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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lea
I jolt awake. For a disorienting moment, I can’t place where I am, the bed is too large, the sheets too soft, the silence too complete. Then memories flood back in a rush: Nico’s men at my office, the warning about Moretti, being whisked away to this luxury safe house.
And last night. God, last night.
My hand moves to the empty space beside me. The sheets are cool to the touch. He’s been gone for a while. I close my eyes, remembering the heat of Nico’s mouth against mine, his hands sliding beneath the borrowed shirt, lifting me against the wall with effortless strength. The way my body betrayed me, arching into his touch despite every rational thought screaming to maintain distance.
The journalist in me, the one with ethics and professional boundaries, is horrified. The woman in me, however, is something else entirely.
The rich aroma of coffee pulls me from my rumination. I slide from bed, tugging the white dress shirt down over my thighs. My reflection in the full-length mirror stops me short. Tousled hair, bare legs, face flushed red. I barely recognize myself.
What are you doing, Lea?
I should be maintaining professional distance. This man breaks people’s fingers over business disputes. He systematically terrorizes rivals. He’s the subject of my story, not some romantic prospect. Yet here I am, wearing his shirt, sleeping in his bed, letting him press me against walls with my full participation.
The bathroom provides temporary sanctuary. I splash cold water on my face, attempting to wash away the lingering heat of last night’s encounter. The woman in the mirror stares back accusingly.
After using the fancy toothbrush provided, I steel myself and follow the coffee scent to the kitchen.
Nico stands by the expansive windows, already impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. His attention is fixed on a document in one hand, coffee in the other. The morning light casts his profile in sharp relief, all angles and controlled power. He doesn’t look up, though I know he’s registered my presence.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly hyper aware of my bare legs and disheveled appearance. His shirt barely reaches mid-thigh, leaving me feeling more exposed than if I were actually naked. The vulnerability grates against my nerves.
When he glances up, his eyes linger on my legs before meeting my gaze. Satisfaction flickers across his expression, before it’s masked by casual politeness.
“Sleep well?” he asks, as if we hadn’t been moments away from fucking against the living room wall last night.
I cross my arms over my chest, hating the heat that rises to my cheeks. “Fine.” I move toward the coffee maker, focusing on the simple task to avoid his penetrating stare. “Any news about Moretti’s men?”
“They’re still watching your apartment.” He sets his document down, giving me his full attention. “Marco brought your things earlier. There’s a bag over there with clothes and toiletries.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, pouring coffee into a sleek white mug. The surreal normalcy of the action feels absurd given our circumstances.
He moves closer, invading my personal space with that deliberate confidence that sets my nerves on edge. “We’ll need to stay here another day, at least until I’ve addressed the Moretti situation.”
I take a step back, coffee clutched between my hands like a shield. “And what does ‘addressing the situation’ involve? More broken fingers? Ear slicing?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing that would make it into your article.”
The reminder of my professional purpose lands straight. I’m here for a story. Yet last night, I’d forgotten that completely when his hands were on me.
“Speaking of which,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, “I should work on my notes. Is my laptop in that bag too?”
He nods. “Everything you requested. I’ll be on calls most of the morning.” He steps closer, fingers brushing a strand from my face with deliberate gentleness. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Before I can formulate a cutting response, his phone rings. He answers without breaking eye contact, his voice shifting into that cool, authoritative tone reserved for business. I use the opportunity to grab the bag, and escape back to the bedroom, coffee sloshing close to the rim of my mug.
An hour later, I’m showered and dressed in my own clothes: jeans and a simple black blouse Marco retrieved from my apartment. The normalcy of my attire provides a thin veneer of control I need.
I set up my laptop at the dining table, opening the document that contains my evolving article on Nico Varela. The cursor blinks against the white background, waiting for words I can’t seem to form.
The facts are all there: his systematic control over Chicago’s criminal landscape, his connections to legitimate businesses, the way he brokers peace between rival factions. I have more firsthand material than any journalist has ever gathered on him.
Yet my fingers hover, paralyzed above the keyboard.
If I write about the warehouse meeting where he sliced off a man’s ear, I will expose his methods. If I detail the way politicians and business leaders flock to his club seeking favors, I implicate dozens of powerful people. If I describe his surveillance network, I compromise operations that while morally questionable, actually prevent bloodshed.
And if I’m honest about how deeply I’ve become involved, I destroy my credibility.
I close my eyes, massaging my temples. When did this become so complicated? When did I start weighing Nico’s safety against journalistic integrity?
The answer comes unbidden: When you let him touch you. When you kissed him back. When you started noticing the real man beneath the monster.
“Fuck,” I mutter, opening my eyes to the damning blank page. This is exactly what they warn about in Journalism Ethics 101, getting too close to your subject, losing objectivity, compromising your reporting.
I force myself to type, documenting the meeting at Purgatorio where Nico broke the guitarist’s fingers. The words come mechanically, devoid of the emotional weight of witnessing such casual violence. I describe the facts but omit my reaction at how I’d been both horrified and fascinated by the methodical way he’d administered punishment.
The resulting paragraph reads like a police report, not the vivid, insightful journalism I pride myself on.
I highlight and delete it all with a frustrated jab at the keyboard.
Through the glass doors to the balcony, I can see Nico pacing as he gestures during a phone call. His back is to me, giving me a rare moment where he isn’t watching, analyzing, calculating.
My gaze drifts to his open laptop on the coffee table.
The journalist in me stirs, awakening from the stupor of confused attraction. Information is what I came for. Information is power. And I’ve been handed an opportunity to gather it without Nico’s careful curation.
I glance at the balcony again. Nico remains engaged in his call, seemingly aggravated in a rare display of frustration.
Before I can second-guess myself, I move to the coffee table and angle the screen so I can see it clearly while monitoring the balcony door.
His computer desktop is organized, folders labeled by date and subject matter. One catches my eye: “Song, L.”
My stomach plummets. A folder with my name.
I click it open, dreading what I’ll find while unable to resist the pull of truth.
The folder expands to reveal dozens of files, surveillance photos, documents, and emails. With trembling fingers, I open the first image file.
It’s a photo of my apartment. From inside my bedroom. Taken while I was sleeping.
Nausea churns as I click through more files. Photos of me in the shower. At my desk. On my couch reading. Moments I thought were private, exposed to Nico’s cold scrutiny. Even videos. My vision blurs; the room seems to tilt.
But it’s worse than simple surveillance. There are psychological assessments, detailed reports analyzing my personality, identifying vulnerabilities, predicting my reactions to various scenarios. Notes on my relationship with my mother, my new friendship with Sienna, even my coffee preferences and sleep patterns.
The violation is so profound I feel physically ill.
I force myself to keep going, opening an email folder. What I find there shatters what little composure I have left.
Emails between Nico and the publisher of Chicago Investigating Journal. Discussing my assignment. Planning it. The “higher up” order to select me for the Varela exposé wasn’t an editorial interest in my amazing fresh talent. It was Nico pulling strings, manipulating my career for his purposes.
Everything, my big break, my proud calls to my mother, my confidence in my professional abilities, all of it was his elaborate construct. A puppet master pulling strings while I danced, thinking it was my talent moving me forward.
I scroll frantically, finding another folder labeled “Song, E.” My mother. But when I click it, a password prompt appears. Whatever information he has on her is encrypted, protected.
The glass door slides open.
With lightning reflexes, I close the folders and return to my phone on the dining table, pretending to check messages. My blood rushes in my ears, so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
Nico steps inside, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Problems with the article?” he asks, nodding toward my abandoned laptop.
I force a casual shrug, amazed my voice doesn’t shake. “Just organizing my thoughts.” I gesture at my phone. “Checking in with Sienna. She worries.”
He studies me with that penetrating gaze that always makes me feel transparent. Does he know? Can he tell I’ve seen behind the curtain?
“You seem tense,” he observes, moving closer.
Because I just discovered you’ve been manipulating every aspect of these last four weeks of my life, and who knows how much before that, you calculating bastard.
But I don’t say that. The journalist in me, the one who’s spent years learning how to get people to reveal themselves, recognizes this as a turning point. Confrontation would only confirm I snooped and lose my advantage. If I’m going to uncover what’s happening with my mother, why Nico targeted me, I need a fresh approach.
A plan forms, crystallizing with each breath. If Nico manipulates through seduction and false vulnerability, I’ll use the same tactics against him, especially now I have a good idea of what turns him on. He kept those shower pictures for a reason.
I force my shoulders to relax. “Just cabin fever, I guess.” I offer a small smile. “I’m going to shower. Clear my head.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, and returns to his laptop. My stomach turns as I walk to the bathroom, hoping he can’t read the fury and betrayal in the set of my shoulders, the tension in my jaw.
It’s time to turn his own weapons against him.
When I emerge forty minutes later, I’m transformed. I’ve taken extra time with my appearance, my hair blown out to soft waves, minimal makeup that still enhances my features. But the actual change is beneath the surface. I’ve locked away the hurt and betrayal, compartmentalizing them to access the cold calculation necessary for what comes next.
I’ve also shaved every inch of my body in the shower, a detail that won’t be lost on Nico when the time comes.
I find him in the living room, watching a news report about a warehouse fire on the south side. His expression gives nothing away, but the tension in his shoulders tells me it’s connected to his business.
“Everything okay?” I ask, injecting just enough concern in my voice to seem invested without being nosy.
He glances up, eyes tracking my approach. “Just a minor setback with a competitor.”
I settle on the couch near him, not touching, but close enough to suggest growing comfort with his proximity. “Moretti?”
A flicker of surprise crosses his features; he didn’t expect me to connect those dots so easily. “Yes. Nothing to worry about.”
“When do you think I can go back to my apartment?” I ask, making my tone cautious rather than demanding.
“We’ll need to remain here another night,” he says, watching me for a reaction. “Moretti’s men are still monitoring your building.”
Before I knew him, I would have argued, asserted my independence, demanded more information. Instead, I nod.
“I suppose there are worse places to be trapped,” I say with a small smile that suggests growing comfort with our situation.
The flicker in his eyes is subtle but unmistakable, surprise followed by recalculation. He expected resistance.
“You’re taking this well,” he observes, testing my new demeanor.
I shrug, maintaining eye contact. “You were right about the danger. I’ve seen enough to know when to listen to experts.” I use “we” instead of “I” when I add, “Besides, we have everything we need here.”
His expression shifts as he processes this apparent surrender. I’ve studied human behavior enough to recognize when someone is reassessing their approach, adjusting to unexpected data.
We spend the afternoon in a strange dance of proximity and distance. I work on my laptop, careful to write only innocuous notes about club operations that won’t reveal everything I’ve learned. Nico moves between calls and his own work, occasionally checking security feeds or sending cryptic texts.
I catch him watching me several times, that calculating look in his eyes. Good. Let him wonder what’s changed. Let him think his seduction is working.
By evening, we’ve settled into an uneasy domesticity. I help set the table while Nico heats the prepared meals Marco delivered, pasta with a rich tomato sauce for me, something with fish for him. The normalcy of the scene is surreal given what I now know.
Halfway through dinner, Nico excuses himself to use the bathroom. As he stands, I notice his phone remains on the table beside his half-empty wine glass.
The moment he’s out of sight, I grab his phone just as screen illuminates with an incoming message. My journalist’s instinct kicks in before I can stop myself, eyes darting to the preview displayed on his lock screen:
Moretti making move tonight. Three targets identified. Varela property on Michigan Ave. Shipment at docks. Professor surveillance is in progress.
I stare at the message, heart racing. Professor surveillance is in progress. Is he talking about my mother? No, it can’t be.
I try to open the phone, but it requires facial recognition to unlock. The preview is all I can see, and it’s enough to send a wave of dread through me.
The mention raises genuine alarm. If my mother is in some kind of danger, and Nico knows where my mother is, I should immediately agree to do whatever he wants; whatever game we’re playing, my mother’s safety isn’t part of it. But what if it’s not about that? I would give up all my cards at once.
But before I can decide what to do, Nico returns, noticing his illuminated phone. His expression darkens as he reads the message in full. “We have a situation,” he says, already typing rapidly on his phone. “Moretti’s making multiple moves tonight.”
I school my features to show surprise and concern rather than confirmation. “Moves? What kind of moves?”
“Attempting to breach several properties,” he says vaguely, editing the information for my consumption. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
I watch as he retrieves his laptop, issuing instructions to what must be his security team. I note which properties he prioritizes, how he distributes his forces, the cool efficiency with which he responds to threats.
What he doesn’t mention is my mother. He’s keeping that information from me.
For hours, Nico manages the developing situation, occasionally stepping onto the balcony for private calls. I maintain my role as the concerned but trusting companion, offering coffee and asking just enough questions to seem invested without being intrusive.
All the while, I’m cataloging information, noting whom he calls, what locations are mentioned, the hierarchy of his organization revealed through crisis.
The clock ticks past midnight, and the safe-house kitchen feels like a pressure cooker, the air thick with the aftermath of Nico’s ruthless efficiency. He’s just neutralized a threat, some of Moretti’s men, I presume. His commands barked over the phone with a chilling calm that made my skin prickle.
Now, his posture eases, the lethal edge softening as he accepts the whiskey I offer. His fingers brush mine, deliberate, and I catch the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. He’s The Diplomat, always calculating, always in control.
“The immediate threat is contained,” he says, voice smooth as the liquor he sips. “We’ll move to my penthouse tomorrow. It’s more secure now that Moretti knows this location.”
I nod, letting my fingers linger against his as I take my glass, the touch an artful move to draw him in. “You were right,” I say, infusing my tone with admiration, just enough to stroke his ego. “About the danger. About needing protection.”
His eyes narrow, a predator sizing up prey. He sees the shift in me, this new compliant, yielding version of Lea Song, and he’s dissecting it, searching for cracks. I step closer, invading his space the way he’s done to me countless times, my chest brushing his. “I’m not good at trusting people,” I admit, the truth a weapon in my arsenal my father taught me. “But you’ve been right about everything so far.”
Before he can respond, I strike. My lips crash against his, the kiss bold, feigned to disarm. For a split second, he freezes, caught off guard, but then his hand snakes to the nape of my neck, fingers twisting in my hair with a grip that’s anything but gentle. He kisses me back, hard and possessive, claiming my mouth like it’s his birthright.
“Interesting timing,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice a low, dangerous purr. A faint smile curves his mouth, dark with amusement. “After watching me crush a threat, you decide to spread your legs. What does that say about you, Lea?”
His words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting, exposing the raw truth I’m trying to hide. A mix of fear and heat is pooling low in my belly. He’s always analyzing, always one step ahead, peeling back my motives like layers of skin. I lean into the role, letting him think he’s got me pegged.
“Maybe I’m just tired of fighting the inevitable,” I say, my voice husky. It’s a lie wrapped in truth, and I pray he buys it.
His eyes bore into mine, piercing, and for a terrifying moment, I think he sees through me; through the journalist, the spy, the woman playing a dangerous game. Then his mouth descends again, punishing, his tongue forcing mine into submission. He backs me against the kitchen counter, the edge biting into my hips. One hand grips my ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, while the other tugs my hair, tilting my head to expose my throat.
“The inevitability of this was written the moment you walked into my club,” he growls, his lips grazing my pulse point. “Pretending you’re just a journalist? That was cute, piccola. But we both know you’ve been wet for me since I broke that guitarist’s fingers.”
His teeth scrape the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp, the sound authentic as desire floods my core. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this; so raw, so consuming. I’m supposed to be in control, manipulating him, but my body betrays me, aching for his touch.
“I’m still a journalist,” I manage, clinging to my cover even as his hand slips under my blouse, palming my breast through my bra with a roughness that makes me arch.
He laughs, the sound dark and mocking, vibrating against my skin. “Sure you are. And I’m still The Diplomat. But right now, you’re not chasing a story. You’re begging for my cock.”
The crude words should disgust me, but they ignite something primal soaking my panties. He’s right, and I hate him for it. His fingers unbutton my blouse with agonizing slowness, each movement a display of absolute control. He’s not rushed, not desperate; a predator savoring his prey. The black lace of my bra is exposed, and his eyes rake over me, proprietary, hungry.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he commands, his voice low, dangerous, as he traces the edge of my bra, his thumb brushing my nipple through the lace.
“I’m thinking you talk too fucking much,” I snap, reaching for his belt in a bid to seize control, to shift the power back to me.
His hand catches my wrist like a steel trap, squeezing until I wince. “Patience, Lea,” he says, his tone a silken threat. “You don’t get to call the shots.” He pins me against the refrigerator, the cold metal shocking against my back. My wrists are trapped above my head in one of his hands, his grip unyielding. “Tonight, you learn who owns you.”
His free hand traces my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts, to the waistband of my jeans. “I’ve pictured this,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “Stripping you bare, fucking you until you scream my name. You thought you could play me, didn’t you? With those coy looks, that tight little skirt in my club?”
He unbuttons my jeans, the zipper’s slow descent a torture. “You got so wet watching me break that bastard’s hand,” he continues, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Your pulse was racing, your thighs clenched. Don’t lie to me, Lea. Your body tells me everything.”
I try to move, to grind against him, but he holds me still, his strength overwhelming. “You’re getting off on this,” I accuse, trying to sound defiant, but my voice trembles with need.
“Damn right,” he says, his smile wolfish. “And so are you.” His hand slips inside my jeans, finding the soaked fabric of my panties. “Fuck, you’re drenched. What would your readers say, knowing their fearless journalist is dripping for the monster she’s supposed to expose?”
His fingers push the fabric aside, sliding through my slickness, teasing my entrance without entering. I bite my lip, stifling a moan, but a whimper escapes. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “So fucking desperate. Beg for it, Lea. Beg me to fuck you.”
I shake my head, clinging to some shred of pride, but he circles my clit with maddening precision, and my resolve crumbles. “Please,” I whisper, hating myself.
“Louder,” he demands, his fingers stilling.
“Please, Nico,” I gasp. “Take me to the bedroom and fuck me.”
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. He just yanks my jeans and panties down in one brutal motion, leaving me exposed. He lifts me onto the counter, the granite cold against my bare ass, and spreads my thighs wide. “Not the bedroom. Right here,” he says, his voice rough. “Where you can’t hide from me.”
He drops to his knees, his breath hot against my core. “You prepared for me,” he notes, his palm gliding over my shaved skin. “Thought you could seduce me, control me. Cute.” His eyes meet mine, dark with promise. “Let’s see how you taste when you’re lying to me.”
His mouth closes over my clit, sucking hard, and I cry out, my hands gripping the counter’s edge. His tongue is relentless, flicking, circling, while two fingers thrust inside me, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. The dual assault is devastating, his dominance absolute. “Fuck, you’re sweet,” he growls against me. “So fucking wet for me.”
I’m supposed to be playing him, but my body surrenders, my hips grinding against his face. My hands pull him closer, and he groans, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. “That’s it,” he says, his voice muffled. “Ride my tongue, piccola. Show me how bad you need it.”
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, my body convulsing as I scream his name. He doesn’t stop, licking me through every shudder until I’m whimpering, oversensitive. When he stands, his lips glisten with my arousal, and he doesn’t wipe it away, letting me see my surrender.
“Now,” he says, his voice thick with controlled hunger, “we go to the bedroom.”
He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me. The hard length of his cock presses against me through his pants. In the bedroom, he drops me onto the bed, and I watch, breathless, as he strips. His body is a map of violence—scars crisscrossing his chest, muscles honed by brutality. Tattoos everywhere. His cock springs free, thick and intimidating, and I swallow hard.
“Like what you see?” he asks, stroking himself, with his eyes locked on mine.
“Yes,” I admit, as I fight the urge to lick the drop of pre-cum that slides down the tip of his thick cock.
He climbs onto the bed, pinning me beneath him. His cock nudges my entrance, but he doesn’t enter, teasing me with shallow thrusts. “Tell me why you’re here,” he says, his voice a low growl. “In my bed, in my fucking life.”
It’s a trap, but I’m too far gone to care. I touch his face, feigning vulnerability. “To understand you,” I say. “For the story, at first. Now… I don’t know.”
He searches my eyes, and for a moment, I think he’ll call me out. Then he thrusts into me, one brutal stroke that fills me completely, and I cry out, the stretch exquisite. “Fuck,” he groans, his control fraying. “So fucking tight.”
He doesn’t give me time to adjust, pulling out and slamming back in, each thrust harder, deeper. The bed shakes, the headboard slamming against the wall. “You think you’re smart,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips, bruising. “Playing me like I’m some mark. But this—” He thrusts so deep I see stars. “This is what you get for crossing me.”
My nails rake his back, drawing blood, and he hisses, his pace turning feral. “Fuck, yes,” he says, his voice raw. “Mark me, Lea. Show me you feel it.”
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, my body chasing the pleasure despite my mind’s protests. “You’re mine,” he snarls, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my blood rush. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp, the word torn from me as another orgasm builds.
“Damn right,” he growls, his thrusts relentless. “This pussy, this body… it’s mine.”
He shifts, hitting that spot inside me, and I shatter, my scream echoing as my walls clench around him. He follows, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside me, his groan primal, possessive. We collapse, sweat-slick and panting, his weight pinning me to the mattress.
He rolls off, pulling me against him, his arm a possessive band around my waist. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “You’ll need it.”
He thinks he’s won. He thinks I’ve surrendered, fallen for his manipulations, become another asset in his collection.
Little does he know, I’ve just executed the opening move in my counter-strategy. Using the very desire he thought would be my weakness as my strongest weapon against him.