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CHAPTER TWENTY

Lea

I step under the scalding spray, a hiss escaping between clenched teeth as water hits sensitive skin. Every movement is a reminder. Muscles I didn’t know I had protest, small pains blossoming in unexpected places. I brace myself against the shower wall, unsure if my legs will hold me.

This wasn’t just rough sex like these last few days. Today was something else entirely, a demonstration of power that went beyond physical domination. The calculating coldness in his eyes when he flipped me over, the precise way he applied pressure, knowing how much would hurt without leaving lasting damage. This wasn’t passion; it was methodical.

I reach for the soap, lathering it between trembling hands. As I wash, I catalog every mark, every ache, not just as evidence of what happened, but as data points in understanding Nico Varela. The man I thought I was manipulating revealed something primal tonight, something beyond the controlled exterior he typically presents.

Even now, the journalist in me takes notes.

My throat feels raw from his squeeze and sounds I don’t remember making. I close my eyes under the spray, trying to process all the sensations still going through my body. Behind the soreness and discomfort lurks something more complicated, a response I’m reluctant to acknowledge.

There had been moments, brief, disorienting flashes, when pain transformed into something else. When his controlled brutality had triggered responses in me, I never knew existed. When I’d found myself pressing toward rather than away from his punishing grip.

That realization is more unsettling than any physical discomfort.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting water run down my back. “You can handle this,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve been through worse.”

Have I, though? The question floats unbidden.

I shut off the water with more force than necessary, wrapping myself in one of his soft towels. Who am I? The ambitious journalist? The scheming seductress? The willing participant in whatever just happened on that bed?

All of them, I decide. And yet, somehow, none of them.

Back in the bedroom, Nico sleeps soundly, his face relaxed in a way it never is while conscious. I study him from the doorway, this man who just dismantled me piece by piece. In sleep, he looks almost vulnerable, a dangerous illusion.

I know what I have to do. Retreat isn’t an option, not with Moretti’s threats hanging over my head, not with my mother’s safety at stake, not with the story of a lifetime still unfolding. I’ve ventured too far into the labyrinth to turn back now.

No, I need to be smarter. More strategic. The game has escalated, and so must my approach.

I move to the dresser, retrieving a t-shirt. The soft cotton slides over my marked body, falling to mid-thigh. I could sleep on the couch, part of me wants to, but that would be a tactical error. Instead, I slip back into bed, careful not to touch him.

The mattress dips as I settle in, and I stiffen as Nico stirs beside me. His eyes remain closed, but his voice, thick with sleep, fills the darkness.

“Your lip is split.”

I touch the tender spot where he bit down too hard earlier. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” His eyes open now, focusing on me with surprising clarity for someone just waking. “You’ll need to conceal it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I keep my voice neutral, though my heartbeat quickens.

He shifts onto his side, studying me in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “We have an event. Private gathering at the club. International interests. High-profile.”

My mind races. An event means witnesses, visibility, information. “What kind of event?”

“The kind where appearances matter.” His fingers reach out, brushing my swollen lip with unexpected gentleness. “This won’t do.”

I resist the urge to flinch away, forcing myself to remain still under his touch. “I’ll handle it.”

“See that you do.” His hand moves from my lip to my hair, stroking it with deceptive tenderness. “You’ll need to look the part.”

“The part of what, exactly?” I dare to ask.

His smile in the darkness makes my stomach clench. “My companion. My chosen partner. The woman with exclusive access to my world.”

The word ‘exclusive’ hangs between us. It’s what I wanted, access no other journalist has obtained. But the price keeps rising.

“I’ll have something appropriate delivered for you to wear,” he continues, his hand now trailing down my neck to my shoulder, tracing the outline of bruises he left there. “Something that covers these. For now.”

The implication being that next time, perhaps, he won’t be so considerate.

“What am I walking into, Nico?” I ask, steadier than I feel. “Who will be there?”

His fingers pause their exploration. “People who can open doors. Or close them permanently.” He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “People who know things.”

Ice floods my veins. “What are you talking about?”

But he’s already pulling away, settling back onto his pillow. “Get some sleep, Lea. Tomorrow will require your full attention.”

I lie rigid beside him, mind spinning. Is it a threat? A lure? More manipulation?

I slide further under the covers, wincing as the movement awakens fresh aches. Nico’s breathing has already deepened again, but I don’t trust his apparent return to sleep. He’s shown me plenty times that nothing about him is as it seems.

* * *

I sip my champagne, letting the bubbles dance across my tongue as I observe the room through lowered lashes. The five-star hotel’s private event space vibrates with quiet power; an exclusive gathering of international figures whose wealth and influence cast long shadows across both legitimate and shadowed realms. The lighting is dim, casting everyone in the most flattering glow while concealing the subtle tells that might reveal too much.

My midnight blue dress whispers against my skin as I shift my weight, the fabric chosen by Nico, modest enough to be taken seriously, revealing enough to mark me as his. The bruises from last night’s “lesson” remain concealed beneath the high neckline, my split lip artfully camouflaged with makeup.

I catch fragments of conversation around me: shipping routes discussed in the same breath as stock portfolios, political shifts mentioned alongside supply chains. Every sentence seems to carry double meaning, and I’m recording it all in my mental notebook.

“Impressed?” Nico materializes beside me, one arm sliding possessively around my waist. His touch ignites a conflicting storm of responses, desire and wariness, comfort and alarm.

“It’s quite the gathering,” I reply, careful to keep my voice neutral while leaning into his touch, a purposeful response that affirms his ownership for any watching eyes. “The mayor’s chief of staff speaking so openly with that shipping magnate from Singapore is particularly interesting.”

Nico’s lips quirk upward, approval glinting in his dark eyes. “You notice the right details. Good.”

The praise shouldn’t warm me, but it does, a pavlovian response I’m struggling to control. Four weeks ago, I was an ambitious new journalist chasing a career-making story. Now I’m playing girlfriend to Chicago’s most dangerous power broker while trying to unravel his connection to my increasingly mysterious mother.

And my body still aches from how thoroughly he claimed me last night.

“The Korean delegation arrives in twenty minutes,” Nico murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. “Stay close when they do.”

I nod, taking another sip of champagne. “Should I prepare to be invisible or engaging?”

His fingers trace small circles at the small of my back. “Observe first. Take part if invited. These men respect intelligence but resent presumption, especially from women. Balance the line carefully.”

“I always do,” I remind him, meeting his eyes.

Something flashes in his eyes, pride mixed with caution. He’s still recalibrating after last night, when I proved I could match his brutal honesty with my own. When I acknowledged that we’re both using each other while refusing to back down.

My phone buzzes in my clutch, three short beats that signal a message from Sienna, my only remaining tether to the normal world. I’ll check it later, when Nico is occupied. For now, I need to focus on navigating this landscape of predators in bespoke suits.

“Varela.” A silver-haired man approaches, hand extended. “A pleasure to see you outside of negotiation rooms.”

Nico’s posture shifts subtly, straightening, hardening, though his smile remains perfectly calibrated. “Senator Harrington. I didn’t expect you until later.”

I recognize the name. Senate Intelligence Committee, three terms, rumored to be eyeing a presidential run. What’s he doing at a gathering of international business interests with known criminal connections? The journalist in me practically salivates at the potential story.

“Plans change,” Harrington replies with practiced affability before turning to me. “And who is your charming companion?”

Nico’s hand tightens at my waist. “Ms. Lea Song. A journalist working on a profile piece.” The way he phrases it, not quite a lie, not fully the truth, reminds me how skilled he is at operating in gray areas.

I extend my hand, channeling the poise my mother drilled into me since childhood. “Senator. Your work on the Pacific Rim Security Act was quite illuminating.”

Surprise flickers across the senator’s features before settling into appreciation. “You follow international policy?”

“Among other things,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “The implications for trade agreements with Korea were particularly interesting, especially regarding pharmaceutical exports.”

It’s a deliberate probe, watching for reactions. Nico’s fingers press warning into my side, but I maintain my pleasant smile. The senator’s eyes narrow before he chuckles.

“Ms. Song, you’re better informed than most policy advisors on my staff.” He turns to Nico. “Careful with this one, Varela. Beauty and brains. That is a dangerous combination.”

“I’m well aware,” Nico responds, voice carrying an edge only I can detect.

The senator excuses himself to greet another guest, and Nico steers me toward a quieter corner of the room. His grip is firm but not painful, a controlled display of displeasure.

“That was bold,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Mentioning Korean pharmaceuticals to a man whose committee oversees international drug enforcement.”

I meet his gaze. “I’m doing what you brought me here to do, observing while gathering information. Unless you’d prefer I stand silently and look pretty?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, the only sign that I’ve struck a nerve. “There’s a difference between intelligence and recklessness, piccola.” The endearment sounds like a warning. “The senator has significant interests in maintaining certain trade relationships. Probing them directly is unwise.”

“Then perhaps you should be more specific about which questions I’m allowed to ask,” I counter, keeping my voice sweet while my eyes challenge him.

Before he can respond, a ripple of subtle movement sweeps through the room. Conversation volumes lower as all eyes shift toward the entrance. The Korean delegation has arrived.

The group is smaller than I expected, three men and one woman, all impeccably dressed. The woman’s gaze is sharp, assessing. They move with practiced coordination, the oldest man ahead as their apparent leader.

“Mr. Park,” Nico greets the leader, stepping forward with calibrated deference. “Welcome to Chicago.”

The older man inclines his head. “Mr. Varela. Your hospitality is appreciated.” His English is perfect.

“May I introduce Ms. Lea Song,” Nico continues, drawing me forward.

I bow slightly, enough to show cultural awareness. “?????,” I greet them in Korean. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Mr. Park’s eyebrows rise, reassessing me. “You speak Korean, Ms. Song?”

“Poorly,” I admit with a self-deprecating smile. “My mother insisted on teaching me, but I fear I’ve neglected practice.”

“Your mother is Korean?” asks the woman in the delegation, her gaze suddenly more intense.

“Yes,” I reply, watching for their reactions. “Eunji Song. She’s a professor at Chicago University.”

A look passes between the delegates so quickly I almost miss it, confirming my suspicion that my mother’s academic work intersects with their interests.

“Professor Song is highly regarded,” Mr. Park says. “Her work on shadow economies provides valuable insights.”

Nico touches me, a silent signal to tread carefully. I heed the warning, steering the conversation to safer topics. The exchange continues for several minutes, a masterclass in saying nothing while appearing engaged.Nico guides the conversation toward their real purpose.

“Perhaps we should discuss the proposal in more private settings,” he suggests, gesturing toward a door I hadn’t noticed before.

Mr. Park nods, but his gaze lingers on me. “Will Ms. Song be joining us?”

The question surprises me. Nico recovers instantly. “That would be unusual for these discussions.”

“But perhaps valuable,” counters the Korean woman, studying me. “A fresh perspective.”

“While Ms. Song’s insights are always appreciated,” Nico replies, “these particular matters require absolute discretion among primary parties. I’m sure you understand.”

Mr. Park smiles, accepting the polite refusal. “Of course. Business requires certain protocols.”

Nico nods to me. “Enjoy the party, Lea. I won’t be long.”

I watch them disappear through the private door, my mind buzzing. They know my mother. They were interested enough in me to research me. What exactly are they discussing in there? The implication of “specialty pharmaceuticals” and “shadow economies” hangs heavy in the air.

I mingle for a while, gathering snippets of conversation, observing the power dynamics, but my thoughts keep returning to the Koreans and my mother. What is she involved in?

Sometime later, the delegation emerges from the private room. As they pass me on their way out, the Korean woman pauses.

“Your mother speaks of you often,” she says, her voice pitched for my ears alone. “She would be proud of your poise today.”

Before I can respond, she glides away, leaving me frozen with shock and confusion. My mother speaks of me to these people? Enough for it to be “often”? The implications make my head spin.

Nico is pulled into conversation with another group. I touch his arm. “I need a moment,” I murmur, nodding toward the ladies’ room.

He studies me before nodding. “Don’t be long.”

I weave through the crowd, maintaining a composed exterior while my thoughts churn like a storm-tossed sea. The women’s restroom is luxurious. To my relief, it’s empty.

I lean against the counter, releasing a shaky breath as I mutter to myself, gripping the cool marble. “You need clarity, not panic.”

What I need most is to contact my mother, to demand answers about her connection to these people. But that will have to wait. For now, I need to process what I’ve learned and maintain my composure long enough to get through the evening.

I head to one of the stalls, needing a moment of complete privacy to collect myself. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, closing my eyes. My chest feels tight, each beat a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from the relative safety of normal journalism into a realm where information isn’t just power, it’s life and death.

My mother knows these people. They know her, not just as an academic but as someone involved in their operations. And they know about me. The realization sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me.

I take several deep breaths, forcing my racing thoughts into order. Whatever she’s involved in, I need to approach it methodically. Gather information, connect dots, identify leverage points. The investigative process is familiar territory, even if the stakes have escalated beyond anything I anticipated.

After using the facilities, I linger a moment longer, mentally preparing to return to my role as Nico’s attentive companion. When I emerge from the stall, the sight that greets me stops my breath mid-beat.

Dante Moretti leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. The air seems to crackle around him, heavy with something dangerous.

In the men’s bathroom, this would be strange enough. In the women’s restroom, it’s beyond alarming. It’s threatening. I freeze, adrenaline flooding my system as instinct screams danger.

“Ms. Song,” he greets me, voice casual as though we’re meeting at a coffee shop. “Don’t look so frightened. If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t see me coming.”

The statement does nothing to calm my racing heart. I straighten, forcing steel into my backbone as I step toward the sink furthest from him. “Mr. Moretti. This is unexpected.”

“Is it?” He watches me through the mirror as I wash my hands with deliberate care, pretending a composure I don’t feel. “I think we both know this conversation was inevitable.”

I meet his gaze in the reflection, refusing to show weakness. “I wasn’t aware we needed to have a conversation.”

He smiles, a predator’s expression that never reaches his eyes. “Varela’s latest playtoy should know what game she’s playing in.”

“I’m not his toy,” I counter, reaching for a towel to dry my hands. The slight tremor in my fingers betrays me.

“No?” Moretti pushes away from the counter, taking a step closer. “Then what are you? His confidante? His partner? His weakness?”

The last word hangs between us, loaded with implication. I turn to face him, refusing to be cornered against the sinks.

“What do you want, Mr. Moretti?”

He studies me with unsettling intensity, head tilted as though examining a curious specimen. “To offer a warning, out of professional courtesy.”

“Professional courtesy,” I repeat, skepticism clear in my tone. “Why would you extend me any courtesy, professional or otherwise?”

“Not to you,” he clarifies, his smile widening. “To your mother.”

The mention of my mother sends ice through my veins. I struggle to maintain my expression, but something must show in my eyes because Moretti nods, satisfied by my reaction.

“Ah. So he hasn’t told you everything. Interesting.” He takes another step closer, invading my space with deliberate intimidation. “Nico Varela is going down, Ms. Song. I’ve made certain of it. The only question that remains is whether you’ll go down with him.”

I swallow hard, mind racing to process the implications. “Why would you care?”

“I don’t, particularly,” he admits with casual cruelty. “But your mother is a valuable associate. It would be inconvenient if her daughter became collateral damage in Varela’s inevitable fall.”

My breath catches. “What kind of business could my mother possibly have with someone like you?”

Moretti’s expression shifts to something like amusement. “Someone like me? You’re sleeping with Nico Varela. The moral high ground isn’t exactly yours to claim.”

The barb hits its mark, but I push past it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No,” he agrees, checking his watch with exaggerated casualness. “I didn’t.”

I take a risk, stepping closer rather than retreating. “My mother is an academic. A professor of political science. Whatever you think she’s involved in?—”

“Is what Varela is trying to control,” Moretti interrupts, all pretense of amusement vanishing. “Ask yourself, Ms. Song, why is a man like Nico Varela suddenly interested in a junior journalist? Why is he keeping you so close? What does he hope to gain that’s worth the risk you represent?”

The questions strike too close to my own doubts, my own suspicions about Nico’s motivations for bringing me into his world. I struggle to maintain my composure.

“You should return to the party,” Moretti continues, straightening his already-perfect tie. “Your keeper will be looking for you. But remember my warning, Varela’s interest in you has nothing to do with your charm or your body. It’s about what you represent, what you can lead him to.”

“And what’s that?” I demand, voice steadier than I feel.

His smile returns, sharp as a blade. “The same thing I already have, your mother’s cooperation in matters far beyond your understanding.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Choose carefully which puppet master pulls your strings, Ms. Song. Only one of us will still be standing when this is over.”

With that parting shot, he slips out, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and pounding blood.

I grip the counter, force myself to breathe, to think through the implications of what just happened.

Moretti knows my mother. Is doing business with her. And believes Nico is using me to access whatever she’s involved in.

The pieces don’t quite fit, my mother, the dedicated academic, involved with not one but two of Chicago’s most powerful criminal figures? It seems impossible, yet the evidence keeps mounting. First the Korean delegation’s familiarity with her work, now Moretti’s explicit confirmation of their “association.”

I splash cold water on my wrists, a trick my mother taught me years ago to calm a racing pulse. My mother. The woman who raised me alone after my father’s death, who pushed me to excel, who always kept certain parts of her life compartmentalized. Who’s been increasingly distant and secretive in recent months.

Who might be at the center of whatever power struggle is playing out between Nico and Moretti.

I need to find her, to demand answers. But first, I need to get through this evening without revealing to Nico that Moretti approached me. Something tells me that information is valuable currency I should hold on to until I understand more.

After reapplying my lipstick and pinching color back into my cheeks, I exit the bathroom, scanning the room with newfound awareness. The gathering no longer appears elegant and exclusive, it’s a battlefield where invisible currents of power and information flow beneath polite conversation and crystal champagne flutes.

I spot Nico, his tall figure commanding attention even in a room full of powerful people. He’s engaged in conversation with a Japanese businessman, but his eyes find me the moment I emerge, tracking my movement across the room. I wonder if he can read the confrontation on my face, if my mask of composure has slipped enough to reveal the turmoil beneath.

As I approach, Nico extends his hand, drawing me to his side with practiced ease. His fingers interlock with mine, warm and steady.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice pitched for my ears alone.

I smile, the expression not quite reaching my eyes. “Of course. Just needed a moment to freshen up.”

His gaze lingers, searching my face for something, lies, perhaps, or signs of distress. I meet it steadily, revealing nothing. After a beat, he turns back to the Japanese businessman, reintegrating me into the conversation.

“Mr. Tanaka was just discussing the challenges of navigating regulatory differences between markets,” Nico explains, his thumb tracing small circles against my palm, a gesture that appears affectionate but feels possessive, evaluative.

I slip back into my role with practiced ease, making appropriate comments, asking intelligent questions, playing the part of the captivating companion. But beneath the performance, my mind races with new questions and suspicions.

What does my mother know about all this? How deeply is she involved? And most pressingly, is Nico’s interest in me just a means to access her?