Page 9
CHAPTER NINE
Lea
The Bentley slows as we approach a sprawling warehouse complex on the edge of Chicago’s industrial district. Through tinted windows, I watch rusted chain-link fences give way to crumbling concrete and metal buildings, monuments to a manufacturing era long past. A perfect setting for a meeting that exists between legal lines.
“This won’t be social like the restaurant,” Nico says beside me, his voice low and even. He hasn’t spoken since we left downtown twenty minutes ago, both of us watching the city transform from gleaming skyscrapers to this neglected wasteland of abandoned factories.
I turn to study his profile. In the near darkness, his features appear carved from stone, all sharp angles and controlled stillness. Only his eyes move, scanning the perimeter as we pull up to a nondescript metal building with no signage.
“What should I expect?” I ask, my notebook already in hand. Only a few days into this arrangement, and I’ve learned to always be prepared to document whatever unfolds around Nico Varela.
His dark gaze shifts to me, assessing. “A lesson in territorial negotiation.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s practical.” He straightens his already immaculate cuffs, a gesture I now recognize as his equivalent of checking a weapon. “Several factions need reminding of boundaries.”
The car stops. Through the windshield, I spot three other vehicles parked at irregular angles; a black Escalade, a silver Mercedes, and a blue sedan that in some ways looks more threatening than the luxury cars.
Nico’s driver kills the engine but remains seated. Marco emerges from the passenger seat, surveying the area with practiced efficiency before opening Nico’s door. I reach for the handle, but Nico’s voice stops me.
“You can wait here,” he says, not quite looking at me. “This particular meeting might become volatile.”
It’s the closest thing to concern I’ve heard from him. The words hang there, unexpected. Is it genuine solicitude for my safety? Or just strategic calculation, removing a potential complication? With Nico, the motives are always layered, likely both.
“I thought the arrangement was full access,” I counter, matching his cool tone, pushing back against the flicker of what? Relief? Disappointment? “Volatile sounds like an important part of understanding your world. You can’t keep dismissing me.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “Your choice, Ms. Song. But you stay behind me, and when I tell you to move, you move without question.”
Before I can respond, he exits the vehicle, leaving me to scramble after him.
Marco falls into step behind Nico, his broad shoulders tense beneath his tailored jacket. I’ve witnessed enough by now to recognize the subtle bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his suit.
A giant metal door creaks open as we approach. Nico pauses, turning to face me with a warning in his eyes.
“Stay close. No questions during the meeting. Your phone stays in your pocket.” His voice drops. “And if anyone approaches you directly, you defer to me. Understood?”
I nod, suppressing the instinctive rebellion his commands trigger. This isn’t about journalistic integrity or independence. This is about survival in a world where the wrong word or look can have consequences far beyond professional embarrassment.
Inside, the warehouse is enormous and surprisingly well-maintained compared to its exterior. Bare bulbs hang from high ceilings, casting pools of harsh light over a concrete floor. The air smells of dust and something chemical that burns in my nostrils.
In the center of the space, a makeshift conference area has been arranged. Folding tables pushed together, covered with maps and papers, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Already seated or standing around this improvised meeting point are seven men of varying ages, all radiating the particular alertness of predators in proximity.
Their conversation stops abruptly as Nico enters. Seven pairs of eyes track his movement, then slide to me with expressions ranging from curiosity to cold calculation.
“Gentlemen,” Nico greets them, his voice carrying effortlessly across the concrete expanse. “Thank you for accommodating this meeting on short notice.”
He moves toward the head of the table with the calm confidence of someone who knows his position is unquestioned. I follow a half-step behind, acutely aware of the stares fixed on me rather than my notebook.
“Who’s the girl?” asks a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes like gun barrels.
Nico doesn’t break stride. “Ms. Song is documenting our negotiation for my records.” The explanation is smooth, offering no invitation for further questions. “Let’s begin.”
I position myself behind Nico’s right shoulder, close enough to observe but not so close as to appear as a part of his inner circle. From this vantage point, I can study the assembled men without making direct eye contact.
They represent a visual taxonomy of Chicago’s criminal ecosystem: two middle-aged men in expensive but understated suits, representing established operations with legitimate fronts; a younger Latino man with a careful smile and watchful eyes; two Eastern European looking bodybuilder types, probably Russian; a wiry Black man who stands apart from the others; and finally, leaning against a support column rather than taking a seat, a man whose entire being screams danger.
This last one catches my attention most sharply. Thin but corded with muscle, he wears a leather jacket despite the warehouse’s stuffy atmosphere. His hair is slicked back, and a scar bisects one eyebrow. While the others regard Nico with cautious respect, this man’s expression holds something that makes my skin prickle, contempt barely masked by compliance. No one is noticing me as Nico gets ready to speak, and I snap a couple of pictures from my phone, hidden behind my jacket.
“Let’s be clear about why we’re here,” Nico begins without preamble, placing his palms flat on the table’s surface. “The arrangement we established six months ago is being tested. Borders are being crossed. Merchandise is moving through channels outside our agreement.”
His words are vague, couched in business terminology, but I understand what’s being discussed, drug distribution territories, relating to the fentanyl trade that’s been ravaging Chicago’s neighborhoods. The “arrangements” he references are the negotiated boundaries between competing criminal organizations.
“The North Side corridor remains neutral ground for transit only,” Nico continues, showing an area on the map. “No direct distribution within these boundaries. The West Side divisions remain as established.”
The heavyset man clears his throat. “We’ve had incidents along Pulaski. Three last week.”
“Isolated,” counters one of the Russians. “Not systematic.”
“Three is a pattern,” the heavyset man insists, his voice roughening.
I watch fingers tense on tabletops, shoulders square imperceptibly. The air in the warehouse seems to thicken with each exchange, oxygen replaced by the invisible currents of power and threat.
And through it all, Nico remains still, his presence the gravitational center around which these volatile elements orbit. He doesn’t raise his voice or make grand gestures. He simply is an immovable object against which these forces test themselves.
“The incidents were addressed,” Nico says, ending the budding argument with four quiet words. “Compensation was arranged. The territory boundaries stand.”
His index finger traces a line on the map, following a street, whose name I can’t quite make out from my position. “What concerns me more is the recent activity here.”
The wiry man by the column straightens, his posture shifting from affected boredom to alertness. The movement is subtle, but in this room of predators, it might as well be a shout.
“Something to add, Vincent?” Nico asks without looking up.
So this is Vincent. I recognize the name as one of Dante Moretti’s top lieutenants. From the files, I remember him as the twin brother to Matteo Rizzo, Dante Moretti’s right-hand man. The Rizzos are Dante’s cousins.
“Funny you should mention that area,” Vincent says, his voice carrying a nasal quality that somehow makes him more unsettling. “My people have noticed unusual traffic there, too. Care to explain why your boys are running your product through our established routes?”
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. Several of the men shift uncomfortably, gazes darting between Vincent and Nico.
“Misinformation,” Nico replies, unruffled. “My organization maintains neutrality in distribution. As always.”
Vincent pushes off from the column, taking a step toward the table. “Neutrality. Right. That’s not what we call it when you broker access for some while blocking others?”
Behind me, I sense rather than see Marco tensing, his weight shifting forward on the balls of his feet. My heart quickens in response. The atmosphere has changed, a subtle recalibration from tense negotiation to something more volatile.
“Your concerns have been noted,” Nico says, his tone unchanged but somehow carrying more weight. “If you have specific evidence of interference, I’m happy to review it. Otherwise, we’ll move on to the South Shore adjustment.”
Vincent’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “Evidence? You want evidence? How about the Koreans all of a sudden getting premium access to the university district while our product gets held up at every checkpoint? I’m talking about the university district gateway, not the trade to students.”
My breath catches. The Koreans. An oblique reference to the North Korea pharmaceutical connection that’s been rumored to supply much of Chicago’s high-grade fentanyl. Sienna mentioned it a couple of days ago. Not confirmed by any officials yet, though. But, the university district, the place my mother teaches? No way that’s a gateway. Selling to students? Maybe. Probably.
Nico’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the surrounding air seems to crystalize, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm.
“The distribution arrangements through the university corridor were established last year,” Nico says, his eyes never leaving Vincent. “All parties agreed to the terms. If Moretti has concerns about the arrangement, he knows how to reach me.”
Vincent takes another step forward, and now I can see what makes him so unnerving; his eyes never quite focus on one spot, darting between points as if calculating angles of attack.
“There is more at stake now. And Moretti thinks maybe you’ve forgotten who helped establish your position,” Vincent says, voice rising. “Maybe you need reminding that neutrality only works when the neutral party stays fucking neutral.”
The Latino man clears his throat. “Perhaps we should?—”
“Perhaps you should shut your mouth, Ramirez,” Vincent snaps. “This isn’t about your corner of the world.”
Ramirez stiffens, one hand disappearing beneath the table. The Russians exchange a glance. The temperature in the room drops several degrees.
“Vincent,” Nico says, his voice so controlled it functions like a blade, “you’re addressing my guests in my territory. Weigh your next words carefully.”
For the first time, Vincent looks directly at me, his eyes raking over my face with deliberate slowness. “Brought a secretary today, Varela? Or is she something more personal? Somebody you value?”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral, meeting his stare without flinching. A single week in Nico’s world has taught me that showing fear is like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
“Ms. Song’s role is not your concern,” Nico says. His tone hasn’t changed, but something in the air has; a near-imperceptible shift that raises the hair on my arms.
Vincent smirks, taking another step toward the table. “Moretti thinks maybe your judgment is getting clouded. New faces, new distractions. He doesn’t like it.” His hand moves toward the inside of his jacket. “Maybe time for new leadership in these discussions.”
Everything happens in a blur of coordinated movement. Marco lunges forward as Vincent’s hand emerges with something metallic. Before I can process what’s happening, Marco has Vincent’s arm twisted at an unnatural angle, Vincent’s gun clattering to the concrete floor.
Vincent howls, a sound more rage than pain, as Marco drives him face-first onto the table, scattering maps and papers. The other men have either frozen in place or taken strategic steps backward, hands hovering near concealed weapons but not drawing them.
Through it all, Nico hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even raised his voice. He observes the situation with all the emotional investment of someone watching a mildly interesting chess move.
“Hold him there, Marco,” Nico says, his voice carrying in the sudden silence punctuated only by Vincent’s labored breathing.
For the first time since entering the warehouse, Nico looks directly at me. Something passes between us, a silent communication that sends a chill through my body. Not a warning, but an invitation. A test.
Then he turns his attention back to Vincent.
“You know what the problem is with identical twins?” Nico asks, as if they’re discussing a minor business inconvenience.
Vincent spits blood onto the scattered papers. “Fuck you.”
“The problem with identical twins,” Nico continues, ignoring the outburst, “is that they’re difficult to tell apart.” He holds out his hand toward Marco without looking at him. “Your knife.”
The room goes quiet. Even Vincent stops struggling against Marco’s grip, his body tensing in sudden comprehension.
Marco reaches inside his jacket with his free hand and produces a sleek folding knife, placing it in Nico’s palm with practiced efficiency. The soft snick of the blade opening seems loud in the silence.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Vincent’s voice has lost its earlier aggression, replaced by something thinned with growing fear.
Nico examines the blade with detached interest. “You think I don’t know that you and your brother take turns representing Moretti? Trading places, gathering intelligence, testing for inconsistencies in my responses?” He steps closer, the knife catching the harsh warehouse light. “You’re Vincent today. Maybe Matteo tomorrow. It’s a clever tactic.”
I watch, frozen, as understanding dawns on the faces around the table. Several of the men exchange uneasy glances.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Vincent snarls, but there’s panic leaking through his bravado now.
“Which one are you right now?” Nico asks, not bothering to acknowledge the denial. “Vincent or Matteo? Even your employer sometimes wonders, doesn’t he? Why don’t I make it easier for him to tell you apart?”
He moves behind Vincent, out of my direct line of sight. I should look away. I know. But I don’t.
“Marco,” Nico says, “ensure his head remains still.”
Marco’s grip shifts, one massive hand moving to grasp Vincent’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing the side of his face. Vincent thrashes in earnest now, his panic fully formed.
“Jesus Christ, Varela,” the heavyset man interjects, “is this necessary?”
Nico doesn’t respond to him. Instead, he leans down close to Vincent’s ear, his right ear, and says just loud enough for everyone to hear: “Now I’ll always know who I’m dealing with.”
Nico’s hand moves in one swift, deliberate motion, a sickening slice that cuts through the air, followed by Vincent’s scream tearing through the warehouse. It’s raw, animal, ripped from the very depths of him.
Blood blooms bright against his skin, spattering onto the maps below like abstract art. The coppery tang of it hits the air, sharp and metallic, mingling with the underlying scents of dust and chemicals. My vision tunnels, the sounds of the warehouse momentarily muffled by a roaring in my ears. My stomach clenches, but I don’t look away. Can’t look away. There’s a strange, horrifying disconnection, as if I’m watching a film projected onto the concrete wall; brutal, graphic, yet somehow unreal.
When Nico steps back, he’s holding something small and bloody between his thumb and forefinger, the upper half of Vincent’s ear. He drops it onto the table in front of the still-screaming man, the wet slap of it against the paper loud in the sudden echo of the scream.
“A small price for deception,” Nico says, his voice chillingly calm. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the knife clean before returning it to Marco. His eyes find mine across the table, gauging my reaction with scientific detachment.
My breath is trapped somewhere in my chest. Horror claws at my throat, bile rising. This wasn’t just punishment; it was mutilation, a permanent marking delivered with the casual indifference of swatting a fly. Yet, beneath the revulsion, a colder, more analytical part of my brain, a part I barely recognize, registers the terrifying effectiveness of the act. The challenge neutralized instantly. The message sent unequivocally to everyone present. In the brutal logic of this world, it was efficient. The thought is sickening, alien, yet undeniably present. I meet Nico’s gaze, my expression neutral despite the roaring in my ears and the war raging inside me, the journalist recoiling, the strategist acknowledging, the woman utterly horrified yet disturbingly captivated.
Something passes between us in that moment, an understanding that transcends the horror of what I’ve just witnessed. I’ve seen behind the veil, been admitted to an inner circle that few journalists ever access. And the price of admission is witnessing acts like this, understanding their necessity within this dark ecosystem.
“Now,” Nico says, turning back to the stunned room as if nothing unusual has occurred, “when Vittorio arrives for our next meeting, the asymmetry will be informative.” He adjusts his cuff, that signature gesture that now reads to me as a punctuation mark at the end of violence. “Marco, please ensure Mr. Rizzo finds his way back to his employer. Perhaps the hospital route.”
Vincent is hunched over, one hand clasped to his bleeding ear, the other holding the handkerchief containing his ear tip, shock and hatred warring in his eyes. The ear might be saved if he hurries, but a scar will always remain. As Marco hauls him toward the exit, Nico addresses the remaining men, whose expressions range from grudging respect to poorly concealed horror.
“Gentlemen, shall we continue? I believe we were discussing the South Shore change.”
Just like that, the meeting resumes. Another of Nico’s men, one who had been positioned by the door so discreetly that I hadn’t even registered his presence, moves to clear away the blood-stained maps, replacing them with fresh copies.
I stand still, processing what I’ve just witnessed. Not just the swift, systematic violence, but its aftermath; how quickly order reasserted itself, how completely Nico’s authority absorbed the disruption without being diminished by it.
My heart is erratic, doing crazy somersaults, but not entirely from fear. There’s another ingredient mixed in, like a humming awareness that feels uncomfortably close to exhilaration. The man I’ve been shadowing can inflict permanent damage without hesitation or remorse. He’s shown me who he is, with no pretense or apology. And I’m still here, notebook in hand, oddly captivated. What the fuck?
When the meeting concludes, the men leave in a orchestrated sequence. Never all at once, never creating the appearance of a gathering when viewed from outside. Nico remains until the last has departed, then turns to me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Questions?” he asks, as if we’ve just left a corporate board meeting instead of a criminal negotiation that erupted into violence.
A dozen queries crowd my mind, fighting for precedence. What I manage is: “The Koreans you mentioned, is that connected to the pharmaceutical suppliers Marco briefed you about at the club? The delayed shipment?”
Something flickers in his eyes: surprise, perhaps, that this is my first question rather than something about the violence we just witnessed. Or maybe approval of the connection I’ve made.
“Perceptive,” he acknowledges. “Yes. The legitimate pharmaceutical channel and the distribution network Vincent referenced share certain logistics challenges.”
“And the university district?—”
“Not here,” he interrupts. “The car.”
I nod, tucking my notebook away. As we walk toward the exit, I’m struck by how different the warehouse feels now. It’s emptier but also charged with residual tension, like the air after lightning strikes.
Marco is waiting by the Bentley, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning our surroundings. Vincent is nowhere to be seen, though a dark stain on the concrete near where the blue sedan had parked suggests his departure wasn’t entirely dignified.
The drive begins in silence. I expect Nico to sit opposite me as usual, maintaining the careful distance he’s established in our previous car rides. Instead, he slides into the seat directly beside me, close enough for me to feel his body heat, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. The proximity is deliberate, I’m certain. Another test, another boundary being probed.
“You were taking mental notes,” he says after several minutes, his voice low enough that it seems to vibrate in the space between us. “Beyond what you wrote down.”
It’s not a question, but I still answer. “Yes.”
“And what did you observe, beyond the obvious territorial disputes?”
I turn to face him, acutely aware of how little space separates us in the confined interior of the car. “That Vincent wasn’t just Moretti’s messenger. He was there to provoke a specific reaction from you.”
Nico’s mouth curves slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. “Go on.”
“The gun was theater,” I continue, warming to my analysis. “He knew he wouldn’t get a shot off in that room. He wanted to force your hand, make you look either weak if you didn’t respond, or brutal if you did.”
“And which was I?”
“Neither,” I answer honestly. “You let Marco handle the immediate physical threat, but what came after…” I pause, the image of the severed ear piece flashing in my mind. “That was something else entirely. Methodical. Precise.”
Something shifts in his expression. A subtle lightening around the eyes, a deepening of that almost-smile. He leans fractionally closer.
“You understand the dynamics of power,” he says, his voice resonating against my skin. “That’s rare.”
The compliment, if that’s what it is, sends an unwelcome flush of warmth through me. I’m hyper aware of our isolation in the backseat, the privacy partition raised between us and the driver.
“I’ve been watching powerful men manipulate situations my entire life,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady. “My mother’s academic world isn’t so different from yours, just less honest about its brutality.”
His laugh is unexpected, a brief, genuine sound that transforms his face for an instant before the careful control returns.
“Honesty is what separates my world from theirs,” he says. “Strip away the pretense of civilization, and all relationships reduce to power; who has it, who wants it, what price they’ll pay to get it.”
His eyes holds mine, dark and intense in the shadowed interior of the car. “The question for you, Lea, isn’t whether you understand power dynamics. It’s what you intend to do with that understanding.”
The heat of him seems to intensify, though he hasn’t moved closer. Or perhaps it’s something inside me responding to his proximity, to the undercurrent in his voice that suggests layers of meaning beyond the words themselves.
“I intend to write the truth,” I say, the answer sounding hollow.
“The truth,” he repeats, skepticism clear. “And what truth did you see today when Vincent pulled his gun? When half his ear came off in my hand? When the meeting continued as if nothing had happened?”
I swallow, searching for the professional detachment that seems increasingly difficult to maintain in Nico’s presence.
“I saw that you’re capable of clinical violence when it serves a purpose,” I begin. “And I saw that your power comes from precision, not just force. They fear you not because you’re unpredictable, but because you’re deliberate in everything you do.”
Something darkens in his eyes. “And did that frighten you, Lea? Seeing what I’m capable of?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. The honest answer terrifies me more than anything I witnessed in the warehouse.
“No,” I admit, the word barely audible even in the quiet car. “It didn’t frighten me.”
His eyes never leave mine as he registers my confession. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously in the charged silence that follows.
“That,” he finally says, “is what should frighten you.”
The car moves through the night without a word between us, streetlights washing over Nico’s composed features, illuminating the sharp lines but giving nothing away. The earlier intensity has drained out of me, leaving an exhaustion settled deep in my bones.
As the car glides to a stop in the secure underground garage of a building I don’t recognize, another of his anonymous holdings, no doubt, the sharp buzz of my phone slices through the silence. Instinctively, I glance at the screen. The name flashes bright and demanding against the dark interior: Harrison Wells. The preview text beneath it leaves no room for interpretation: Song. My office. Tomorrow morning. 9 AM sharp. Updates.
My gut twists. The harsh command crashes in from a world that feels impossibly distant, a blunt recall of duties so ordinary they feel ridiculous next to the bloodshed and power games defining my present.
Beside me, Nico shifts. He hadn’t needed to lean over; his gaze sharp enough to have caught the name and the tone even from his seat. I feel his attention lock onto the screen, onto my reaction.
“Your editor is impatient,” he observes, his voice neutral, devoid of the intimacy or threat from moments before. The strategist is back, analyzing the new variable. “Understandable. He smells a big story.”
I look up, meeting his eyes. “I have to go. Need sleep. I have to check in at The Journal tomorrow morning.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before vanishing. “Of course you do. We wouldn’t want you risking your prestigious career yet.” He pauses, letting the implication hang. “Go. Check in tomorrow morning. Give your editor enough verifiable details about our more public meetings to keep him satisfied. Bellamy’s, perhaps. Mention the Riverside project.” He leans fractionally closer, voice dropping. “Nothing more, Lea. Nothing about tonight. Nothing that compromises our arrangement. Understood?”
The subtle pressure is unmistakable. He’s not just allowing me to go; he’s dictating the terms of my report, framing my professional duty as another component of his control. Caught between Harrison’s demands and Nico’s veiled threats, the walls feel like they’re closing in tighter than ever.
“Understood,” I say, the word foul.
He gives a curt nod, satisfied. The driver opens the door, and the sterile air of the parking garage rushes in. Nico makes no move to follow me out, his eyes already distant, calculating his next move in a game where I am still just a chess piece.
As I step out of the car, the weight of the secrets I now carry feels heavier than ever. Tomorrow, I’ll walk into the Journal, back into the life I thought I knew, and deliver a truncated version of the truth dictated by the man I’m supposed to be investigating. Nico was right. That is what should frighten me.