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CHAPTER FOUR
Nico
The manila folder lies open, its contents spread across my desk like a map of someone else’s life. Lea Song stares back at me from half a dozen photographs; candid shots captured over the past week. Here she is at a coffee shop, typing like hell on her laptop, that intense crease between her brows. Crossing the street outside her apartment, head tilted up toward the sky during a rare moment of sunshine, a flicker of vulnerability I long to exploit. Leaving the Journal offices late at night, shoulders squared with determination despite obvious exhaustion.
Twenty-three years old. Five-foot-five. Northwestern University graduate, summa cum laude. Daughter of Professor Eunji Song and the late Gene Robert. She immigrated with her parents from England at twelve, after her mother took the Political Science professorship at Chicago University. Interestingly, her mother and father never married, and she took her mother’s last name, Song.
And now, Lea is a pawn in my game. She could end up a potential problem, but I suspect she’ll prove to be more of a fascinating acquisition.
I lift one of the surveillance photos, studying her face closer. It holds a blend of Southern European and Korean features with high cheekbones, full lips that look soft, inviting. Dark, intense, and challenging eyes that reveal an intelligence rarely found in someone so young.
I trace her face. Beautiful. There’s something in her expression, like a fierce, unwavering focus that I’ve seen before, in boardrooms and back alleys alike. The look of someone who believes they can bend the world to their will through sheer determination. Admirable. Dangerous. And ultimately, something I intend to break. The thought sends a low thrum of excitement through me. Recalling her in the lobby, that flash of fear mixed with defiance when our eyes met through the revolving glass, only sharpens the edge of my interest. She didn’t crumble then, either.
“What do you think?” Marco asks from where he stands by the window of my private office above Purgatorio. The club won’t open for another three hours, but the space is already humming with preparation. The staff restocking the bar, security checking systems, bartenders prepping their stations.
I set the photo down and lean back in my chair, reaching for the tumbler of whiskey at my elbow. The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it thoughtfully.
“I think Ms. Song is progressing as expected,” I reply, my voice measured. “Though her research is more thorough than I anticipated. She’s building connections I didn’t think she’d find for weeks.”
Marco snorts. “Journalists. They never know when to quit.”
“That’s what makes them useful,” I remind him, taking a sip of the Macallan 25. The peat and honey notes linger on my tongue as I set the glass down precisely where it had been. “When properly directed.”
I return my attention to the dossier. Marco has been thorough as always. Academic transcripts, social media profiles (sparse, curated), financial records (student loans, modest savings), family connections. The girl’s entire life distilled into paper and pixels, laid bare for my examination.
Her thesis catches my eye: “Power Dynamics in Political Reporting: How Journalists Become Complicit in the Systems They Cover.” I pull it from the stack, flipping through the pages with growing interest. Her analysis of how reporters gradually adopt the worldviews of their sources, how access becomes a form of subtle corruption is remarkably insightful for someone so young.
“She’s smarter than her file suggested,” I murmur, half to myself. “Astute. That could speed up our timeline.” Or make her more difficult to control. The challenge is invigorating.
“Smart enough to realize she’s being manipulated?” Marco asks, crossing his arms.
I consider the question, turning it over in my mind like a curious artifact. Smart journalists are both useful and dangerous. Their intelligence makes them valuable conduits, but also means they might see through the narratives I construct.
“That’s a risk we’ve already accounted for,” I say. “If she connects dots we don’t want connected, we have contingencies. But for now, her intelligence serves our purpose. The more convincing her reporting, the more effectively she’ll lead us to her mother’s operation.”
I continue through the dossier, noting her workout routine: yoga three times weekly, supplemented with kickboxing. Compelling, a fighter beneath the surface, maybe? Her browser history: heavily focused on investigative techniques and Chicago crime statistics. Dedicated. Each detail adds brushstrokes to the portrait forming in my mind, sharpens the focus of my interest.
“What’s the latest on her mother?” I ask, knowing Marco has the most current intelligence.
He moves to the desk, pulling out another folder. “Nothing new. Professor Eunji Song continues her pattern. Weekly meetings with the Korean attaché, followed by encrypted communications we still can’t crack. The university schedule provides perfect cover. No one questions why a political science professor would meet with diplomatic staff.”
I nod, processing the implications. “And the pharmaceutical angle?”
“Three shipments have arrived at the medical research facility where she consults. All legitimate on paper, but our source confirms the manifests have been doctored. Whatever they’re bringing in, it’s not standard research materials.”
The Chicago Investigative Journal assigning Lea to investigate me wasn’t a coincidence. It was my orchestrated first move in a complex game. Her mother’s possible connection to the new fentanyl pipeline is the prize, and Lea herself is my unwitting pawn. Or perhaps, not so unwitting soon.
“Have we confirmed she’s still unaware of her mother’s activities?” I ask.
“She has no clue,” Marco replies. “Her research is focused entirely on you, not her mother. She’s built that wall in her apartment, connecting you to everything from zoning approvals to judicial appointments. Red strings, yellow strings, blue strings—color-coded like a detective show.”
A dark spark ignites at the thought of Marco prowling through her space while she slept, rifling through her private things. That invasion, knowing her secrets. The urge to dominate coils tight within me. “Like I said,” I say, letting a hint of grudging admiration color my tone. “She’s got skills.”
“Dangerous,” Marco counters.
“Perhaps.” I stand, moving to the window that overlooks the empty club below. The soft glow of ambient lighting reflects off polished surfaces, creating pools of shadow and illumination throughout the space. Purgatorio is my creation, my domain. The visible manifestation of my power in Chicago. Lea Song wants to peer behind that curtain. Most would call her naive or suicidal. I find myself intrigued.
“I’ve invited her here tonight,” I say. “Nine o’clock.”
Marco’s head turns. “Already? I thought we were keeping our distance for another week.”
“Plans change,” I reply, turning to face him. “She’s progressed faster than expected. It’s time to escalate.”
Marco reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, clear evidence bag. Inside is a crumpled, wallet-sized photograph. “Almost forgot. Recovered this during the apartment search. As requested, something personal.” He places the bag on my desk.
I pick it up. It’s an old photo, faded and worn at the edges. A younger Lea, maybe fourteen, laughing, sandwiched between her parents. Her father, Gene Robert, his face familiar from the old Journal archives, is looking proud. Her mother, Eunji, a younger version of the woman in Marco’s intelligence files, her smile is not quite reaching her eyes, even then.
“Lea kept this near her bed,” Marco says.
I turn the photo. An inscription on the back, in faded ink: Lea-bug, some truths hide in dark places. Be brave enough to look, but smart enough to know when to turn back toward the light. Your heart is too good for their games. Always, Dad.
I feel a cold, possessive satisfaction. Knowing what drives her, what hurts her most deeply—this is power.
“That’s…sentimental,” Marco observes flatly.
“Useful,” I correct, tucking the bagged photo into my desk drawer. A piece of her history, now under my control. I’ll study it later, dissect the emotions captured within that faded image. For now, it serves as a reminder of the leverage I hold. “Have Damien prepare an Americano with an extra espresso shot, her exact preference, to be served when she arrives,” I instruct Marco. “And make sure Tony and Miguel are working the door.”
Marco pauses at the threshold. “The usual initiation?”
“With a twist,” I reply, returning to my desk to finish my whiskey. “I want to see what she’s made of before I decide how to proceed with the next phase.”
Marco nods, already pulling out his phone to relay the instructions. “And if she fails?”
I consider the question, studying Lea’s face in the photographs once more. There is something compelling in her determination, that fire in her eyes. A quality that would be wasted if extinguished too soon.
“Then we find a more appropriate use for her talents,” I say. “But she won’t fail. She can’t afford to.”
Marco leaves to make the arrangements, and I return to the dossier, spending another hour absorbing every detail of Lea Song’s life. By the time I finish, I know her better than most of her friends do, perhaps better than she knows herself. Knowledge is power. I never enter an encounter without securing every advantage.
* * *
Hours later, I sit in my usual corner booth at Purgatorio, positioned with clear sightlines to both the entrance and the main floor. The club vibrates around me. A low, driving beat thrums beneath the murmur of conversation. Beautiful people in expensive clothes move through the space like exotic fish in a well-maintained aquarium, while my security personnel circulate, their vigilance masked by tailored suits and easy smiles.
A glass of Macallan 18 rests on the table, untouched. A steaming cup of coffee waits next to my whiskey: an Americano with an extra shot, just like Lea Song likes it. Little details matter. They are the foundation upon which control is built.
The high-definition security feed displayed on the discrete screen embedded in my table shows the street outside. Nine o’clock approaches, and I’m curious whether she’ll arrive on time or succumb to the temptation to appear fashionably late; a common mistake among those trying to establish dominance in an unfamiliar situation.
At 8:57, Lea appears on the screen, approaching the club with purposeful strides. Early as I predicted. Her black trousers hugs her curves, paired with a simple, elegant top under a fitted leather jacket. Professional enough to be taken seriously, stylish enough to blend into the club environment. Her long dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and her expression holds that steel focus I recognize from the surveillance photos. She has dressed for battle. Good. She’ll need that armor.
I turn my attention to a second feed, showing Tony and Miguel at the entrance. They have specific instructions to test her, push her, see if she crumbles under pressure. If she can’t handle my bouncers, she certainly can’t handle me.
Lea approaches the entrance with her head high, confident without arrogance. As she reaches the door, Tony, who’s six-foot-four and built like a brick wall, steps directly into her path.
“Not hot enough,” he says, his voice clear through the feed’s audio.
I’m glued to the screen. This test reveals character. Most people would flinch at such a direct insult; especially women who cultivate their appearance as carefully as Lea obviously has. The shock, the hurt, the scramble for dignity are the predictable human responses.
Lea stops short, blinking. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Tony replies, crossing his thick arms across his chest. “Not up to standards. Nico likes them sexy.”
I lean forward, anticipating her response. This is the moment most crumble, where embarrassment seeps in; they shrink away or beg for reconsideration.
Lea does neither. She tilts her head, assessing Tony as if he is the one being scrutinized. Then, to my genuine surprise, she exhales as if bored and smirks.
“Not sexy enough, you say?” she murmurs, reaching for the zipper of her jacket. With zero hesitation, she pulls it open, revealing smooth skin above the edge of a dark lace bra. The hint of cleavage is defiant, not desperate.
Tony freezes, caught off guard.
“These,” she says, tipping her chin up, “are the best tits you’ll ever see in your life. Now, are you going to let me in for my meeting with Mr. Varela, or are you going to keep standing there pretending you’ve seen better while I walk right past you?”
A brief, stunned silence follows, stretching through the club’s security room as well, I’m certain. Then, without a word, Tony steps aside, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath as she walks past.
A quiet chuckle escapes me. “Compelling.”
Marco, who has joined me moments before, whistles. “Are you sure about this? She’s got some fire, that one.”
I watch in silence from behind the floor-to-ceiling glass, tracking Lea as she cuts through my club. Head high, shoulders back. Not a hint of doubt in her posture. The woman moves with the unshakable confidence of someone who’s just won her first battle and knows exactly what she’s worth.
Most people are overwhelmed upon entering Purgatorio for the first time. The deliberated opulence, the beautiful people, the subtle signals of power and wealth. All of it designed to disorient and establish hierarchy before a single word is spoken. Lea takes it all in her gaze sweeping the room once before focusing forward again, stride unbroken. She’s done her homework and studied the club, I realize. Prepared herself for this moment just as thoroughly as I have prepared for her. The unexpected symmetry pleases me.
I watch as she approaches the VIP section, where another of my security staff waits. This time, there is no challenge, just a respectful nod as he steps aside to allow her through. She’s earned that much after her handling of Tony.
My gaze tracks her progress across the VIP area toward my corner booth. No hesitation, no nervous glances. The colored lights of the club play across her features, highlighting the determination in her expression. She is beautiful, yes—but it’s her composure that catches and holds my attention. Beauty is common in my world. Unshakable poise under pressure is far rarer.
As she reaches my table, I let her stand there for three seconds before acknowledging her presence. A small power play to establish that she enters my space on my terms. Her expression remains neutral, though I detect a slight tightening around her eyes. She notices the manipulation but chooses not to react to it. Another noteworthy choice.
I gesture to the coffee cup set out for her. “Americano with an extra shot of espresso.”
Her lips part before she masks her surprise, composure returning almost instantly.
“Ms. Song,” I continue, taking my first good look at her in person, not counting the brief run-in in the revolving doors. The photos didn’t capture the fire in her eyes, the subtle curve of her mouth when she’s assessing a situation. “I’ve been expecting you. For quite some time, actually.”
She holds my gaze without flinching, an uncommon response. Most people find it difficult to maintain eye contact with me for more than a few seconds; a useful tell when assessing potential threats or weaknesses.
“Mr. Varela,” she replies, her voice steady. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
I gesture to the seat across from me, an invitation that is really a command. She takes it smoothly, settling into the cool leather with the careful positioning of someone aware they are being assessed.
“Your coffee,” I say, nodding toward the cup. “I believe it’s to your preference.”
Her eyes flicker to the untouched Americano, then back to me. “That’s very specific hospitality.”
“I believe in knowing who I’m dealing with,” I reply, picking up my whiskey and taking a measured sip. The liquid burns pleasantly down my throat, warming without dulling my senses. “You’ve been investigating me for days. It seemed only fair that I return the favor.”
A slight furrow appears between her brows. Not fear, but recalculation. She hadn’t expected me to be so direct about my surveillance. Most people in my position would maintain the polite fiction that we are meeting as equals, almost strangers introducing themselves for the first time. But Lea Song doesn’t strike me as someone who appreciates fiction, polite or otherwise.
“Is that how you see this?” she asks, leaning forward. “As a favor?”
I set my glass down. “Let’s be clear about what’s happening here, Ms. Song. You’re a junior reporter who’s been assigned a story far above your experience level. You’ve spent the past few days building an impressive, if somewhat fanciful, wall of connections in your apartment, using public records and second-hand accounts to construct a narrative about me and my business interests.”
Her eyes widen, as she realizes Marco was indeed in her apartment. She recovers quickly, though, her expression smoothing into professional neutrality.
“And now,” I continue, “you’re sitting across from me in my club, drinking coffee prepared to your exact specifications, wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake by coming alone.”
“Have I?” she asks, her voice remarkably steady despite the implication.
I study her for a moment, noting the slight acceleration in her pulse visible at the base of her throat. Nervous, then, but controlling it admirably.
“That depends entirely on your next move,” I reply, allowing a small smile to curve my lips. “Chess or checkers, Ms. Song?”
She blinks, confused by the apparent non sequitur. “I’m sorry?”
“Are you playing chess or checkers?” I clarify, leaning back. “Checkers players see only the move directly in front of them. They react rather than anticipate. Chess players see five, ten moves ahead. They understand that sometimes a sacrifice now leads to victory later.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a flash of something that might be appreciation. “And which do you think I’m playing?”
“That’s what I’m determining,” I say.
She considers this, then reaches for the coffee I’ve provided. A studied risk accepting something prepared at my direction. She takes a small sip, her expression revealing nothing as she recognizes her exact preference.
“You’ve gone to considerable trouble,” she observes, setting the cup down. “Research, surveillance, personalized refreshments. Most people would simply have their secretary decline the interview request.”
“I’m not most people,” I reply, letting my gaze drift over her, taking in the defiant set of her jaw. “And you’re not most reporters, are you, Ms. Song?”
“Evidently not.” She reaches into her bag, withdrawing a notebook and pen. Old-school, not digital. Noteworthy. “May I?”
I nod, leaning back, curious. Let her think she’s driving this. “By all means. Begin your interrogation.”
She opens the notebook to a fresh page, handwriting neat, precise. When she looks up, the steel is back in her eyes. The journalist attempting to reclaim control. Cute.
“Mr. Varela,” she begins, tone crisp, “your background is law, yet you built Purgatorio. Why the shift from courtrooms to this?” She gestures at the opulent club around us.
“The law taught me where the actual rules are written, Ms. Song.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “The ones that aren’t debated by men in robes but enforced in shadows. Purgatorio is just a more honest venue for the same games.” I observe her. “A game you seem eager to join.”
She ignores the bait, pen scratching quickly. “And what games are played here? Beyond selling expensive liquor?”
“Ah, the probing question.” A hunter's smile curves my mouth. “What do you think I’m selling, Ms. Song? You’ve plastered my face all over your apartment wall, built quite the monument. What does your gut tell you? Or perhaps, what do you want me to be selling?”
Color flares on her cheekbones, but her voice remains steady. “Public records show you facilitate meetings between competitors. Meetings after which certain criminal conflicts often resolve.”
“Public records are so dry, don’t you think?” I pick up my whiskey, swirling the amber liquid. “They capture transactions, not motivations. Not the thrill of brokering peace or ensuring compliance.” I take a slow sip, eyes locked on hers. “They don’t capture the look in a man’s eyes when he realizes his future rests entirely in my hands.”
Her pen pauses. I see the flicker of fascination warring with professional duty.
“Is that what you enjoy?” she asks, voice neutral. “Holding futures in your hands?”
“I enjoy order,” I correct. “And ensuring those who disrupt it understand the consequences.” I lean forward again, dropping my voice further, forcing her to lean in if she wants to hear. “Tell me, Ms. Song, what drives someone like you, who’s bright, ambitious, with a Northwestern degree, to dedicate so much energy to understanding my specific brand of order? Career? Justice?” I let my gaze drift lower for a split second before meeting her eyes again. “Or is it something more personal? Revenge, perhaps? For dear old Dad?”
The direct hit lands. I see it in the momentary widening of her eyes, the tightening around her mouth before she clamps down on her reaction. She recovers, but the tell was there.
“The truth,” she says, falling back on the journalistic shield. “That’s what I’m after.”
“Truth?” I scoff, setting my glass down with deliberate care. “A rather naive pursuit, don’t you think? Especially in this city. Especially concerning men like me.” I tap my finger on the table between us. “You want facts? I own this club. I pay my taxes. I donate to the right charities. There’s your truth. Write that article.”
A flash of irritation crosses her face, quickly masked. “And the backroom deals? The criminal mediations?” she presses, abandoning subtlety.
I chuckle, a low sound in my throat. “Careful, Ms. Song. Asking questions like that…it didn’t end well for certain former journalists who did that, remember?” The cruelty is deliberate, a sharp jab to see how she reacts under direct pressure. Will she fold? Lash out? Or hold her ground?
Her knuckles whiten where she grips her pen, but her voice, when she speaks, is remarkably steady. “My father isn’t the subject of this interview.”
“Isn’t he?” I counter. “He seems to be the ghost haunting every question you ask.” I study her, the fire beneath her composure. Fascinating. “You’re playing checkers, Ms. Song. Rushing the center with blunt questions. It’s bold. Reckless, even. But predictable.”
She holds my gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. Admirable.
“Perhaps,” I continue, changing tactics, leaning back with feigned casualness, “I should offer you a different game.”
Wariness replaces the defiance in her eyes. “What kind of game?”
“Chess.” I offer a genuine smile this time, enjoying the dance. “What if I offered you something more valuable than quotes for your little article? What if I offered you complete access? A ringside seat to the actual games played in this city.”
Her eyes widen, journalistic hunger battling innate caution. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you intrigue me,” I admit, the truth serving my purpose better than any lie. “Your obsession. Your nerve. That fire in your eyes when you think you’ve cornered me.” I shrug. “Most reporters are predictable bores. You might be entertaining.”
Suspicion clouds her features. “And what’s the price for this entertainment?”
“Discretion,” I say. “And obedience. Complete obedience.” I lean forward again, voice dropping to an intimate whisper that belies the harshness of the words. “When you are with me, you follow my lead. Without question a necessity. My world operates by rules you don’t understand yet. Break them, and the consequences…” I let the sentence hang, the threat implicit.
She processes this, the internal conflict visible in the slight furrow of her brow. “So, access for obedience,” she clarifies, the word “obedience” pronounced like it’s tasting of dirt in her mouth.
“Precisely.” I watch her, savoring the tension, the silent battle playing out behind her eyes.
“And if I refuse one of your commands?” she challenges me.
“Then our little arrangement ends.” I retrieve my business card, sliding it across the table. My fingers brush against hers; a spark of contact, a reminder of the physical reality beneath the power play. “Instantly. No second chances.”
She shivers, a reaction she can’t hide, her pupils dilating. Fear? Excitement? Both, I suspect. Perfect.
“Think you can handle it, Ms. Song?” I ask, letting the predatory edge show in my smile. “Or are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, taking the card, her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly.
Liar. The word stays in my mind. Her body betrays her even if her voice doesn’t. Instead of leaning back, claiming victory, I lean forward, closing the distance between us until my shadow falls across her. Her scent of jasmine and something sharp, like ozone before a storm, fills my senses.
“No?” I murmur, letting my gaze drop to her delicate throat, then back to her eyes. “Fear isn’t always a weakness, Ms. Song. Sometimes it’s just awareness. Acknowledging the predator in the room.”
I reach out for her face, moving slowly enough that she could pull back, but she remains frozen, caught between defiance and the instinct to retreat. My fingers brush a stray strand from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The contact is brief, almost casual, yet loaded with possessive intent. My knuckles graze the sensitive skin of her neck, lingering for a second too long. Her pulse thumps against my touch, a frantic bird trapped beneath warm skin. “You should be afraid,” I continue, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Not of me causing you physical harm, that would be crude. But of what you might discover about yourself when you step behind the curtain. What lines you might decide to cross for your ‘truth’.”
I watch her, expecting a flinch, a gasp, some outward sign that I’ve finally breached her composure. Instead, she meets my gaze, her eyes dark pools reflecting the club’s dim lights. Her expression settles into something unreadable, almost challenging.
“The only thing I’m afraid of, Mr. Varela,” she says, her voice cool despite my proximity, “is not getting the story.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. Lea deflects the personal threat, refocusing on her professional goal. She doesn’t crumble; she doubles down. Intriguing indeed.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” I concede, finally leaning back, allowing her space to breathe. Let her think she’s won this round. The victory is mine regardless. “I’ll give you what you crave, Ms. Song. A look behind the curtain. But remember: my world, my rules.”
She holds my gaze, the journalist warring with the woman, ambition battling self-preservation. The flicker of fear is still there, deep down, but overshadowed now by resolve.
“One condition,” she says, reclaiming ground. “Editorial control.”
“Of course,” I concede easily. Too easily. Let her cling to that illusion. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your ‘truth’.”
Her eyes narrow, sensing the deception but unable to pinpoint it. Not yet.
“Then we have a deal,” she says, extending her hand.
I take it, noting the strength beneath the tremor, which has lessened now that she believes she has secured her terms. “Indeed we do, Ms. Song.”
As our hands separate, I see the hint of uneasy triumph in her eyes. The thrill of having secured unprecedented access battling with the dawning realization that she’s just agreed to terms whose full implications she can’t possibly understand.
“When do we start?” she asks, closing her notebook with a decisive snap.
I check my watch, a simple, elegant Patek Philippe that has been one of the many gifts from my uncle Alessandro. “We already have,” I inform her. “Your test at the door was the first step.”
Her eyes widen. “That was deliberate?”
“Everything is deliberate in my world, Ms. Song,” I reply. “The sooner you understand that, the better your chances of navigating it successfully.”
She absorbs this, reassessing our interaction with new understanding. “So what’s the next step?”
I finish the last of my whiskey, setting the glass down with finality. “Tomorrow. Eight AM. My driver will collect you from your apartment.”
“To go where?” she asks, unable to hide her curiosity.
“That’s your first lesson in our new arrangement,” I say, rising from my seat to signal the end of our conversation. “You don’t need to know where. You only need to be ready.”
She stands as well, gathering her notebook and pen with movements that betray a hint of nervous energy despite her composed expression.
“Until tomorrow, then,” she says, extending her hand once more; an attempt to reclaim some measure of professional equality in our interaction.
I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I turn it slightly, my thumb brushing across her inner wrist.
“Until tomorrow,” I agree, releasing her hand after that brief, deliberate contact. “Sleep well, Ms. Song. You’ll need your rest.”
The subtle threat, or promise, lingers between us as she turns to leave, her posture rigid with determination as she navigates back through the club.
I watch her go, noting the way she moves, still confident but with a new awareness, as if she can feel my gaze tracking her progress. At the door, she hesitates for just a moment before stepping out into the night, the brief pause revealing more about her state of mind than she probably intended.
“Thoughts?” Marco asks, appearing silently at my side as he always does when needed.
I consider the question, replaying our interaction, cataloging her responses and reactions, calculating probabilities and potential outcomes.
“She’s either going to be very useful,” I say finally, “or very dangerous.”
“Did you just say that the dangerous ones are often the most useful,” Marco observes, his tone neutral but his implication clear.
I nod, my gaze still fixed on the door through which Lea Song has disappeared.
“Have the car ready at seven-thirty tomorrow,” I instruct. “And tell Alessandro I’ll be bringing a guest to breakfast.”
Marco raises an eyebrow. My uncle rarely meets with outsiders, especially not at his estate.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asks. “This soon?”
“No,” I admit. “But it will be illuminating.”
As Marco departs to make the arrangements, I remain standing, contemplating the empty space where Lea had been. The coffee cup she’d touched still sits on the table, a faint smudge of lipstick marking the rim. A small, tangible proof of our encounter.
Tomorrow will be the first actual test. Not of her courage or her intelligence since those she’s already demonstrated. But of her adaptability, her willingness to surrender control in service of her larger goal.
Few people understand the fundamental truth that has built my empire. True power comes not from controlling others, but from making them willingly surrender control to you.
By this time tomorrow, Lea Song will begin to learn that lesson, whether she wants to or not.