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CHAPTER FIVE

Lea

I jolt awake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. Darkness presses thick against my bedroom windows, the digital clock mocking me with 4:23 AM. Fragments of a dream dissolve like smoke, leaving only the hint of dark eyes watching me, the distant fragment of a voice promising access for obedience. Nico. His name is a curse, a prayer, a fixation burned onto my brain.

His presence lingers, a phantom heat clinging to the air in my small apartment, hours after I fled his club. I can almost feel the controlled burn of him, the weight of his assessing gaze that missed nothing, the ghost of his fingers brushing mine when he slid his damned card across the table. I kick off the tangled sheets, needing to move, needing air that doesn’t somehow remind me of the smell of expensive cologne and danger from the club. The linoleum floor is cold against my bare feet, a grounding shock. Did I really agree to this? Was I insane? One text message to a number I never gave him, how the hell did he get it? One promise of a story I’m suspecting is just bait, and I folded like a cheap suit.

The bathroom light feels harsh, unforgiving. My reflection stares back: wild hair, flushed cheeks. My eyes are too bright, burning with adrenaline that hasn’t faded. I look like someone running a fever. Or maybe just someone who made a deal with the devil and is only now realizing the fine print involves third-degree burns and possibly eternal damnation.

“Wake the fuck up, Song,” I mutter, splashing cold water on my face, again and again. The icy sting does nothing to wash away the sick feeling coiling in my gut. “It’s just a story.” But the lie dissolves on my tongue, bitter and false. It stopped being just a story the moment he looked at me through that revolving glass, knowing my name, the moment Harrison dropped that file on the desk, the moment I connected Nico Varela to my father’s ruined career, his suspicious death six years ago. His doing. Nico Varela. The man I swore I’d expose, the architect of my family’s destruction.

The shower steams around me, but the heat doesn’t reach the chill deep inside. Every crafted word Nico spoke, every lingering glance that felt like both a threat and a caress, his thumb brushing my pulse point as if measuring my fear, it all replays on a loop. Obedience . What kind of journalist makes that deal? A desperate one? A compromised one? What kind of daughter, seeking vengeance for her father, puts herself willingly under the thumb of the man she suspects destroyed him? How could I even think about stepping into his world, breathing his air, after what he might have done? What he’s capable of doing to me. Dad would turn in his grave, the weight of his disappointment pressing down on me harder than any physical threat.

But you want this story more than you want to admit. The whisper in my head is insidious, seductive. You felt that treacherous thrill when his dark eyes locked on yours, didn’t you? That sickening jolt of power, even knowing he holds all the cards. A thrill that feels like spitting on your father’s memory. You saw a flicker of something in him last night…or maybe you just imagined it because you need to believe he’s not a pure monster, even though every instinct screams that he is, that he’s capable of anything. Anything. Including murder.

My mind races, a chaotic collision of scenarios: Nico setting me up, the publisher playing a game I don’t understand, my father’s spirit whispering warnings I refuse to hear. His driver arrives at eight. Less than three hours to prepare for what? He offered no details, just another display of absolute control. You don’t need to know where. You only need to be ready. Fuck him. Well, two can play. Or at least, one can try to look like she hasn’t completely lost her goddamn mind.

I stand before my closet, surveying the meager options like a soldier assessing hopelessly inadequate armor. This isn’t just professional attire anymore. I’m dressing for his world now, stepping onto his stage, playing by his warped rules. A world of shadows, violence, and staggering wealth that makes my student loan debt look like pocket change. Every choice feels loaded. Too formal? Uptight, trying too hard. Too casual? Disrespectful, like I don’t grasp the gravity of whatever twisted game he’s playing. Too provocative? Hell no, not giving him the satisfaction of thinking that’s my angle. Too conservative? He might think I’m scared, and showing fear feels like handing him a weapon I can’t afford to lose.

I finally settle on a charcoal gray pencil skirt. It’s professional, severe, not inviting. A silk blouse in deep burgundy. A rich color with a hint of luxury I don’t possess, but projecting a confidence I don’t feel. Low heels, practical enough to run if needed. The thought sends an icy dread through me. God, what am I thinking? This isn’t a movie. It’s just…Nico Varela. Just the man who might hold the keys to everything, or the architect of my ruin, career, sanity, maybe even my life. Armor. It’s definitely armor.

My phone rings on the nightstand, the sudden sound startling me so badly I nearly trip over my own feet. Sienna. My only link to normalcy, to the life I had before this Varela vortex sucked me in. I hesitate, hand hovering over the screen. Talking to her feels like confessing to a priest. But the silence in this apartment is suffocating. I answer, bracing myself.

“Hey,” I try for casual, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile. “Up early.”

“Never slept,” she rasps, sounding genuinely wrecked. “Housing scam piece is kicking my ass. You?”

I take a deep breath; the lie forming even as I hate myself for it. “Just getting ready for the day. Early start.”

“Right, I got your text last night. Your ‘exclusive access’ day.” I can practically hear her skepticism through the phone. “Did you survive Purgatorio, otherwise?”

“Barely,” I say, aiming for dark humor. “But I got what I needed. For now.” I give her the fastest, most sanitized version, that Nico agreed to cooperate, certain conditions apply, journalistic boundaries will be maintained. I omit the chilling intimacy of his voice, the demand for obedience, the way a current jolted through me when his fingers brushed mine.

“Conditions? What conditions?” Sienna demands, sharp as ever. “Lea, this guy is bad news. Like, ‘end up in a body bag’ bad news. He admitted to surveilling you! Remember what I told you. He guts people! Fuck Lea!”

“I know who he is,” I counter, feeling defensive and childish. “This is the kind of access reporters dream of, Sienna. I can handle him.”

“Can you? Or are you just telling yourself that?” Her voice softens. “Your career won’t matter if you’re dead! Look, I’m worried. Seriously worried. Promise me you’ll text me. Hourly, even. Promise me you won’t get Stockholm syndrome for Chicago’s hottest crime lord.”

Heat rushes to my face. “I’m using him for the story,” I say firmly, the words feeling thinner, less convincing than I want. “That’s it. He’s a source. A dangerous one, but a source.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, radiating disbelief. “Okay, Song. Just be smarter than you were last night, okay? Don’t let him get in your head.”

Too late for that, I think grimly.

The call ends, leaving her words on my mind. Be smarter. I glance at Nico’s card on my desk. Simple black stock, silver lettering. No title. Nothing needed. I could back out. Call him. Plead illness, a family emergency. Fabricate something. Reassert professional distance. Harrison would understand, wouldn’t he? Or was Harrison just another pawn in Nico’s game, following orders from the Publisher Nico controls? The thought makes nausea churn in my gut.

Who can I even trust anymore?

The urge to run, to crawl back into my safe, predictable life, is overwhelming. I’m twenty-three fucking years old. I should be worried about paying off student loans and deadlines, not getting into a car with a man who radiates danger like a faulty power line, a man who might have killed my father.

But the thought of backing out feels hollow. This isn’t an ordinary story. He isn’t an ordinary subject. And this burning need for answers, for justice for my dad; it outweighs the fear. Almost.

Instead of calling Nico to cancel, I draft a detailed email to myself. Everything that happened last night, every word, every touch, every threat implied and stated. My suspicions about Dad. Nico’s known connection to the publisher. Insurance. If something goes wrong, if I disappear, there’s a record. The act feels chillingly necessary. A final breadcrumb dropped before stepping willingly into the wolf’s den.

* * *

“We’ve arrived, Ms. Song.” The driver’s voice, filtered through the intercom, is the first sound I hear in what felt like an hour of suffocating silence inside the Bentley.

Before I can even process, before my hand reaches for the door handle, it swings open from the outside. Not the driver this time, but a man in formal attire, face impassive, holding the door as if he has been waiting for this millisecond. The air that rushes in is different here: clean, crisp, like the smell of damp earth and old money.

My legs feel unsteady as my heels hit the gravel drive. The house looms—no, presides—over the landscape. Italian Renaissance, honey-colored stone bleeding power under a gray sky, columns reaching like grasping fingers. A fortress built not just of stone, but of generations of influence I can’t begin to comprehend. It seems to watch me, its tall windows like cold, evaluating eyes. My charcoal skirt and silk blouse, chosen as armor, feel paper thin.

“This way, please.” The butler, because he has to be a butler, speaks without inflection, already turning, expecting me to follow.

He leads me up marble steps wide enough for an army, through massive double doors that open before us, swallowing me into an entryway designed to diminish. Soaring ceilings drip crystal tears from chandeliers the size of a Mini-Cooper. Dark wood paneling drinks the light, punctuated by museum-quality art. A brutal Caravaggio painting dominates one wall, violence rendered beautiful, visceral. The silence is the most unnerving part, heavy, expectant, sucking the sound from my breathing. This isn’t Nico’s world of pulsing bass and artful cool; this is a legacy made manifest in silent stone and judging eyes, radiating a power so old it feels suffocating. I feel like an intruder, an impurity marring the perfect surface.

We move down a wide corridor. Portraits line the walls—Varela ancestors, judging me with dark eyes and sharp jawlines that mirror Nico’s. Their painted stares feel unnervingly real, following me, assessing my worthiness to breathe their rarefied air.

The butler pauses before ajar double doors crafted from dark, gleaming wood. From within drifts the faint clink of silverware on china, the indistinct murmur of conversation. He pushes the doors open, announcing, “Ms. Song,” into the room beyond before stepping aside, leaving me exposed on the threshold.

It isn’t a study, but a sun-drenched breakfast saloon. Tall windows overlook manicured gardens still glistening with morning dew. A long table, laden with silver serving dishes, pastries, fruit, and steaming coffee, dominates the space. At the head of the table sits Alessandro Varela, the silver-haired patriarch I’ve only glimpsed in photos. Opposite him, nursing a cup of coffee, sits Nico.

He looks different here. Less the predator in his natural habitat, more constrained. He glances up as I enter, but he offers no greeting, his attention returning to his uncle. Alessandro, however, fixes me with those pale blue eyes, like ice chips in a weathered, powerful face, and gestures to an empty chair placed down the table, isolating me.

“Ms. Song,” Alessandro says, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of command. “Join us.”

I cross the room, feeling like I am walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes. The chair scrapes as I pull it out, the sound grating in the otherwise quiet room. A servant appears, pouring coffee into a delicate china cup before vanishing as silently as he arrived.

“Cream? Sugar?” Alessandro inquires, though his tone suggests my preferences are irrelevant.

“Black, thank you,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup’s warmth.

Nico still hasn’t spoken to me, his focus on a silver pot of jam he is ignoring. His deference to his uncle is a contrast to the absolute authority he wields everywhere else. It is jarring, throwing my perception of him off balance.

“So,” Alessandro begins, setting down his own cup with meticulous care. “The journalist. Nico tells me you have ambitious plans for this profile.”

“I plan to write an accurate portrait, Mr. Varela,” I reply, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.

“Accurate,” Alessandro muses, taking a slow bite of pastry. He chews thoughtfully before continuing. “Accuracy is subjective, wouldn’t you agree? Depends entirely on the angle of observation.” His gaze sharpens. “Your father, for example. He sought accuracy. Look where it led him.”

My breath hitches. The casual, almost bored way he references my father’s fate, his ruined career, the suspicious death six years ago that screamed of foul play, possibly their foul play, sends heat surging up my neck, blurring my vision for a second with pure, fiery anger.

“My father was an excellent journalist,” I say, my voice tight. “He pursued truths others were afraid to touch.”

“Commendable,” Alessandro replies, though the word drips with condescension. “And ultimately, futile. Some truths are best left buried, Ms. Song. For everyone’s benefit.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Like the circumstances of certain traffic accidents.”

Ice forms around my heart. He isn’t just acknowledging Dad’s death; he is dangling the possibility of foul play right in front of me, testing my reaction, enjoying my discomfort. Nico shifts in his seat, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but says nothing.

“Are you suggesting my father’s death wasn’t an accident?” I ask, keeping my voice level despite the tremor beneath.

Alessandro waves a dismissive hand. “Tragedies happen. Engines fail. Brakes give out.” His eyes glitter with cold amusement. “Especially when someone becomes inconvenient.”

That does it. The implication, the smug superiority, the casual disregard for the shattered lives, my life, my father’s life, snaps something inside me.

“Inconvenient to whom, Mr. Varela?” I lean forward, abandoning caution. “To men like you? Men who build empires on foundations others would rather not examine too closely? Men who silence anyone asking uncomfortable questions, perhaps by arranging ‘accidents’?”

The air thickens instantly. The cheerful sunlight streaming through the windows suddenly feels tauntingly insincere. Alessandro’s smile vanishes, replaced by a stillness more menacing than any overt anger. Nico goes rigid beside him, his knuckles white where he grips his coffee cup. Shit. Too far.

“I believe,” Alessandro says, his voice dropping to a glacial calm, “this breakfast is concluded.” He dabs his lips with a linen napkin, then rises from his chair. “Bennett will see you out.”

He doesn’t look at me again. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence. He turns and walks toward a side door, leaving me sitting in stunned silence. Nico remains seated, eyes fixed on the wall behind me. He doesn’t look at me either.

The butler, Bennett, reappears as if summoned by an unspoken command. “Ms. Song,” he murmurs, his tone unchanged.

Numbly, I rise. The walk back through the opulent corridors feels like a perp walk, the Varela ancestors smirking down from their gilded frames. Failure tastes bitter in my mouth, mingling with the lingering flavor of expensive coffee. I’ve let my anger, my grief, my suspicion get the better of me. I’ve fucking blown it. My only chance to get close, to find answers about Dad, sacrificed for a moment of righteous fury.

Bennett escorts me out the massive front doors, the gray light feeling harsh after the mansion’s curated dimness. The Bentley waits, engine purring, a black hearse ready to take me back to my hollow life. Access revoked. Mission failed.

I slide into the backseat with a nauseating mix of failure, regret, and impotent rage. I’ve screwed this up completely. The partition remains down as the car sits motionless. The driver stands outside, impassive, waiting. What now? Humiliation burns my cheeks. Do I actually have to ask him to take me home?

The front passenger door opens without warning. My breath hitches. Nico slides in, turning to face me across the empty space, a mask of cool control firmly back in place. Questions are almost on my lips: What happened? Did I blow it? Is the deal off? His presence, the sheer force of his contained energy, chokes the words in my throat.

Before I can force out a single syllable, he breaks the silence. “Be ready at nine tonight.” His voice is low, controlled, giving away nothing, yet the words land like heavy stones, definitive and absolute. “I’ll have a dress delivered. Wear it.”

Shock slams into me, leaving a cold hollowness where my defiance was moments ago. My skin prickles, a wave of heat washing over me despite the chill. The whiplash is dizzying, nauseating. After that disaster? After Alessandro’s icy dismissal? He’s still commanding? Still dictating the terms? My hand instinctively goes to my throat, where his touch lingered last night.

He doesn’t wait for a response, offers no explanation, no hint of what transpired after I left. As he exits the car as abruptly as he entered, he closes the door with quiet finality. He ascends the marble steps and, without looking back, he disappears into the fortress that has just chewed me up and spat me out, leaving me reeling in his wake.

The car moves, pulling away from the mansion, gliding back toward the city, the world I’m returning to, almost defeated. I sit stunned, clutching my bag, his last words lingering in the sudden, oppressive silence. I’ll have a dress delivered. Wear it. He knew. Alessandro dismisses me, and Nico? Nico just sets the next appointment. My defiance meant nothing. My anger changed nothing. I earned only this brutal lesson: I am a pawn, moved at his whim. I am not dismissed. The game isn’t over. It is still on, and the rules, his rules, are clearer and colder than ever.

Relief wars violently with confusion, anger, and a strange, unsettling excitement that coils low in my belly. I have faced the power behind the throne, stumbled spectacularly, yet somehow remain in play. Tonight, I will wear the dress he sends. I will go where he directs. Obedience isn’t a request; it is the non-negotiable price of admission.

The thought should terrify me. It does. But beneath the fear, igniting slowly in the wreckage of my assumptions, I feel something dangerously, addictively close to excitement.