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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nico
The bass thrums beneath my fingertips as I press my palm against the unmarked metal door. I can feel it even before we enter, a heartbeat promising secrets, power, and desires best kept hidden from daylight. Beside me, Lea shifts her weight from one heel to another, uncertainty radiating from her despite the confident tilt of her chin.
I knock three times, pause, then twice more. A pattern as old as the establishment itself.
“Is this really necessary?” Lea murmurs, her breath warm against my ear as she leans closer. “The secret knock thing? Another club? Isn’t Purgatorio exclusive enough?”
I smirk, turning toward her. “Purgatorio is where the city sees what I permit it to see, piccola. It’s controlled exposure, a velvet glove over an iron fist. Undertow, on the other hand…” I pause, letting the implication hang before continuing, “this is the fist itself.” She swallows and I give her a second to compose herself.
“This is where the real mechanisms operate, far from any spotlight. Different levels of business require different levels of discretion. Would you prefer we let in just anyone? This place is where politicians mingle directly with syndicate heads. Not exactly the kind of guest list they want publicized.”
“To a journalist like me?” she suggests, the challenge still there.
I shrug with a grin as the door opens. “Precisely.”
Her eyes widen, and I savor the brief flash of alarm that crosses her features. She’s still underestimating what she’s about to witness. Good. The shock value will make tonight’s lesson all the more effective.
A small viewing panel slides open, revealing a pair of watchful eyes. Recognition flashes, and the door swings inward with a well-oiled silence.
“Mr. Varela,” the bouncer murmurs, offering a respectful nod that stops just short of a bow. His gaze slides to Lea, lingering a beat too long for my liking. I feel my jaw tighten, a primal, territorial response I hadn’t anticipated. “Please, come in,” he adds hastily, unhooking the velvet rope that separates the entryway from the main floor.
My hand is on Lea’s back, guiding her forward. The pressure of my palm against the silk of her dress sends a current of awareness up my arm. I’ve touched countless women with this same practiced gesture, yet something about the heat of her skin through the thin fabric feels different. More consequential. Or maybe I just need to get fucking laid?
We step from the dimly lit entry corridor into the main space of Undertow, Chicago’s most exclusive club that doesn’t officially exist. The air feels different here, scrubbed clean of outside signals. Dim neon lights cast everyone in flattering shadows, while low, throbbing music provides both ambiance and convenient cover for conversations not meant for recording devices.
Lea’s fingers grip my forearm, her nails pressing through my suit jacket. Not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor herself as she takes in the scene before us.
The club sprawls in elegant decadence. Plush velvet booths line the perimeter, many obscured by sheer curtains that provide privacy. A gleaming onyx bar stretches along one wall, staffed by bartenders whose discretion is worth more than the top-shelf liquor they pour. The central dance floor is thick with bodies moving to a beat that’s felt more than heard, while the elevated VIP section offers the perfect vantage point to observe without being observed.
But it’s not the opulent surroundings that have Lea clutching my arm, it’s the clientele. The faces here weren’t just the city’s elite mingling with known associates; these were the shadow puppeteers themselves. International players, heads of families usually only whispered about, men and women, whose presence together in any public space, could trigger federal investigations.
“Is that…?” she breathes, nodding toward a booth where Chicago’s deputy mayor leans in close to a woman notorious for running the city’s most lucrative escort service.
“Yes,” I answer, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. “At Purgatorio, he might avoid direct contact with certain associates. Down here, pretenses are dropped. Deals require direct conversation, regardless of titles held in the daylight.”
Everywhere we look, the lines between legitimate and criminal blur to nonexistence: a renowned banker shares cigars with the head of the Ukrainian syndicate; a federal judge laughs at something muttered by a money launderer who handles cash for three different organizations; a celebrated philanthropist discusses “investment opportunities” with one of Moretti’s lieutenants.
This is my true domain, not the polished nightclub upstairs where I maintain my public persona, but this underground realm where real power flows like the whiskey in everyone’s glasses. She needed to see this layer. To understand that the deals done over champagne upstairs are merely reflections of the actual power brokered down here in the dark.
“Tell me,” Lea murmurs, leaning closer to be heard over the music. “Why would you show me this? Isn’t this the kind of thing that would destroy you if it came out in my article?”
I guide her toward the bar, signaling the bartender with a subtle gesture. Without a word, he slides two crystal tumblers of amber liquid toward us.
“That depends,” I reply, lifting my glass in a small toast before taking a sip, “on whether you think exposing this would help or harm Chicago.”
Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Look around, piccola.” I gesture with my free hand. “What do you see?”
“Corruption,” she says. “Collusion. Crime.”
I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “I see peace.”
She jerks back, skepticism etched across her features. It’s this, her stubborn refusal to accept easy narratives, that first drew me to her. That, and the fire in her eyes when she challenges me.
“Peace?” she repeats. “You call this peace?”
“Before I established this place, these same people met in back alleys, in warehouses where bodies could be buried, in locations where violence was the first resort, not the last.” I take another sip, letting the whiskey burn a path down my throat. “Here, they sit five feet apart. They drink the same liquor. They remember they’re all human beneath their various titles.”
Lea’s gaze sweeps the room again, this time with more calculation than shock. I can almost see her reassessing, questioning her initial judgment. Good. That’s exactly what I want her to see beyond black and white morality into the complex shades of gray where I operate.
“And what’s your role in all this?” she asks. “What do you get out of it?”
Before I can answer, a waiter materializes at my elbow, leaning in to murmur, “Ms. Vega has arrived. She’s asking for you in the VIP section.”
I nod my acknowledgment, then turn back to Lea. “Isabel Vega doesn’t attend fundraisers or public nightclubs. Our discussion requires a level of discretion even Purgatorio can’t guarantee. This neutral, untraceable ground is the only place she’ll discuss matters of this sensitivity. You’re about to find out what my role is.”
We weave through the crowd, my hand never leaving her back. I feel her tense slightly as we approach the roped-off VIP area, where a woman sits alone in a corner booth, swirling an amber drink in a crystal glass.
Isabel Vega, liaison for one of Colombia’s most sophisticated cartels, radiates lethal grace in her tailored black pantsuit. Diamond studs wink from her earlobes, the only ornamentation she permits herself, apart from the custom Beretta I know is holstered against her ribs. Her black hair is pulled back in a sleek twist, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.
She rises as we approach, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nico,” she purrs, the accent of her native Medellín adding texture to the word. She leans in for the customary cheek-to-cheek greeting.
“Isabel,” I respond, matching her formal warmth. “May I introduce Lea Song? She’s shadowing me for a journalistic piece.”
Isabel’s eyebrows rise fractionally. “A journalist? How unexpected.” Her gaze slides to Lea, sharpens, and lingers perhaps a beat too long, her assessment shifting from neutral curiosity to something more focused, appreciative. I feel an unwelcome flicker—irritation? No, a disruption. Control slipping. “Especially given our shared aversion to publicity,” Isabel finishes, her eyes still holding Lea’s.
I feel Lea stiffen almost imperceptibly beside me, preparing for rejection. Instead, she extends her hand with perfect poise.
“Ms. Vega,” she says smoothly. “I assure you, my focus is on understanding complex power dynamics, not exposing individuals. Mr. Varela has been quite clear about the boundaries of what I can report.”
Isabel’s smile warms slightly as she accepts the handshake, her thumb brushing lightly across Lea’s knuckles. Another flicker inside me, this one colder. A possessive instinct I refuse to name. “Has he now? How fortunate for all of us.” She gestures to the booth. “Please, join me. I’m curious what kind of journalist earns Nico’s trust. And catches his eye. They’re typically such messy creatures.”
We slide into the plush semicircular booth, Isabel deliberately indicating Lea should sit between us. Strategic, yes, but it also places Lea closer to her . I signal for fresh drinks, then settle back, draping one arm casually along the back of the seat behind Lea. Not touching, but reinforcing my claim, my presence.
“I was just telling Nico about some potential investment opportunities in the shipping sector,” Isabel continues, her attention ostensibly on business, though her gaze keeps drifting back to Lea. “The Panama expansion has created interesting openings.”
“Shipping?” Lea inquires, her tone neutral, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent. “That seems rather conventional for a private meeting in an underground club.”
Isabel’s laugh is crystal sharp. “Conventional investments rarely require such discreet negotiation, Ms. Song.” Her smile, when directed at Lea, is notably brighter. “But perhaps you understand that better than most, given your mother’s expertise in international relations.”
I feel Lea’s body tense beside me, though her expression betrays nothing. Impressive control. I hadn’t mentioned Eunji Song to Isabel, which means she’s done her homework on Lea. The depth of that research now feels pointed.
“My mother’s academic work focuses on theoretical power structures,” Lea replies evenly. “I doubt it has much application to shipping investments.”
“Theory and practice often intersect in surprising ways,” Isabel counters, swirling her drink, her knee subtly brushing Lea’s under the table. Accident? Unlikely. Isabel is never careless. “Much like journalism and…what shall we call it? Mediation?”
I intervene before Isabel can push further, steering the conversation back to firmer ground while subtly increasing my proximity to Lea, my shoulder now a breath away from hers. “Isabel has been exploring alternative routes for certain specialty imports,” I explain. “The challenge is ensuring these routes remain uncontested.”
Understanding flickers in Lea’s eyes. “And you provide that assurance,” she says.
“For a fee,” I confirm.
“What happens if the guarantee fails?” Lea asks, looking directly at Isabel, seemingly unaware of the subtle proprietary game being played around her.
A beat of silence. “Then we would have a very different conversation,” Isabel says, her smile never wavering, though her eyes briefly meet mine over Lea’s head, a silent challenge. “But Nico’s guarantees rarely fail. That’s why he commands such respect.”
Lea nods. “And these specialty imports,” she continues, “they must be quite valuable…”
Isabel’s gaze flicks to mine, amusement dancing there. “Your journalist has a talent for understatement, Nico.” She turns back to Lea, leaning slightly closer to her. “Let’s just say the markup makes the risk worthwhile.”
The conversation flows, but I track Isabel’s focus. While discussing shipping schedules and port security, her attention is almost entirely on Lea. She listens intently when Lea speaks, her questions occasionally veering toward the personal veiled as professional curiosity. Lea handles it beautifully, deflecting with skill, yet I feel a low growl building in my chest. Not jealousy. It’s control. Isabel is attempting to engage my asset on her own terms.
Lea's intelligence is arousing, her quick grasp of the subtext impressive. But Isabel’s appreciative glances, the way her gaze lingers on Lea's mouth when she speaks – it's grating.
“Your distribution network in the university district,” Isabel redirects to me, pulling my attention back. “Has it recovered…?”
The question pulls my attention back to business. She’s referring to Moretti’s recent encroachment on territory I’ve long kept neutral.
“The situation is being managed,” I reply, my tone cooling several degrees. “Temporary fluctuations in market share are to be expected in any enterprise.”
Isabel’s dark eyes glint. “Of course. I merely wondered if our mutual friend’s ambitions might affect our arrangement.”
“Dante Moretti’s ambitions are precisely that, his alone.” I keep my voice level despite the surge of irritation the name provokes. “My guarantees remain solid.”
“Good to hear.” Isabel sets down her glass with a decisive click. “Then I believe we have an understanding about the first shipment.”
I incline my head in agreement, recognizing the natural conclusion of our business. Isabel stands, elegant as a jungle cat. She extends her hand first to me, then turns to Lea, holding her hand perhaps a fraction longer than necessary.
“Ms. Song, it’s been truly enlightening,” she says, her smile directed solely at Lea now. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time? Discuss market dynamics further?”
Lea rises to the occasion. “I always strive for accuracy within the constraints of my agreements,” she replies politely, subtly sidestepping the invitation while meeting Isabel’s gaze.
Isabel’s smile widens. “A diplomatic answer worthy of your companion.” She finally turns to me. “She’s quick, your journalist. And quite captivating. I see why you keep her close.” The possessive pronoun grates. She is mine to keep close.
With that parting observation, she glides away. I watch her go, calculating, yes, but also suppressing the urge to physically mark Lea as mine in front of the entire room. This possessiveness is inconvenient, a potential vulnerability. I dismiss it. Control is paramount. Satisfied that the primary business objective was achieved, I return my attention to Lea.
She’s staring after Isabel, a complicated mix of emotions playing across her face. Fascination, apprehension, curiosity… and perhaps a touch of flattery she hasn't yet processed.
“You just helped arrange a drug shipment, didn’t you?” she asks quietly.
I don’t insult her intelligence by denying it. “I facilitated a business transaction between interested parties,” I correct. “The specific cargo is not my concern.”
“But you know what it is.”
“I know many things, piccola. Knowledge is currency in my world.”
She turns to face me, challenge sparking in her dark eyes. “And what am I supposed to do with what I’ve just learned? Write about how Nico Varela brokers cocaine deals in his underground club while politicians drink at the next table?”
“You’ll write what serves the greater truth,” I reply, placing my hand at the small of her back once more. The contact sends that same current of awareness through me. “Which might not be the same as reporting every detail you witness.”
I guide her away from the VIP section, feeling the subtle resistance in her posture. She’s conflicted. Torn between her journalist’s instinct to expose and her growing understanding of the complex ecosystem she’s witnessing.
“Come,” I say, changing tactics. “There’s more to Undertow than business negotiations.”
We move through the crowd until we reach the sunken dance floor. Here, the music is louder, the bass vibrating through the floorboards and up into my bones. Lasers slice through a low haze of smoke, illuminating bodies moving in sinuous rhythm. The energy here is primal and sensual.
Lea hesitates at the edge, her eyes darting across the throng of dancers. The press of bodies, the heavy throb of music, the swirl of perfumes and colognes and sweat, is an assault on the senses designed to lower inhibitions and heighten physical awareness.
I grasp her hand, my fingers encircling her wrist. “Dance with me,” I say. Not a request, more a gentle command.
She looks up at me, uncertainty flickering across her features. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Then something shifts in her expression, a decision made, a boundary crossed.
Without waiting for further invitation, I lead her onto the floor. The crowd seems to part instinctively, creating space around us as though sensing the electric charge between us. I position us near the center, where the bass is strongest, and the lights cast alternating shadows and brightness across her face.
I settle one hand on her waist, drawing her close until our bodies align. She’s rigid at first, her frame tense against mine. I can feel her warring impulses, the desire to maintain distance battling the need to blend in with the surrounding crowd.
“Relax, piccola,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let the music guide you.”
She exhales, a small shudder running through her as she surrenders. Not completely, but enough that her body loosens against mine. We move together, finding a shared rhythm as the DJ transitions between tracks. Her hips sway, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence as she acclimates to our proximity.
The song shifts to something slower but more sensual; a pulsing electronic beat layered with breathy vocals in a language I don’t recognize. The tempo invites closer contact, more intimate movement. I slide my thigh between her legs, a deliberate escalation that draws a sharp inhale from her.
Her eyes fly up to meet mine, surprise and something darker swimming in their depths. I hold her gaze as I guide her hips with my hands, forcing her to move against me in a way that mimics more primal rhythms. Her body responds even as uncertainty clouds her features. Such a beautiful contradiction.
“Your mind may resist,” I say, splaying my fingers across her lower back and drawing her closer until I can feel every curve pressed against me. “But this doesn’t lie.”
A telling tremor runs through her, and I watch her pupils dilate in the flickering lights. Her lips part, breath coming faster, as our bodies move in synchronized motion. The heat between us builds with each beat of the music, with each slide of fabric against fabric.
For a moment, I imagine taking this further. Backing her against one of the shadowed walls, sliding my hand beneath the hem of her dress, discovering if she’s as affected by our dance as the flush on her chest suggests. The image is so vivid it sends desire straight through me, and I tighten my grip on her waist to steady myself as much as her.
Lost in this fantasy, I almost miss the figure watching us from the edge of the dance floor. My gaze flicks over Lea’s shoulder, and recognition is instant. He’s tall, angular, wearing a dark, well-cut suit, with the deliberate stillness of someone accustomed to observing undetected. It’s the same man from the surveillance photos with Professor Song. Marco hasn’t been able to identify him despite exhaustive research.
The stranger lifts his glass in a subtle salute, his eyes never leaving mine. The gesture carries unmistakable meaning: acknowledgment between players in the same game. Then he melts back into the crowd, disappearing as smoothly as he appeared.
I stiffen, protectiveness surging through me with unexpected intensity. This man’s presence here, tonight, cannot be coincidence. Either he’s following Lea, or he’s following me. Neither option sits well. And his connection to Eunji Song complicates matters further.
Lea senses the change in me. “What is it?” she asks, trying to turn to see what caught my attention.
I tighten my hold, preventing her from looking. “Nothing,” I lie. “Just someone I’d rather avoid discussing business with tonight.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she notices how tightly I’m now holding her, how possessively my body curves around hers. A question forms in her expression, but the music swells before she can voice it.
“Come with me,” I say, not waiting for her response as I lead her from the dance floor toward a narrow corridor flanking its edge.
The passage is dimly lit and lined with alcoves, each separated from the main hallway by heavy curtains that provide varying degrees of privacy for couples or small groups seeking escape from the club’s energy. I guide her toward one at the far end. It’s not completely secluded, but discreet enough for what I have in mind.
She follows, unsteady from our dance, or perhaps from the tension still crackling between us. When we stand amidst the subdued lighting and plush cushions of the alcove, she looks up at me with questioning silence.
Heart still pounding from our dance and the unwelcome observer, I crowd her against the velvet-padded wall. The thick curtain conceals us from passing glances, creating a pocket of relative privacy amid the club’s controlled chaos. My gaze sweeps over her, taking in the flush that extends from her cheeks down her neck, the way her dress clings to her skin where a light sheen of perspiration makes the silk adhere to her curves.
I lean in, allowing my lips to hover just above her throat. I can feel her pulse hammering beneath the delicate skin, smell the intoxicating blend of her perfume and natural scent. When I make contact, the lightest brush of my mouth, she gasps, her hands flying up to grip the lapels of my jacket.
I trail kisses along the column of her throat, each one a deliberate tease. Her grip on my jacket tightens, her body arching toward mine despite her obvious effort to maintain control. I revel in it, this delicious contradiction of resistance and surrender, the way she fights her own desire even as it overwhelms her.
My hands slide to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough pressure to leave marks, a primal part of me wants to brand her, to ensure that long after tonight, she’ll carry physical reminders of this moment. I nip at the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder, drawing another sharp inhale from her.
I’m about to deepen the kiss, to taste more of her skin, when voices pass nearby, a reminder that we are, in fact, in a public space, surrounded by people who would pay close attention to any hint of weakness or distraction on my part.
I pull away, noting the flicker of disappointment and confusion that crosses Lea’s face. I smooth my expression, affecting a coolness I don’t feel as I step back.
“Don’t forget your purpose,” I admonish, though whether I’m reminding her or myself is unclear. “You came for a story, not this.”
The words come out harsher than intended, half-sneer, half-warning, a desperate attempt to regain control over both her reactions and my own spiraling hunger. Something flashes in her eyes, hurt, perhaps, or anger at being reminded of the transactional nature of our arrangement.
I lead her out of the alcove, straightening my jacket with practiced nonchalance. As we emerge back into the main corridor, I cast one last glance at her parted lips, the lingering flush on her cheeks, the slight tremble in her hands as she smooths her dress.
The evidence of her desire only confirms what I already know: she’s close to craving this world, and me, more than she dares admit. It should bring me satisfaction, a sense of victory in my careful seduction.
Instead, as we make our way back toward the club’s main floor, I’m unsettled by the intensity of my response to her. This is to be a detached game, another move in the complex strategy surrounding Eunji Song and Moretti’s ambitions.
Is it become something more?
The question lingers, unanswered, as we step back into the pulsing heart of Undertow, where secrets and desires swirl like smoke beneath the surface of Chicago’s power structure and where, I’m realizing, I might be in danger of losing control of the very game I’ve mastered for so long.