Chapter 5 #2
This isn’t a new tactic. This is his signature.
He takes my identity, my very presence, and forges it into a key for a door he wants to unlock.
The humiliation is a physical thing, a burning in my throat, a coiling in my gut.
I want to scream, stand up and expose him for the calculating bastard he is, right here, in front of this man he’s trying to intimidate.
But I can’t. I am trapped. The realization is as cold and hard as the ice in my water glass.
Mr. Kang’s sharp eyes try to pierce my facade. “Is this true, Ms. Song? You’ve chosen to align yourself with Mr. Varela against your own mother?”
Nico’s thumb presses harder against my pulse. A warning. A command. Play your part.
“My mother and I have... different perspectives on certain matters,” I say, my voice a marvel of calm control. “I believe in transparency.”
Transparency! A perfect, ambiguous blade. It could mean anything. It confirms nothing.
Mr. Kang seems to accept this. He turns back to Nico, a new, grudging respect in his eyes. “What exactly are you proposing, Mr. Varela?”
“A simple exchange. You provide me with the complete shipping schedule for the next three NK Pharma Consolidated shipments. The contents, routes, and final destinations. In return, I ensure your legitimate shipping operations proceed without further interference.”
“And if I decline?”
Nico smiles, a cold, elegant expression.
“Then I can’t guarantee the safety of your containers.
Particularly those carrying sensitive electronics from Incheon.
It would be a shame if the complex logistics of those shipments.
.. became a subject of interest for federal regulators. They can be so... thorough.”
The threat delivered with such polite venom is breathtaking. Mr. Kang takes a slow sip of water, his mask of composure finally cracking.
“I will need to consult with my associates,” he says finally.
“Of course,” Nico replies, leaning back in his chair, the victor. “You have until tomorrow evening.”
The rest of the lunch is a blur of meaningless small talk. I am a ghost at the table, my mind replaying Nico’s brutal, brilliant move.
When lunch concludes, Mr. Kang shakes Nico’s hand, then turns to me. His eyes hold a new, almost pitying look. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Song. Your mother speaks highly of your intelligence.” He pauses. “She will be disappointed in your choices.”
The comment is a slap, but before I can react, Nico intervenes. “Ms. Song makes her own decisions, Mr. Kang. As we all do.”
Mr. Kang nods once, then leaves.
As soon as the door closes, Nico turns to me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You did well,” he says, sounding almost surprised.
“Did I have a choice?” I ask, my voice devoid of emotion.
His lips quirk in what might be amusement. “No. But you could have made it difficult. You didn’t.”
“What was the point of bringing me here? To use me as proof that you’ve turned my mother’s daughter against her?”
“Precisely,” he says, without a hint of apology.
He guides me toward the door, his hand once again a firm weight on my back.
“Kang now believes I have leverage over your mother’s operation.
Having her daughter at my side, seemingly compliant and informed, is the most visible and undeniable form of that leverage. ”
As we walk through the restaurant, I feel the eyes of the other patrons on us. The power couple. The notorious businessman and his beautiful companion.
If they only knew the truth.
The privacy partition of the Bentley is up, sealing us in a cocoon of rich leather and tense silence.
Nico sits beside me, a statue of controlled power, his attention fixed on the encrypted messages scrolling across his phone.
He hasn’t spoken since we left the hotel, but I feel the weight of his presence, the low thrum of energy that always radiates from him.
I stare out the window, but the blur of Chicago’s Gold Coast is meaningless. My mind is in turmoil, replaying the lunch with Mr. Kang on a sickening loop.
NK Pharma Consolidated.
The name burns behind my eyes. The same logo I’ve seen on the folder in my mother’s office. It isn’t just a random connection; it’s a direct link. My mother, the respected academic, is tied to a shipping consortium that Nico Varela is threatening.
And Nico… he uses me. Effortlessly, cruelly. He put me at that table not as a companion, but as a prop. Ms. Song is fully aware of her mother’s activities. In fact, she’s been instrumental… The lie is so smooth, so believable, that it likely sealed Mr. Kang’s decision to cooperate.
And Mr. Kang’s last comment regarding my mother: “She will be disappointed by your choices.”
Fuck.
The walls are closing in. I’m trapped in an impossible triangle of power.
On one side, Nico controls my every move, and his touch sets my body on fire even as his mind plots against me.
On another note, my mother, a North Korean operative, moves pieces on a global scale with me as her unwitting asset.
And then there’s Moretti, the violent wild card, circling us all, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
A wave of cold despair trembles over me. I am all alone. Every powerful figure in my life is a manipulator. Every relationship is transactional. There is no one to trust, nowhere to run.
Amidst the chaos, one name offers a flicker of hope: Sienna. My anchor to a world that still makes sense. If I can just get a message to her…
My mind, now in full investigative mode, works the problem. The lake house is a fortress. I need a phone, and a direct call is impossible. An opportunity.
An image surfaces, sharp and clear, from two days ago.
Nico, standing in the library on a tense call.
He’d unlocked a drawer in the heavy mahogany desk, the one he never uses.
For a brief second, I saw what was inside: a neat row of identical black burner phones.
He’d taken one, locked the drawer again, and dropped the small, ornate key into a porcelain dish on the mantelpiece before leaving the room.
The memory sparks a plan, cold and sharp and dangerous.
Getting into the library is the first step.
Later that afternoon, I tell the guard posted at the end of the hall that I’m tired of the books in the bedroom and would like to find something else.
He follows me, watching as I browse the shelves.
My heart hammers as I move toward the fireplace, pretending to examine a row of leather-bound classics.
My body shields me from his view as my hand snakes out, fingers closing around the cold, small key in the porcelain dish. I palm it in one smooth motion.
The next part is the riskiest. "I think I'll read here for a while," I say, gesturing to the imposing desk. "The light is better."
I settle into the large leather chair by the desk, acutely aware of the security camera in the corner of the room.
I open a heavy art book, its pages wide enough to create a substantial screen.
With the book propped open, I let one hand drop into my lap, into the shadows beneath the desk.
My fingers find the keyhole, the cold metal a stark contrast to my sweating palm.
The key slides in. I turn it, praying the lock won't make a sound.
It gives with a faint, oiled click that seems deafening in the quiet room, however I mask it with a sharp cough.
I slide the drawer open a mere inch. Working by feel, my fingers brush against the smooth plastic casings of the phones.
I grasp one and slip it from the drawer, hiding it in the waistband of my pants at the small of my back.
I close the drawer, lock it, and slide the key into my pocket.
The entire operation takes less than a minute, but it feels like an eternity.
I don't dare move, forcing myself to turn a page in the art book, my breathing shallow.
After a few minutes, I close the book. On my way out, I pause at the fireplace again, ostensibly to admire a painting, and slip the key back into the dish. The guard, none the wiser, follows me back to my room.
The burner phone is a hard, cold secret against my skin. Now, I have my weapon. I just need the right moment to use it.
The opportunity: the camera blind spot in my bedroom.
The four-and-a-half-second window I timed with my watch.
The message has to be perfect. Innocuous if intercepted, but a clear S.O.S.
to Sienna. The memory of our old inside joke surfaces: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.
It’s perfect. I compose the text in my head: Remember that old Journal party photo?
The one where I blinked twice? Thinking of you. Coffee soon.
Now, back in my room, I wait. Time crawls. Nico is in his study, engrossed in a series of intense calls. This is my chance.
I retrieve the phone from its new hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under the bed and move to the corner of the room, positioning myself in the camera’s blind spot.
My watch is on the dresser. I can’t risk looking at it.
I have to rely on my internal clock, on the rhythm of the camera’s pan I memorized.
I close my eyes, feeling the subtle shift in the air as the camera begins its slow sweep away.
Now.
My eyes snap open. My fingers fly, a frantic, precise dance.
One one-thousand: The phone is on. Two one-thousand: My thumbs are a blur across the tiny keyboard.
Rmbr when I blinked twice? Three one-thousand: The last words— Coffee soon —and my thumb slams SEND.
The small “swoosh” is deafening. Four one-thousand: I hold down the power button, forcing the phone to shut down.
The screen goes black just as I sense the camera’s return sweep. I shove the phone back into its hiding place, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. I move to the bed, picking up a book, my ears straining for any alarm.
Nothing. Silence.
I stare at the pages, the words meaningless. Did it go through? Or did Nico’s system detect the signal? And will Sienna understand?
All I can do is wait.