Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lea

The leather seats of the Bentley are buttery soft beneath me, unlike the knot tightening in my stomach. My fingers trace the sleek lines of the new phone Nico provided last night, the cool glass doing little to soothe the residual tremor in my hands. The memory plays on a loop, unbidden: Nico, standing over the terrified guitarist, the sickening snap of bone breaking in the plush silence of his private lounge, followed by screams that still claw at the edges of my hearing.

I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but the image burns behind my eyelids. The casual brutality, the chilling efficiency; it was like watching a surgeon perform a delicate procedure, only the instrument was pain and the outcome was measured destruction. A shudder racks my frame. Part fear, part recoil, and part something darker, a morbid fascination that leaves a coppery taste in my mouth. He hadn’t even raised his voice. The violence was cold, precise, almost impersonal, yet utterly dominating.

And then, minutes later, we were downstairs, Nico introducing me to State Senator Abernathy and Alderman Ross as if nothing had happened. “Ms. Song is observing my operations for an article,” he’d said, his hand on my back, a subtle claim of ownership. Both politicians, men whose faces frequently graced the front page of the Journal, had greeted me with practiced smiles, their eyes holding a flicker of wary curiosity but mostly acceptance. They knew my name. They acted like my presence beside Nico was normal, expected even.

His operations. The phrase lingered in my mind. Last night wasn’t just about punishing an abusive boyfriend; it was a demonstration. A lesson in consequences, as he’d called it. And the seamless shift from breaking fingers to shaking hands with elected officials? That was the actual show of force. His power wasn’t just in violence; it was woven into the very fabric of the city’s legitimate structures.

The car glides through Chicago traffic, the city awakening around us with delivery trucks rumbling, commuters rushing, the rhythmic clang of the L train overhead. Inside this luxurious cocoon, the city noise silenced to a distant hum, the world feels unreal. My world, it seems, now consists only of Nico Varela and the increasingly murky depths I’m descending into.

My gaze returns to the phone in my lap. His phone. I know, with absolute certainty, that it’s a listening device, a tracker, a digital leash. Every call, every text, every search query logged and likely reported back to him or Marco. The thought makes my skin crawl. Yet tossing it out the window isn’t an option. Not if I want this story. And maybe there’s a sliver of truth in his claim of protection. Being under his surveillance feels suffocating, but perhaps it also places me within the boundaries of his territory, a space where others might hesitate to tread. Or maybe that’s just what I need to tell myself to justify holding onto this electronic Trojan horse.

The car slows, pulling to the curb in front of an elegant, ivy-covered brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in Lincoln Park. The driver cuts the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the nervous thrumming in my chest. A moment later, the front door of the house opens, and Nico steps out, looking immaculate in a charcoal gray suit. There’s no trace of the menace from last night, only cool, controlled composure.

He doesn’t look surprised to see the car waiting. He slides into the seat beside me without a word, just a brief, almost imperceptible nod in my direction. The small space instantly feels charged with his presence. The faint, expensive scent of his cologne fills the air, a disorienting reminder of his proximity.

The driver pulls back into traffic. Silence stretches between us. I stare resolutely out the window, focusing on the blur of buildings passing by, pretending my heart isn’t hammering against my ribs. What am I supposed to say? Beautiful morning after the bone-breaking? How’s the “hand cording only” going for the guy you maimed?

He breaks the silence first, his voice calm, measured. “The restaurant is called Oriole. Two Michelin stars. Their tasting menu is exceptional.”

Food. He’s talking about food. As if we’re just two colleagues heading to a business lunch. The cognitive dissonance is staggering.

“I’m sure it is,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral.

He glances at me, a faint flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “You seem tense, Ms. Song.”

You think? “Just processing,” I say, opting for vague truth. “Last night was instructive.”

“Good,” he replies, turning his gaze back to the front. “That was the intention.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence. We pull up to a discreet entrance, marked only by a small, tasteful plaque bearing the restaurant’s name. A valet rushes forward, opening Nico’s door with practiced deference before hurrying around to mine. Inside, the ambiance is hushed and elegant, with crisp white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, minimalist décor that speaks of understated wealth. The few patrons already seated are impeccably dressed, their conversations muted, creating a sophisticated buzz.

The ma?tre d' approaches immediately, his smile professional, but his eyes fixed solely on Nico. “Mr. Varela. Your party is waiting in the private dining room.”

Party? I thought this was just lunch. Nico gestures for me to precede him, his hand hovering near my back again, not quite touching but radiating warmth. We follow the ma?tre d' through the main dining area to a secluded room at the back.

The door opens to reveal a long table already occupied by about a dozen people, men and women, mostly middle-aged, dressed in expensive business attire. The air hums with conversation and the clink of glasses, but it all stops the moment Nico enters. Every head turns, every smile freezes, every gaze locks onto him with a mixture of respect and fear. It’s like watching a predator enter a clearing.

“Nico, glad you could make it,” one man says, rising from his seat. I know him; a property developer whose face I’ve seen in the business section.

Nico nods curtly, scanning the table. “Gentlemen. Ladies.” His gaze lingers for a second on each person, a silent acknowledgement, a subtle assertion of dominance. He then gestures toward me. “This is Lea Song. She’s observing.”

A murmur of polite greetings follows. Some offer tight smiles, others brief nods. Their eyes flicker over me, assessing, categorizing. I see recognition in a few faces. It’s the same city officials and business figures whose photos often accompany articles about zoning variances, development deals, and political fundraising. Just like last night, they seem to be familiar with my name, though we’ve never met before. More unsettling still is how they accept my entrance at Nico’s side; not with surprise, but casual acknowledgment, as if my presence here is routine. These aren’t just anybody; these are the puppet masters of Chicago, the ones who keep the city’s gears turning, or more accurately, the ones who collect the toll at every turn.

Nico gestures to an empty chair near the head of the table opposite him. I slide into it, pulling out the small, discreet notepad and pen I’d tucked into my purse. The conversation resumes, but the energy in the room has shifted. It’s lighter, more performative, everyone acutely aware of The Diplomat.

Platters of intricate appetizers circulate, delicate bites of seafood, artfully arranged vegetable terrines, foie gras parfait. Waiters move silently, refilling water glasses, offering wine. On the surface, it’s a perfectly normal, upscale business lunch. Discussions revolve around upcoming city projects, potential investment opportunities, the feasibility study for a new downtown high-rise.

I take notes diligently, capturing snippets of conversation, observing the dynamics. Who defers to whom? Who interrupts? And who seeks Nico’s approval before speaking? The patterns are subtle but clear. Nico rarely speaks, but when he does, the room falls silent. His contributions are brief, insightful, often reframing the issue in a way that subtly steers the consensus toward his preferred outcome. He doesn’t command; he guides, manipulates, orchestrates.

The main course arrives. Pan-seared scallops with truffle risotto for me, a perfectly cooked filet mignon for Nico. The conversation shifts to a major infrastructure contract currently under review by the city council. An older gentleman, Thomas Abernathy, not the senator I met last night, but perhaps a relative, his nameplate identifying him as head of a prominent construction firm, is outlining his company’s proposal. He seems confident, jovial, occasionally directing remarks toward Nico with an air of camaraderie.

But as he gets into the financial specifics, his voice falters. He fumbles with the figures, corrects himself twice, his face flushing slightly. He takes a large gulp of water, then clears his throat. “Apologies,” he says with a forced chuckle, dabbing his forehead with a napkin. “Must be the heat. Or perhaps the excellent wine.” He jogs his chair back. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”

He heads toward the door leading out of the private room, presumably toward the restrooms, as Nico watches him go. The conversation at the table pauses awkwardly for a beat before someone else picks up the thread, steering it toward safer territory.

Nico catches my eye across the table. He gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a silent instruction for me to stay put. Then, he rises smoothly and follows Abernathy out the same door.

My reporter’s instinct screams. Something just happened. That wasn’t just a momentary lapse; Abernathy looked genuinely unnerved. Nico’s quiet pursuit confirms it. His instruction to stay means he doesn’t want me to witness whatever comes next. Which, naturally, means I absolutely have to.

I wait, counting silently to twenty, letting the rhythm of the table conversation re-establish itself. Then, pushing my chair back quietly, I murmur a polite, “Excuse me,” to the woman seated beside me and slip out the same door Nico and Abernathy used.

The corridor outside the private dining room is dimly lit, carpeted, silent except for the faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume. It forks left and right. I pause, listening intently. From the left, I hear the faint sounds of the restaurant. From the right, nothing. I head right, my heels sinking into the plush carpet, muffling my steps.

Rounding a corner marked with a discreet sign for restrooms, I freeze. There he is. Thomas Abernathy, pressed back against the polished mahogany wall, not physically touched but effectively pinned by Nico’s proximity. Nico stands a foot away, one hand resting casually against the wall near Abernathy’s head, blocking any quick escape. He’s speaking in a low, calm voice, too low for me to make out the words, but the effect is undeniable. Abernathy’s face is pale, slick with sweat, his eyes wide with a fear that borders on panic. He looks like a man staring down the barrel of a gun, even though no weapon is visible.

It’s the same controlled menace I saw last night, stripped of the overt violence but no less potent. This is how he operates when broken fingers aren’t necessary: quiet threats, implied consequences, the crushing weight of his power brought to bear in a hushed corridor. My heart hammers against my ribs. I should retreat, pretend I saw nothing. But I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, disgusted yet mesmerized by the raw, quiet display of intimidation. Part of me screams to run; another, traitorous part leans closer, needing to understand the source of such absolute control.

Then Nico’s head turns. His eyes find mine in the dim light. He doesn’t look surprised, or angry, or anything other than mildly amused. He doesn’t miss a beat.

His voice, still low but now carrying clearly down the short hallway, cuts through the silence. “Ah, Ms. Song. Perfect timing.” He gestures toward the terrified man pinned against the wall. “Mr. Abernathy and I were just clarifying some discrepancies in his recent projections. Weren’t we, Thomas?”

Abernathy flinches at the use of his first name, nodding mutely.

Nico continues, his tone chillingly conversational. “Ms. Song was just wondering,”—my blood runs cold—”if you intended to fully honor the terms of our previous arrangement. The one regarding subcontractor allocation.”

He turns his head, fixing me with that intense, unreadable gaze. He’s done it deliberately. By invoking my name, by implying I’m privy to their “arrangement,” he’s made me complicit. He’s woven me into the threat, positioning me as his ally, his enforcer-by-proxy in Abernathy’s terrified mind.

Abernathy’s panicked gaze flicks toward me, his eyes pleading. And suddenly I feel dirty. He sees me not as a neutral observer, but as part of Nico’s apparatus. Complicit in his fear. Nico didn’t just intimidate him; he used me as part of the threat.

“Yes,” Abernathy chokes out, his voice hoarse. “Yes, of course. Absolutely. A simple oversight. It will be corrected. Immediately.”

“Excellent,” Nico says, removing his hand from the wall. He steps back, creating space, the immediate threat receding but the underlying pressure remaining. “I knew we could rely on your good judgment, Thomas.” He straightens his tie, a gesture of finality. “Now, perhaps you should take a moment to compose yourself before rejoining our guests.”

Abernathy nods again, frantically dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. He doesn’t look at me as he scrambles away down the corridor in the opposite direction.

I stand frozen, my mind reeling. He used me. Effortlessly, seamlessly, he drew me into his web, painting me as part of his power structure.

Nico turns fully toward me, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You seem so eager to get involved, Ms. Song. I thought I made it clear for you to stay put?”

“I…” My voice fails me for a moment. I swallow, forcing the words out. “I needed the restroom.” A weak lie, and we both know it.

“Of course you did,” he says, the amusement deepening in his eyes. He steps closer, invading my personal space just enough to make me acutely aware of his physical presence. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

The question hangs between us, laden with double meaning. Did I find the restroom? Did I find the truth I claim to be seeking? Did I find the confirmation of what kind of man he truly is?

“I found…” I trail off, unsure how to answer, unsure what answer he wants, unsure what the truth even is anymore.

He doesn’t press. Instead, he gestures back toward the private dining room. “Shall we rejoin the others? The lemon tart here is supposedly transcendent.”

He turns and walks back the way we came, expecting me to follow. And I do. What choice do I have? My legs feel unsteady, my mind a chaotic whirl of conflicting emotions. Disgust at his methods, fear of his power, and that deeply unsettling flicker of something else, something coiling hot and low in my gut. A perverse thrill at being pulled into the orbit of such dangerous charisma?

Nico didn’t just show me his power; he made me touch it. He implicated me, binding me to him in a way that goes beyond mere observation.

I follow him back into the private dining room, my steps leaden. The earlier sophistication of the place now feels tainted, almost suffocating. The lemon tart tastes like crap, despite its apparent perfection. I mechanically pick at it, nodding vaguely when spoken to, my mind still replaying the scene in the corridor: Abernathy’s terror, Nico’s casual menace, and my own unwilling role in the drama. He hadn’t just let me witness his power; he’d splashed it onto me, marking me.

The lunch eventually concludes. Farewells are exchanged, polite smiles are plastered on faces that, just moments before in Abernathy’s case, had been masks of fear. In the Bentley on the ride back, the silence had stretched taut again, but this time it felt different. Less like unspoken tension, more like a settled, uncomfortable reality.

As the car pulls up near my apartment building, Nico finally turns to me. His expression is unreadable, detached.

“I have matters requiring my sole attention for the next couple of days, Ms. Song,” he states, his tone leaving no room for questions. “Sensitive negotiations that wouldn’t benefit from observation. Marco will be in touch when your presence is required again.”

It wasn’t a suggestion or a courtesy; it was a dismissal. A temporary release from the leash. A wave of conflicting emotions wash over me, relief so potent it almost makes my knees buckle, followed by a prickle of unease. Is this protection, or am I simply being sidelined because I’ve seen too much, pushed him too far by following him?

“Understood,” I manage, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor wanting to betray me. Arguing wouldn’t help me here. I gather my purse and the cursed phone, my fingers brushing against its smooth surface.

He gives a curt nod, his gaze already distant, likely calculating his next move in the city-wide chess game he’s playing. I exit the car, the heavy door clicking shut behind me with an air of finality. The Bentley pulls away smoothly, disappearing around the corner, leaving me standing on the familiar sidewalk, feeling utterly adrift.