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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nico

The security feeds stream across six different monitors, each displaying a different angle of Purgatorio’s main floor. I relax in my chair, fingers steepled as I track the movements of a particular guest, a city councilman with gambling debts who’s been making noise about increased police presence in my territory. His nervous glances toward the VIP area tell me he received my message. Good. One less problem to manage.

My office is silent except for the soft hum of electronics and the occasional ice cube settling in my whiskey. This is where I’m most comfortable, surrounded by information, watching the pieces move across my board, orchestrating from a distance. The dim lighting casts everything in shadow, the way I prefer it. Darkness has always been where I excel.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts.

“Come in,” I say, not taking my eyes off the monitors.

Marco enters and closes the door behind him, waiting for permission to approach. I appreciate this discipline, the understanding that every interaction follows a protocol.

I wave him forward.

“They’ve marked her apartment,” Marco says, sliding several surveillance photos across my desk.

I pick them up, my face betraying nothing as I examine the images. One of the twins photographing entry points to Lea’s building. Mapping security cameras. Timing the doorman’s breaks. Methodical. Professional. Exactly what I’d expect from Moretti’s men.

My jaw tightens. Not from concern for Lea’s safety, but from the cold fury at Moretti’s audacity.

“He’s targeting my assets now,” I state, my voice calm despite the rage building underneath.

Marco nods, understanding the distinction. This isn’t about me going soft on Lea. She’s a chess piece in my larger strategy to control the drug trade flowing through Chicago. Lea Song is valuable precisely because of her connection to her mother and the university pharmaceutical pipeline I’ve been tracking for months. Moretti daring to touch what’s mine is unacceptable.

I rise, buttoning my suit jacket.

“Have the car ready. And initiate Protocol 4 for the safe house on Michigan Avenue.”

“Already on it,” Marco replies, falling into step behind me as I stride toward the door.

“And Marco,” I pause, hand on the doorknob, “double the surveillance on Professor Song’s associates and communications. I want to know the moment she makes contact from her ‘research’ trip. If Moretti is making a move on the daughter, he might try to reach the mother as well.”

I don’t wait for his acknowledgement. It’s unnecessary. In fifteen years, Marco has never failed to execute my orders as intended.

The Chicago Investigative Journal occupies the third floor of a converted warehouse in the West Loop. The space is industrial, exposed brick, steel beams, concrete floors, as if the architectural rawness might somehow translate to journalistic integrity. I find the aesthetic pretentious, much like the profession itself.

Heads turn as I cross the open newsroom, conversations faltering mid-sentence. My reputation precedes me, as always. I’ve cultivated this effect over the years, the blend of respect and fear that compels people to seek my notice while dreading it.

I spot Lea at her desk in the corner, hunched over her keyboard, oblivious to my arrival. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face as her fingers fly across the keys. I stand beside her, not announcing my presence, simply waiting to be acknowledged.

One by one, her colleagues notice me looming over her workspace. Their stares eventually alert her to my presence. She looks up, surprise flashing across her features before she masks it with practiced indifference.

“Nico,” she says, as if my appearance in her workplace is perfectly normal. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to go. Now.”

She frowns, glancing at her screen. “I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait twenty minutes?”

“No.” The single word carries enough weight to silence whatever argument she was preparing. Something in my expression must communicate the urgency, because she saves her work and closes her laptop without further protest.

As she gathers her things, I scan the room. At least three people are already on their phones, no doubt sharing the news that Nico Varela collected the junior reporter who’s been shadowing him. By tomorrow, the rumors will have evolved into something far more salacious. Good. Let them talk. Public perception is another tool in my arsenal.

In the elevator, I position myself close to her, using proximity as both intimidation and protection. She presses herself against the wall, creating distance. I can smell her perfume. It’s becoming recognizable to me now, this scent that means Lea.

“Moretti’s men are planning to take you,” I explain as we descend. “That would be inconvenient for my plans.”

Her eyes widen. “Take me? You mean kidnap me?”

“Yes.” I see no reason to sugarcoat the reality. “They’ve been surveilling your apartment building for the past thirty-six hours. Establishing patterns. Identifying vulnerabilities.”

She swallows hard, absorbing this. “And you know this because?”

“Because I have people watching your building too.” I don’t mention that my surveillance predates Moretti’s by several months. Some details are best kept private.

The elevator doors open, and I guide her through the lobby, my hand touching her back. She doesn’t pull away, which tells me the threat of Moretti has already accomplished what weeks of careful manipulation couldn’t: made her acknowledge her dependence on my protection.

My driver has the car waiting, engine running. I usher Lea into the backseat before sliding in beside her. The vehicle pulls away from the curb, following the evasive route I’ve established for high-security transports.

“Where are we going?” she asks, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield.

I don’t answer, instead watching the city blur past the tinted windows. We take three unnecessary turns, double back twice, and drive through a parking garage before emerging onto Lake Shore Drive heading north. Standard protocol to ensure we’re not followed.

I observe Lea’s reflection in the window glass. Her composure is admirable, hands steady, breathing controlled, eyes alert. But there are tells for those who know how to look: the slight tension around her mouth, or the almost imperceptible bounce of her right knee. She’s frightened but refuses to show it. This combination of vulnerability and strength continues to intrigue me, though I’m careful not to let the interest become a liability.

After twenty minutes of silence, the car pulls up to a sleek high-rise overlooking the lake. The doorman is one of my people, though he’s on the building’s official payroll. He give me a subtle nod as we enter the marble lobby. In the private elevator, I press my thumb to the biometric scanner and enter a six-digit code.

“Where are we?” Lea asks as the doors slide open to reveal a private foyer.

“Somewhere Moretti can’t reach you,” I answer, unlocking the apartment door.

I walk in first, performing a habitual scan of the space even though I know it’s secure. The apartment is immaculately designed, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Chicago’s skyline, Italian leather furniture in shades of gray and black, minimalist art on the walls. The air is still, cool, carrying the faint, sterile scent of professional cleaning. Nothing personal, nothing that could reveal anything about me or my tastes. It’s designed to be impressive without being informative.

Lea steps inside, taking in the luxurious surroundings. “This is yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I remove my suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. “The bedroom’s through there.” I gesture down a hallway to the right.

“Bedroom?” she echoes, her expression sharpening. “Singular?”

A slight, predatory smile curve my lips. “This is a safe house meant for one occupant. You’re here on my sufferance.”

The implication hangs in the air. She owes me for this protection, and payment will be expected. Whether that debt will be collected in information, cooperation, or something more physical remains deliberately ambiguous.

She swallows, chin lifting in that defiant gesture I’ve come to recognize. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” I say, rolling up my sleeves, “we wait for Moretti’s next move.”

I’ve established additional surveillance displays in the living room, creating a command center that gives me visual access to the building’s exterior, elevator bank, stairwells, and lobby. A separate feed shows Lea’s apartment building, where two of Moretti’s men remain stationed in a black SUV across the street.

Lea watches me work from her perch on the edge of the sofa, arms crossed defensively. She’s been quiet, processing the rapid shift in circumstances. I prefer her this way, observing rather than questioning, though I know it won’t last.

“Moretti’s targeting you to get to me,” I explain, voice detached as I adjust a camera angle. “You’re seen as my property now.”

She bristles at the word “property,” as I knew she would. “I’m not anyone’s property.”

“Perception matters more than reality in these situations.” I don’t bother looking up from the monitor. “You’ve been seen with me at multiple locations. You’ve been granted access to conversations and meetings no outsider would normally witness. As far as Moretti is concerned, that makes you either very valuable to me or a significant vulnerability.” I turn to face her. “Possibly both.”

Her eyes narrow, processing the implications. “So I’m what…bait? Leverage?”

“You’re a journalist who made a deal for exclusive access,” I remind her. “That access comes with certain complications.”

I continue setting up the security system, outlining the situation with deliberate thoroughness. “The building has armed security. The elevator requires biometric access for this floor. The windows are bulletproof.” I notice her glancing toward the door. “You could leave if you wanted. I’m not your jailer. But Moretti’s men are watching your building already.”

The message is obvious: her choices are my protection or Moretti’s brutality.

She stands, pacing the length of the window wall, arms still wrapped around herself. “How long do I need to stay here?”

“Until I’ve addressed the situation with Moretti.” I don’t offer a timeline because I have no intention of providing one. Uncertainty is a powerful tool for maintaining control.

“And what exactly does ‘addressing the situation’ entail?” She turns to face me, backlit by the city lights behind her.

I manage a cold smile. “Nothing that would interest a legitimate journalist.”

She holds my gaze for a moment before looking away first, a small victory that satisfies something primal in me. She’s learning the hierarchy, whether she realizes it or not.

“I need my laptop,” she says. “And clothes. Toiletries.”

I nod toward a closet by the entryway. “Marco will retrieve your essentials from your apartment tonight. In the meantime, there are basic supplies in there.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You keep women’s toiletries in your safe house?”

“I keep necessities in all my properties,” I correct her. “Preparation is the cornerstone of effective contingency planning.”

* * *

As evening settles, the tension between us shifts into something more complex. Sharing space creates an artificial intimacy, a forced familiarity that serves my purposes perfectly. Moretti’s move against Lea confirms the situation is escalating, and Marco’s preliminary reports suggest the threat might extend to me. Until we have a clearer picture of Moretti’s intentions and capabilities, lying low in this secure location is the only prudent course of action, despite the inconvenience. This forced proximity, however inconvenient for business, has its advantages when it comes to Lea.

I order dinner from an exclusive restaurant that rarely delivers or allow takeout, another display of my influence that doesn’t go unnoticed by Lea.

Throughout the meal, I study her with predatory interest, cataloging her unconscious habits: the way she touches her collarbone when uncomfortable, how her eyes scan for exits, the slight furrow that appears between her brows when she’s thinking deeply. Each observation is filed away for future use, potential pressure points to exploit when necessary.

“Why this place?” she asks after the dishes have been cleared away.

I consider my answer, deciding to offer a crafted truth. “Because nobody knows about it. Except Marco, of course.” I watch her process this information, the subtle widening of her eyes showing she understands the significance.

“Is protecting me supposed to tell me I’m special?” Her tone is sarcastic, defensive.

I shrug, deliberately casual. “Maybe just that you’re useful. For now.”

The ambiguity is intentional, keep her off-balance, uncertain of her status, eager to prove her value. It’s a tactic I’ve employed countless times in negotiations, creating an atmosphere where the other party seeks approval they can never fully attain.

Night falls, and with it comes a different tension. I sit on the sofa, reviewing security feeds on my tablet. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of running water from the bathroom where Lea has retreated to shower.

I scroll through Marco’s latest updates. Moretti’s men have expanded their surveillance to include the newspaper offices. They’re looking for her, which confirms my suspicion that this is a targeted operation rather than opportunistic intimidation. Moretti is playing a longer game, one that likely involves Professor Song and whatever arrangement she’s making with the Koreans.

The bathroom door opens, and Lea emerges wearing only my white dress shirt, water darkening patches of the thin fabric where it clings to her still-damp skin. Her legs are bare, hair wet and slicked back from her face. The sight hits me with unexpected force, desire surging hot and immediate.

I set the tablet aside, giving myself time to assess the strategic value of this moment. This attraction is a tool, nothing more. A means to deepen her attachment, to create another layer of control.

“I didn’t have anything else to wear until Marco gets here with my stuff,” she explains, tugging self-consciously at the shirt’s hem.

I rise from the sofa and approach with measured steps, like a predator stalking prey. Her eyes widen, but she stands her ground, chin lifting in that characteristic defiance that has become strangely appealing.

“We need to discuss what happens next,” I say, my voice lower than intended.

I reach out, checking the bruise on her arm from Vincent. My touch lingers longer than necessary, tracing the discolored skin. Her arm is warm beneath my fingers.

My hand to slide up her arm to her neck, thumb tracing her jawline with deliberate slowness. Her breath hitches, pupils dilating as she looks up at me.

“Tell me to stop,” I challenge, giving her a choice even as my other hand settles on her waist, drawing her closer.

She doesn’t pull away as expected. Instead, she leans into my touch, a response that sends a jolt of triumph through me. Not affection, I don’t deal with such weaknesses, but satisfaction at her surrender. This is what I’ve been cultivating since our first meeting: the gradual erosion of her resistance, the slow-building dependency that will make her an effective tool in my larger strategy.

I kiss her, claiming rather than connecting. My hands slide beneath the shirt to find warm skin, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the jut of her hip bones. Her response is immediate and gratifying, fingers clutching my shirt, body arching into mine.

I back her against the wall, lifting her. Her legs wrap around my waist as the kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more consuming. I’m still calculating every move, gauging her responses for future leverage, even as my body responds with genuine desire. She’s a means to an end, but a pleasurable one.

My phone vibrates in my pocket with Marco’s urgent code, three short beats, pause, two long. Years of discipline make me check it, though I don’t disengage from Lea. Her soft moan as I shift against her nearly derails my focus, but the screen shows a code for critical intelligence: 8-5-3.

My mind shifts from conquest to strategy in an instant. This code indicates intelligence that could alter operational parameters, not something Marco would interrupt for unless absolutely necessary.

“I have to take this,” I say, voice rough but mind already refocusing on business.

I set Lea down with visible reluctance. Her eyes are dazed, lips swollen from my kisses, the shirt rucked up to reveal the lace edge of her underwear. The image burns into my memory, fuel for later, but for now, discipline reasserts itself.

I move to the windows, putting distance between us as I return Marco’s call. My expression hardens into the stony mask of The Diplomat, previous desire compartmentalized. This separation of function is second nature to me, the ability to switch between roles without emotional bleed-through is what makes me effective.

“What do you have?” I answer.

Marco’s voice is crisp, professional. “Found the professor. Surveillance picked her up in DC, meeting with some Koreans. But there’s more. Dante Moretti’s lieutenant was in the background, monitoring the meeting.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “Send me the photos.”

“Already did. Check your secure server.”

I end the call and access the encrypted files. The images are clear despite the low light, Professor Eunji Song in animated conversation with a man I’ve identified as connected to the Korean embassy. And there, obscured by a pillar but unmistakable, is Matteo Rizzo, Vincent’s brother.

This confirms my suspicion that Eunji Song is coordinating something between Korean interests and Moretti’s organization, a distribution channel for the fentanyl derivatives that have been flooding Chicago’s streets. But something doesn’t add up. Why would the South Korean government get involved with drug distribution?

I examine the attaché’s face closely His credentials check out. He’s registered with the South Korean embassy, but there’s something in the body language between him and Professor Song that suggests a deeper connection. A shared purpose beyond diplomatic pleasantries.

The implications enhance Lea’s value as leverage exponentially. She’s not just bait for Moretti, but the key to controlling whatever pipeline her mother is establishing and uncovering what appears to be an international conspiracy. If Moretti could indeed secure the Korean connection before me, the balance of power in Chicago will shift dramatically.

I add a note to have Marco dig deeper into Professor Song’s background. Perhaps there are inconsistencies we’ve overlooked. Something that would explain why a respected academic would risk everything to coordinate with known criminals.

“Keep this contained,” I instruct Marco in a follow-up text. “No one else sees these.”

I lock the phone and turn back to find Lea watching me from across the room, arms wrapped around herself again, uncertainty clear in her posture. She’s waiting for me to explain, to continue what we started, but the moment has passed. The strategic landscape has shifted, requiring recalibration.

“Business,” I say, offering no further explanation.

I move past her to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. My mind is clear, calculating the new variables.

I splash cold water on my face, cooling the heat that still lingers from Lea’s touch. Earlier desire is now secondary to strategic objectives. Moretti’s knowledge of the Professor’s involvement changes everything. Using Lea to get to her mother remains the plan for me, but with higher stakes now that I know Moretti has the same objective. Except, Moretti’s version is cruel. If Moretti captures Lea, he will cut her up bit by bit, and return her in pieces to Professor Song until she complies with his commands.

Is Lea aware of her mother’s connections? Possible, but unlikely given her genuine confusion about Moretti’s interest in her. She’s either an exceptional actress or genuinely ignorant of her mother’s extracurricular activities.

I dry my face, decision made: accelerate the timeline, deepen her emotional dependence, then leverage that attachment to access her mother’s operation. The seduction is no longer merely convenient, it’s necessary intelligence gathering.

When I emerge from the bathroom, the apartment is quiet. I find Lea already asleep in the queen bed. I know I could flip her like a switch. The kisses we’ve shared so far prove it. Her body responds to mine instinctively, a chemical reaction she can’t seem to control despite her intellectual resistance. There will be plenty of time for full-scale seduction, for dismantling every one of her defenses, for finding all of Lea’s breaking points and exploiting them for my purposes.

My cock hardens at the thought of all the ways I will control her, binding her resistance until only need remains, obscuring those defiant eyes until she sees only me, guiding her until she inevitably begs for my touch. The fantasy is vivid and arousing, but with stoic willpower, I shift my thoughts to tomorrow’s business matters.

I remove my shirt and trousers, leaving only my boxer briefs, and slide into bed beside her. She stirs, but it doesn’t wake, her breathing remaining deep and even. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, mind cycling through contingencies and scenarios.

Moretti’s move against Lea. Professor Song’s meeting with the Koreans. The potential pipeline for pharmaceutical-grade fentanyl. The leverage points these connections create.

Each piece fits into the larger puzzle of control I’m assembling. And at the center of it all is the woman sleeping beside me, blissfully unaware that her journalistic ambition has placed her at the nexus of a power struggle that extends far beyond Chicago’s criminal underworld.

I turn my head to study her profile in the dim light filtering through the windows. She looks even younger in sleep, vulnerable in a way she never allows when conscious. It’s a reminder that for all her sharp intelligence and stubborn courage, she’s still just a pawn in this game, a valuable one but a pawn, nonetheless.

My phone vibrates once with a final update from Marco for the night: “All secure. Moretti’s men still at primary location. No movement at secondary sites.”

I set the device on the nightstand and close my eyes, allowing my body to rest while my mind continues processing. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new opportunities to advance my position. And Lea Song will be right where I want her, isolated, dependent, and increasingly entangled in my web.