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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lea

The memory of his lips lingers on mine as I stare at the barista, who glances up.

“Miss? Your order?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been standing at the counter, lost in my head again. The line behind me shifts impatiently.

“Sorry. Large Americano, extra shot,” I manage, fumbling for my wallet. “And a blueberry scone.”

The buzz of Café Lumière envelops me, espresso machines hissing, conversations floating in fragments, laptop keys clicking in rhythmic percussion. It’s Friday and downtown Chicago comes alive with weekend anticipation. I chose this spot for its floor-to-ceiling windows and central location, a place where I could pretend to be normal for an hour.

Normal. I wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore.

My phone vibrates against my hip as I settle into a corner booth. I notice that I have two unread messages from Nico: You’re not in the apartment. Where are you? Followed twenty minutes later by: Why won’t you answer?

I stuff the device back into my purse with more force than necessary. After last night, after he’d ordered me out of the car like some disobedient child, he has the nerve to demand my whereabouts? So much for the promise that I could shadow him whenever I wanted.

The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It’s clarifying, unlike the muddled emotions swirling through me since that dinner with Nico. Since Dante Moretti appeared outside the restaurant with his silky threats about my mother.

My mother. The worry about her hadn’t let me rest. I called her late last night after tossing and turning for hours, worry gnawing at my insides. She’d answered on the fifth ring, her voice carrying that tone of constructed calm that I’ve known since childhood.

“Lea, it’s past midnight. Is everything alright?”

I’d hesitated. “Mom, I met someone tonight who mentioned your work. Dante Moretti. He seemed interested in your research on shadow networks.”

The silence continued so long I had to look at my phone, doubting whether the line was still active. Finally, she spoke.

“Moretti is playing mind games, sweetheart. He wants to rattle you.” Her tone was measured, but with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite identify. “These men operate by creating uncertainty.”

“ These men? You know who Dante Moretti is?”

“I’m a political scientist who studies power structures, Lea.” She’d sighed, a soft, tired sound. “Of course I know the major players in Chicago’s underworld.”

“He knew about your lecture. Something about ‘attracting interesting attention.’ What did he mean by that?”

“Nothing. Academic politics can be vicious, you know this.” Another pause. “Be careful with your sources,” she’d said, her voice suddenly tight with concern.

“I will, ” I promised.

The unease remains lodged in my chest like a splinter working its way deeper with each breath after we hung up.

The café door chimes, pulling me from my thoughts. Sienna breezes in, a vision in her red scarf, her photographer’s bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes scan the room until she spots me, and her face lights up with a smile.

I lift my coffee cup in greeting.

“There you are!” She slides into the booth across from me, shrugging off her jacket to reveal a vintage concert tee. “Sorry I’m late. Harrison wanted last-minute changes on the article.”

“No worries.” I force brightness into my voice. “How’s the setup going?”

“Exhausting but exciting.” She pauses, studying my face with narrowed eyes. “You look like hell warmed over.”

I laugh, though it sounds forced even to my ears. “Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.”

“I’m serious, Lea.” She leans forward, voice dropping. “When did you last sleep? Or is Nico Varela keeping you too busy?”

There’s a teasing lilt to her words, but I catch the genuine concern beneath. I fiddle with my napkin, tearing small methodical strips from the edge.

“I’ve had things on my mind.”

“Things?” She arches an eyebrow. “Very specific, journalist.”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Work. The story.”

“So articulate today.” She signals the barista, then turns back to me. “Look, I know this assignment is a big deal, but you seem different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” She accepts her cappuccino from the server with a quick smile. “Tense. Distracted. Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”

Because I am, I think but don’t say.

Instead, I take another sip of my too-bitter coffee and change the subject. “How’s Jason at work? Still doing that old school flirting-by-getting-you-coffee thing?”

“Nice deflection,” Sienna says her eyes narrowing. “And yes, I may or may not have said yes to go out with him.” She taps her nails against the ceramic mug. “But we’re not talking about my boring love life. We’re talking about whatever has you checking the door every thirty seconds.”

I blink, startled. “I’m not?—”

“You just did it again.” She sets down her cup with a decisive clink. “You’re talking like him, you know.”

“Like who?”

“Varela.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “The way you shrug off questions, how you’re watching the exits. Hell, that’s new.”

My stomach drops. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words die on my tongue because, yes, fuck, she’s right. I am scanning for threats, measuring the distance to the door, cataloging faces. When did I start doing that?

“I’m just being cautious,” I admit.

“Cautious? Lea, have you ever been cautious a day in your life? I heard you once climbed onto the journalism building roof during a lightning storm because, and I quote, ‘The shot will be worth it.’”

How did she know that? Then I realized she’s a Chicago Journal investigator, like me. We know shit. I smile despite myself. “That was an awesome photo.”

“It was insane.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “What’s really going on? And don’t tell me it’s just work. I know you better than that.”

For one wild moment, I consider telling her everything, about the warehouses and the broken fingers, about Moretti’s veiled threats and the way Nico looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice. About how I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like to surrender to the electric current that hums between us whenever we’re alone.

But I can’t drag Sienna any deeper into this mess. I’ve already put her in danger once, when Moretti’s men cornered us in that alley.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“Meaning you’re sleeping with him,” she concludes with the bluntness that’s both her best and most infuriating quality.

“I am not sleeping with Nico!” I hiss, leaning forward.

“But you want to.”

I feel heat climbing up my neck. “That’s so inappropriate.”

“That’s not a no.” She studies me over the rim of her cup. “Look, I’m not judging. The man is walking sex appeal wrapped in designer suits. But he’s also fucking dangerous, Lea. Like, genuinely fucking dangerous.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of: ‘I know this is a terrible idea but I’m going to do it, anyway’.”

I wince at the insinuation. “This is totally not that . Entirely different,” I insist. “It’s professional.”

Sienna snorts. “Right.”

“I’m being careful,” I promise, though the words feel hollow. How careful can I be when I’ve already crossed so many lines I once considered uncrossable?

We finish our coffees, chatting about safer topics, like her upcoming article, the latest fail by some celebrity, the super high rent on Sienna’s new apartment. For twenty precious minutes, I almost feel like a normal person.

“I should get going,” she says eventually, checking her watch. “Deadlines crisis waits for no woman.” She stands, gathering her things. “Same time Tuesday? Or will you be too busy with your ‘professional’ assignment?”

“I’ll be here,” I say, hoping it’s not a lie.

She hesitates, then leans down to hug me. “If you need to talk, like…really talk, I’m here. No judgment, just listening. Not just work stuff, you know.”

“I know.” My throat tightens. “Thanks, Sienna.”

After she leaves, I order another coffee, not ready to face my empty apartment yet. The caffeine jitters through my system, but I welcome the artificial alertness. Sleep has become a luxury I can’t seem to afford, not when every time I close my eyes, I see Nico’s face, or worse, feel his hands on me.

I pull out my laptop, determined to make some progress on my article. The document stares back at me, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a paragraph about Nico’s connections to city officials. I’ve been careful to encode certain details, using initials instead of names, creating a system only I can decipher. The real names and connections are stored in my head, ready to be inserted once the article is safely filed.

As I type, I feel the weight of someone watching me. The sensation prickles, raising the fine hairs on my arms. Slowly, I glance up.

A man sits by the window, pretending to read a newspaper. His worn shoes are scuffed at the toes. Our eyes meet before he hastily looks away, his discomfort too obvious to be professional surveillance. Something about his posture, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers clench the paper, sets off warning bells in my head.

I save my document, close my laptop, and gather my things with deliberate calm. Then, instead of heading for the door, I approach his table.

“Are you following me?” I keep my voice quiet but firm, channeling the confidence I’ve seen Nico use to disarm opponents.

The man flinches, gaze darting around the café as if mapping escape routes. He’s younger than I initially thought, maybe early thirties, with nondescript features that would blend into any crowd.

“Not exactly,” he mumbles, reaching into his jacket pocket.

My body tenses, preparing to run, but instead of a weapon, he withdraws a folded piece of paper. He thrusts it into my hand, his fingers cold and damp against mine.

“You are in danger,” he murmurs. “Your mother is not what she seems.”

Before I can respond, he slips past me and out the back door, moving with the efficiency of someone used to quick exits. I stand frozen, the paper clutched in my fist, as his parting words linger in my head.

Heart pounding, I unfold the note. The same warning is scrawled across the page in jagged handwriting. I stare at the words, uncertainty crawling through me like ice water.

Moretti claims one thing about my mother; now this random man offers a warning about her. What do I believe? The criminal who threatened me, or the stranger who just ran away? Both? Noone?

A chill traces my neck. I dart outside, scanning the crowded sidewalk, but the man has vanished, swallowed by the sea of pedestrians rushing through their Friday routines.

I pull out my phone and call my mother, pacing in tight circles as I wait for her to answer. The connection clicks after four rings.

“Lea? Is everything all right?” My mother’s voice is clear but cautious.

“Mom, where are you right now?” I demand, skipping pleasantries.

“In my office, preparing for a department meeting. Why?”

There’s an odd reverberation in the background, like an announcement over a PA system. My journalist’s instincts buzz with wrongness.

“What’s that noise?”

“Campus construction,” she explains in haste. “They’re renovating the east wing. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s a lie. I’ve visited her campus office dozens of times over the years; construction announcements don’t carry through the building like that. It sounds more like an airport or train station.

“Mom, are you really at the university?”

“Of course I am.” Her tone sharpens with irritation. “Lea, what’s going on? Why are you questioning me?”

I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “Someone approached me today. They said you might be in danger.”

A pause…too long to be natural. “That’s ridiculous. You’re being paranoid again. I’m perfectly safe.”

“Are you sure? Because between this and Moretti’s comments last night?—”

“Lea, listen to me.” Her voice drops, turning urgent. “Stay away from Moretti. And be careful around Varela. Just get what you need for your expose, and then get the hell out. Their world isn’t a game, and no story is worth risking your life for.”

“But Mom?—”

“I have to go. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

The line goes dead before I can protest. I stare at my phone, frustration and fear tangling in my chest. My mother never used to keep secrets from me. After my father died, it was just the two of us against the world, a team. When did that change?

I imagine the worst, my mother being involved in something dangerous, something connected to both Nico and Moretti. But what? Her research is theoretical and academic. She studies power structures and political systems, not?—

Unless it’s not just research.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. What if my mother’s work is a cover for something else? What if her frequent international conferences aren’t what they seem?

Stop it, I tell myself. You’re spiraling. Eunji Song is a respected academic with a thirty-year career. She’s not some secret operative.

But the doubt has taken root, sprouting tendrils of suspicion that wrap around memories I’d never questioned before. The late-night phone calls in Korean, that stopped when I entered the room. The unexpected trips that never quite aligned with published conference schedules. The visitors who came to our house when I was a child—serious-faced men and women who spoke in whispers with my parents.

Drained and distracted, I finally head home, desperate to check my notes for any missed connections. Maybe there’s something in Nico’s business dealings that intersects with my mother’s research. Maybe the key to understanding all of this is buried in the files I’ve already compiled.

I climb the three flights to my apartment, muscles protesting after too many sleepless nights. The hallway is quiet, most of my neighbors at work or school. I dig for my keys, planning to make a fresh pot of coffee and spread my notes across the living room floor like I used to do in college when tackling a complex story.

The lock turns, and I push the door open, then nearly drop my keys at the sight that greets me.

Nico Varela is perched on my sofa, relaxing like it’s the m ost natural thing in the world. He looks up from his phone as I enter, dark eyes opaque.

Anger and adrenaline spike in my veins, washing away my exhaustion. I slam the door behind me, dropping my bag on the floor with a thud.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage.

He rises in one fluid motion, tucking his phone into his pocket. “You weren’t answering your texts.”

“So you picked my lock?” I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. “What are you, a glorified stalker?”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

“I was concerned,” he says, voice calm. “After Moretti’s appearance last night, certain precautions seemed prudent.”

“Precautions like breaking into my apartment?”

“I didn’t break in. I have a key.”

The casual admission steals my breath. “You have a key to my apartment? Since when?”

“Since you became a potential target.” He steps closer, and I back up against the door. “Moretti doesn’t make idle threats, Lea. His interest in you, and your mother, is cause for serious concern.”

The mention of my mother sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. I think of the stranger’s warning, the note a heavy weight in my pocket. Your mother is in danger. Varela is not what he seems.

“I can take care of myself,” I insist, though the words sound hollow even to my ears.

“Can you?” He gestures around the apartment. “Your locks are substandard. Your windows don’t have proper security. You live alone on a floor with minimal foot traffic. If Moretti wanted to get to you, there’s very little stopping him.”

“And what about you? What’s stopping you from—” I cut myself off.

His expression darkens. “From what, Lea? Hurting you?” He steps closer, voice dropping low. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it long before now.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to understand the situation you’re in.” Another step forward. “To recognize that my protection isn’t some arbitrary restriction I’ve placed on you. It’s the only thing keeping you from becoming collateral damage in a war you know nothing about.”

“A war?” I repeat, latching onto the word. “What war?”

He grunts, a rare gesture of frustration. “Do you have any idea how many actual wars I’ve prevented in this city? How much bloodshed I’ve stopped by creating structure where there was chaos?” His voice rises, an unusual crack in his perfect control. “I’m a saint compared to what others do.”

The raw conviction in his eyes disarms me. I’ve never seen him like this before, passionate, almost desperate to be understood. I realize with a jolt that he believes this narrative he’s constructed where he’s the reluctant hero standing between chaos and order. It’s jarring to witness someone so intelligent, completely blind to the destruction that follows in his wake.

“Then tell me about it,” I challenge, stepping forward. “Let me write the authentic story. Not just about the negotiations and the deals, but about what drives you. About this ‘war’ you’re fighting.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? You claim to be the good guy?—”

“I never said I was good,” he cuts in, voice hard. “Just necessary.”

“Fine. Necessary. Then let me understand why.” I take another step closer. “Let me in, Nico.”

His eyes drops to my mouth, and the air between us changes.

“Who was the man you spoke to at the café?” he asks.

My breath catches. Of course he knows. Of course he was having me followed.

“No one,” I lie. “Just someone who recognized me from the paper.”

His hand shoots out, catching my throat in a gentle but firm grasp. Not squeezing, just holding. Asserting dominance. My muscles lock, a sudden paralysis rooting me to the spot. Fear coils tight in my gut, yet beneath it, heat spreads through my limbs, making my knees threaten to buckle.

“Don’t lie to me, Lea,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the point beneath my jaw. “It never ends well.”

I should push him away. I should be terrified. Instead, I’m transfixed by the intensity in his eyes, the heat radiating from his body so close to mine.

“I’m not—” My protest dies as his grip tightens.

“You are,” he insists. “I can feel your pulse racing. You only do that when you’re lying or when I’m touching you.”

The words hang in the air, charged with implications neither of us has voiced until now. I swallow hard, feeling the movement against his palm.

“Nico—”

Whatever I was going to say is lost as his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is ferocious. All teeth and tongue and pent-up hunger. My back hits the door as he presses against me, one hand still at my throat, the other tangling in my hair. I should resist, should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I kiss him back with equal fervor, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I can reach. He tastes like coffee and mint and something darker, something uniquely him. The world spins away until there’s nothing but this—his mouth on mine, his body pinning me to the door, the low growl in his throat when I bite his lower lip.

Then, abruptly, he tears himself away. We stand there, breathing hard, staring at each other in the sudden, stark silence. His pupils are blown wide, a flush high on his cheekbones. I must look just as wrecked—lips swollen, hair mussed where he grabbed it.

He steps back, smoothing his shirt. If not for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, he might appear unaffected.

“We’re going out,” he says, voice clipped and final. He crosses to the sofa and picks up a remote, flicking on my TV as if nothing just happened between us. “You have half an hour, Lea. Dress appropriately.”

I stand frozen by the door, heart hammering, mouth still tingling from his kiss. He won’t look at me again, his attention locked on the news scrolling across the screen. The abrupt shift leaves me reeling, caught between fury at his presumption and lingering desire that makes my body hum like a plucked string.

With a shaky breath, I realize I’ve got no choice but to comply. Whatever game we’re playing, he’s determined to control the next move. I straighten my shoulders, forcing steel into my spine.

My half-hour starts now.