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CHAPTER TWO
Nico
The blade of light slicing through the room catches the edge of my whiskey glass, casting amber shadows across the smooth, cool surface of the polished mahogany table. I turn the glass slowly, watching the interplay of darkness and illumination. It fits. This whole damn city, the clusterfuck brewing for this meeting, even the woman still cooling her heels downstairs. Control. It’s always about control.
Below me, Purgatorio has come to life. The heavy bass, bleeding through even these soundproofed walls, is a distant heartbeat reminding me of the empire I’ve built. Up here, in my private conference room, a different kind of music is about to play. The grating noise of rival egos, forced into line by the only authority they both dread. Me.
And then there was her. Lea Song. Emerging from the elevator lobby just as I arrived. Clutching that manila folder, my folder, placed in her hands as I’d orchestrated through the pliable publisher. The look on her face when she recognized me? Priceless. Fear, yes, but something else beneath it. Defiance? Intrigue? That flicker in her dark eyes, a refusal to simply shatter, sparked something within me. A challenge. Mine. Let her wonder how I knew her name. Let her feel my attention land on her, a pressure point she can’t ignore, before her first day is even an hour old. Good. The game has already started.
I adjust my diamond filled platinum cufflinks, which was a gift from my uncle Alessandro on my thirtieth birthday. “Power,” he had said, “is in the details others miss.” The platinum’s cool presence on my wrists anchors me, physical proof of the authority I wield. I run my finger along the smooth edge, feeling the engraved ‘V’ that marks them as mine. Everything in my world is marked as mine, eventually. Even ambitious junior reporters digging into their fathers' ghosts. Especially them.
The double doors open, Marco conducting his customary sweep before admitting the two sources of my current irritation. Animosity radiates between them, a palpable static charging the air. Diaz barely contains his restlessness; Kostya carries his resentment like a cheap cologne. Inconvenient. Two snarling dogs disrupting the equilibrium, expecting me to settle their backyard squabble. Predictable.
“Gentlemen.” I don’t rise. My stillness anchors the room. “Dispense with the pleasantries.”
Marco closes the door, taking his position. The air crackles with their resentment. Diaz drops into a chair like it owes him money. Kostya lowers himself more deliberately, already composing justifications I have no interest in hearing.
Before either can speak, I cut them off. “Your disagreement,” I state, the word dripping with disdain, “has become a liability. It affects profits, complicates logistics, and worse, it makes noise.” I let that hang in the air. Noise attracts the wrong attention. My attention.
I take a deliberate sip of whiskey; the silence amplifying their failures. Their postures shift as Diaz bristles and Kostya tightens. Good. Let them feel the weight of their incompetence before I provide the solution they don’t have the intelligence to devise themselves.
“Fortunately,” I continue, my voice smooth, “I have formulated a resolution.”
At my nod, Marco places identical folders before them. They open them, scanning the contents. Predictable disbelief flickers across their faces, quickly followed by shock as they realize the depth of information contained within: operational details, vulnerabilities, opportunities they thought secret. My information. It’s always startling to them how much I know.
Kostya protests, a flush rising on his neck. “This doesn’t account for?—”
I arch an eyebrow. The objection dies in his throat. Silence returns, absolute. The speed with which they learn obedience is always informative.
“The terms,” I state, making it clear there will be no discussion, “are not suggestions. They are the new reality. A reality caused by your inability to manage your affairs without disturbing the ecosystem.” A small smile plays on my lips. “You seem surprised I understand the intricacies of your operations so thoroughly. A lapse in judgment on your part.”
I let my gaze drift between them. “My neutrality allows business to function. When that function is disrupted, my solutions become mandatory.”
Diaz, quicker to grasp the inevitable or perhaps just more afraid, reaches for the pen Marco offers. Kostya hesitates for three seconds, his pride warring with the obvious, unspoken threat, before following suit. Pens scratch against paper in the heavy silence.
Marco collects the signed agreements and provides copies. His movements are economical, practiced.
“Your organizations will understand a resolution has been reached.” I rise, the signal for dismissal clear. “Ensure it remains resolved.”
Diaz mutters a hasty thanks, avoiding my eyes. Kostya offers a stiff nod, pride wounded but survival instincts intact. Marco escorts them out.
When the door closes behind them, I take a moment of stillness, as the quiet hum of control restored settles over me.
Marco returns, locking the door behind him. “They’ll hold to it,” he says, not a question but an assessment.
“For now.” I loosen my tie, the only concession to comfort I permit myself during business hours. “Kostya will test boundaries within a month. Have Emilio keep eyes on the northwest hospital supply chains.”
Marco nods, making a note on his phone. Our relationship requires few words; after fifteen years working together, he anticipates my thoughts with unsettling accuracy.
“And the journalist?” he asks, tucking his phone away.
The journalist. Lea Song. The file clutched against her chest like armor. The flash of fear and defiance in her eyes when she recognized me. An unexpected variable, yes, but one proceeding according to plan. “The Publisher delivered. She has the assignment,” I confirm, a smile touching my lips. “Phase one complete. Now we wait.” Her reaction in the lobby was intriguing. She didn’t crumble. There’s fire there, beneath the initial shock. That fire will make her useful. And breaking it will be satisfying.
Marco studies me. “The encounter in the lobby was unplanned. You could have ignored her. Kept her in the dark.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I counter. “Let her know I see her. Let her feel the pressure early on. She needs to understand who holds the board.” I move to the window, gazing down as the city lights ignite against the twilight sky, scattering like jewels on black velvet. My city. My board. “She thinks she’s hunting a story about her father’s ghost. She has no idea she’s walking into a cage I built specifically for her.”
Marco remains silent, knowing better than to question my methods when it comes to manipulation. He’s seen them work too many times.
“Surveillance,” I instruct, turning back from the window. “Full coverage. Her apartment, her communications, her movements.” I pause, considering the most effective way to undermine her confidence, to understand her vulnerabilities. “Also, search her apartment. Discreetly. I want a full inventory of her life. Find out what drives her besides this obsession with her father.” A predatory edge creep into my voice. “And bring me something personal. A journal, maybe. Something that reveals her secrets. I want to know her weaknesses before she even realizes she has them.”
Possessing something intimate, something she believes is hidden, is the first step to possessing her.
Marco nods, the professional mask firmly in place, though I detect a flicker of understanding of the game I’m playing. “And the strategic objective?”
“Remains the same,” I confirm. “Her mother. According to our reliable source, Professor Song is the key to intercepting the Korean pipeline before Dante Moretti locks it down. Lea is our way to control the mother. Ambitious, driven, blinded by pride and vengeance. She’ll chase the breadcrumbs I lay down, thinking she’s uncovering the truth.” I glance toward the city again, the skyline spread out below like my personal playground. “She just doesn’t realize the truth will lead her to where I need her to be. And that she, herself, is a story I’m writing.”
Marco processes this, his loyalty absolute. “How deep do we let her dig before we leverage her?”
“Deep enough for her to believe she’s winning,” I reply, picturing Lea’s defiant eyes. “Deep enough that when I pull the curtain, she won’t just be compromised. She’ll be broken.” A wave of satisfaction settles over me. The game is afoot, and I always win.