was over.”

“And then?”

“And then my dad gave me my first camera.” Her expression softens with the memory. “He said if I couldn’t be in the show, I could capture it instead. Tell the story my way.”

There’s something in her voice when she mentions her father that resonates with some long-buried part of me. I know from her file that Gene Robert died in a car accident when she was sixteen. The official report cited brake failure. The unofficial report, which I accessed through less conventional channels, suggested potential tampering.

I’d never mention this to her. Some truths serve no purpose but pain.

“He sounds like a wise man,” I say instead.

“He was.” She takes another sip of wine.

For a moment, I imagine a different reality: one where I met Lea Song in some ordinary way. A charity event, perhaps, or a gallery opening. A world where I could pursue her without calculation, without the weight of ulterior motives.

The fantasy is as attractive as it is pointless.

Our waiter appears with dessert, breaking the charged moment. Tiramisu for her, espresso for me. As he sets the plates down, I notice Lea’s gaze drifting toward the entrance. A reflexive scan of the room, the journalist’s habit of situational awareness.

Without thinking, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, drawing her attention back to me. Her skin, warm and soft beneath my palm, the contrast with my callused fingers striking. She doesn’t pull away, which I count as a small victory.

“It’s delicious,” she says after taking a bite of the dessert, though her eyes remain locked with mine.

“Of course.” I run my thumb over her knuckles before withdrawing. “I would never bring you somewhere subpar.”

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “God forbid the great Nico Varela associate with anything less than excellence.”

There’s a teasing note in her voice I’ve never heard before, almost playful. It catches me off guard, this glimpse of the woman she might be outside the pressure cooker of our arrangement. I want more of it.

My phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with Marco’s name. I resist the urge to check it, an unusual restraint for me. Usually, business takes precedence over everything. Tonight, however, I’m reluctant to break this fragile peace we’ve constructed.

Lea arches a brow, her gaze flicking to the phone and back to me. “Trouble?”

I shrug, turning the device face-down. “Business. It can wait.”

Even as I say it, a cold certainty settles in my gut. Marco wouldn’t contact me during a dinner I’d requested privacy unless something significant was happening. But I let myself have this small moment, this moment of chosen ignorance.

“That’s a first,” Lea remarks, finishing the last bite of her tiramisu. “The great Nico Varela, ignoring a call.”

“Perhaps I find the current company more compelling,” I say, watching for her reaction.

She meets my gaze, neither flinching nor preening at the implied compliment. “Or perhaps you’re simply biding your time.”

“Suspicious by nature, aren’t you?”

“Professional hazard,” she counters. “Though in your company, it seems more like a survival skill.”

I rise from the table, reluctant to end the evening despite the nagging awareness of Marco’s message waiting for my attention. The waiter approaches, but I dismiss him with a subtle nod that he understands immediately.

As we walk toward the exit, Lea pauses, looking back at the table. “Wait, we didn’t get the check.”

I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward. “It’s been taken care of.”

Her journalist’s instinct kicks in. “Taken care of? We didn’t even see the bill.”

“Let’s just say I have an arrangement with the management,” I reply, watching her process this information.

“An ‘arrangement,’” she repeats, giving me a knowing look. “Let me guess, you either own this place or you have something on the owner.”

I permit a small smile. “I appreciate quality, Lea. In all its forms.”

“That’s not an answer,” she challenges, but there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Isn’t it?” I counter, holding the door open for her as we head to my car.

Outside, the evening air carries a sharp bite, the promise of fall etched in the crystalline clarity of the night. City lights glitter against the darkness, reflecting off the sleek surfaces of passing cars. The low rumble of traffic provides a constant city soundtrack. Chicago at night has always held a particular beauty for me, an interplay of shadow and illumination, of power and possibility.

Lea draws closer to my side as we step onto the sidewalk, whether seeking warmth or simply responding to the instinctive urge for protection in the darkness, I can’t be sure. Either way, I welcome the proximity, as I guide her toward the curb where Dominic waits with the car.

“You’re in a hurry all of a sudden,” she observes, glancing up at me.

I don’t voice my unease. A prickling awareness at the base of my skull that warns of approaching complications. Years of navigating Chicago’s underworld have honed my instincts for danger, and right now, they’re humming like a live wire.

“It’s cold,” I say, scanning the street with practiced casualness.

That’s when I see it. A black Audi S8 with tinted windows gliding to a stop beside us. My muscles tense in automatic response, hand moving toward the concealed holster beneath my jacket. Then the passenger window lowers, and I relax, though my guard remains firmly in place.

Dante Moretti.

Not an immediate physical threat, then, but more dangerous in the long term. My grip on Lea’s arm tightens, a protective reflex I don’t disguise. She senses the change in my posture, her own body tensing in response.

“Varela,” Moretti greets, his voice carrying the affected smoothness of old money despite his less genteel origins. He steps out of the car with the fluid grace of a predator, his expensive suit doing little to disguise the street fighter’s build beneath. At forty-three, he’s still in his prime, powerful shoulders, thick black hair with distinguished silver at the temples, and hazel eyes that shift between charm and calculation.

“Moretti,” I respond, keeping my tone neutral despite the surge of irritation at this deliberate intrusion. “Bit far from your usual hunting grounds, aren’t you?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he runs a thumb across the burn scar on his right hand. “Just enjoying some of the finer establishments the city offers.” His eyes slides to Lea, a deliberate assessment that makes my jaw tighten. “And I see you’re doing the same. Ms. Song, isn’t it? The journalist.”

Beside me, Lea stiffens but maintains her composure. “Mr. Moretti,” she acknowledges with a slight nod. No surprise, no confusion, she’s done her research. Of course she has.

“I’ve been hearing rumors you’ve expanded your interests,” Moretti continues, addressing me while keeping his gaze on Lea. The undertone of threat is unmistakable, but the veneer of civility remains intact; we’re both too practiced to break the facade in public.

“I wasn’t aware my life was of such interest to you, Dante,” I reply. “Should I be flattered by the attention?”

He laughs, the sound sharp and devoid of genuine humor. “Professional curiosity only. You’ve always been so focused on business. It’s refreshing to see you take time for pleasure.”

The way he says “pleasure” makes my blood simmer, but I maintain my neutral expression. This is a play of power, a test of boundaries in neutral territory. Any display of emotion would be counted as weakness.

“We all have our diversions,” I say with deliberate blandness.

Moretti’s attention shifts to Lea now, his expression taking on a thoughtful quality that I like even less than his previous assessment.

“I hear Professor Song’s latest lecture is attracting interesting attention,” he says. “She has quite the insights on shadow networks, doesn’t she?”

The mention of Eunji Song sends a spike of alarm through me. Beside me, Lea tenses, her breathing changing almost imperceptibly. Moretti’s knowledge of her mother’s work is too specific, too pointed to be random conversation. It’s a message, he knows about Eunji’s connections, perhaps even more than me.

More concerning, he wants me to know that he knows.

“I’m sure you’ve got your sources,” I reply, voice edged with steel despite my outward calm. “But her work is of no concern to you.”

Moretti’s grin curls like a viper preparing to strike. “Academic freedom is something we should all support, don’t you think? Though sometimes scholars dig into areas they don’t fully understand. Dangerous areas, like shark infested areas.”

The threat is obvious, and I feel Lea’s pulse jump beneath my fingers where they rest against her wrist. I move her behind me, creating a physical barrier between her and Moretti.

“You two enjoy the evening,” Moretti says, lifting a languid hand in farewell. “The night is still young.”

I nod to my driver, Dominic, who steps forward to open the car door. Without waiting for Moretti’s response, I usher Lea inside, every sense alert for any sudden movement. The door closes with a solid thunk of British engineering, sealing us in the quiet interior of the Bentley.

As we pull away from the curb, I catch Moretti’s expression in the side mirror, too pleased, too satisfied. Like a man who’s confirmed something important.

“What the hell was that about?” Lea asks once we’re moving, her voice steady despite the tension radiating from her. “And why does he know about my mother’s work and research?”

I don’t answer, my mind racing through implications and contingencies. Moretti’s interest in Eunji Song can’t be coincidental. If he’s investigating her, it means he’s aware of the same connections I’ve been tracking the pipeline between certain academic circles and Asian pharmaceutical suppliers. The question is whether he’s simply gathering intelligence or actively moving against her.

Either way, it puts Lea in his crosshairs, both as leverage against me and as a potential path to Eunji.

“Nico?” Lea prompts, interrupting my calculations.

I exhale, hooking an arm around her shoulders in a show of reassurance that serves multiple purposes of comfort, protection, and the simple physical need to keep her close.

“Moretti specializes in pharmaceutical distribution,” I explain, choosing my words with care. “Both legitimate and otherwise. Your mother’s research touches on East Asia’s supply chains. It’s possible he sees her work as a threat to his operations.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie either. The best deceptions always contain a solid foundation of reality.

“That doesn’t explain why he was waiting outside the restaurant,” she points out, her analytical mind cutting straight to the core. “Or how he even knew we would be there.”

“He has me under surveillance, just as I have him watched,” I say with a shrug. “Its standard procedure.”

“There was nothing standard about that encounter,” she insists, shifting to face me more directly. The interior lighting catches the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. “He mentioned my mother, Nico. Why?”

“He’s just messing with you. Trust me.” My phone vibrates again. I check the screen to find two messages from Marco, each more urgent than the last. Shipment intercepted at North Pier. Someone tipped off the Feds. Suppliers demanding immediate report. Mario has spotted Moretti’s men at the university. Advise action.

Cold certainty settles in my gut. These are systematic moves in a game that’s accelerating faster than I thought possible. Moretti wasn’t just sending a message; he was making dangerous moves with stakes so high, they could start a deadly mob war.

“What is it?” Lea asks, reading the tension in my posture.

I meet her gaze, no longer concerned with maintaining the pleasant fiction of our evening. “I’m dropping you off. Something came up.”

“Why? What’s happening? You can’t drop me off. You promised complete access at all times. Those were the rules.” The edge of anger in her voice is clear a day.

I signal to Dominic to change course, then turn back to Lea. “I made the rules, and I can change the rules. Sorry piccola. Decision made.”