Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NICO
Sunlight streams through the glass, gilding the skin of the woman in the wicker chair. She turns a page, her fingers lingering on the edge as if savoring a secret. Poised. Serene. A queen holding court in a gilded cage, lost in Dostoevsky and seemingly awaiting my next command.
And it’s all a masterful, infuriating lie.
Just last week, this same woman was fleeing barefoot through the woods, thorns tearing at her soles, willing to risk the wilderness over another moment under my roof. People don’t transform that swiftly. Not unless they’ve been shattered.
But I know what shattered looks like—the vacant gaze, the trembling hands, the instinctive recoil.
Lea exhibits none of it. When I enter a room, she meets my eyes with measured curiosity.
When I speak, her voice is a study in polite deference.
When my hand brushes her arm, testing, always testing, she neither yields nor withdraws. She simply... endures.
It's a perfect performance. And it is a quiet siege against my patience.
I’ve monitored every facet of her existence here.
Cameras capturing her every breath, guards noting her movements.
Nothing is out of place. No meddling with locks, no furtive glances, no desperate scratches on the walls.
Yet in her eyes, there’s a gleam of shrewd calculation that tells me she’s simply biding her time, waiting for me to falter.
I tap my pen against a legal pad, the rhythm a betrayer of my mounting irritation. The contracts before me blur; I’m not reading a word. I’m studying her reflection on my laptop screen. Enough, Varela. Control is your domain.
I close the laptop with a decisive snap. She glances up, concern etched with perfect subtlety.
“Everything all right?” Her voice is velvet, threaded with just enough worry to seem genuine.
“Fine,” I reply, my gaze raking her features, seeking a flaw. There is none.
She returns to her book, and a surge of frustration rises in me. This deviates from my design. She was a pawn, then a liability. Now? She’s an enigma. A captive who stirs me in ways I can’t afford, leaving me tense and compelled.
I rise from the desk, striding to the windows overlooking the lake.
“Would you like some coffee?” Her voice drifts from behind, smooth as silk.
I turn. She’s standing now, book set aside, looking at me with polite inquiry. A memory flashes—her body arching under mine, lips parting in urgent whispers.
“No.” I reconsider. “Yes. Black.”
She nods and heads to the kitchen. I follow, watching the slight limp that is the only outward sign of her ordeal. She moves with a new, unsettling familiarity, retrieving the beans and filters as if she’s been doing it for years.
I lean in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’ve made yourself quite at home.”
She shrugs, the motion subtle, her shirt dipping to reveal the elegant curve of her collarbone. “I adapt. It’s a matter of survival.”
Weighted words, delivered evenly. She’s acknowledging her captivity while diminishing its sting. Astute.
“Adaptation, is it?” I ask, closing the distance between us. I search her hands for a tremor, her eyes for a tell.
She pauses with the coffee beans half-measured and holds my stare. “What do you truly want from me, Nico? Should I fight? Throw myself at the walls? Would that satisfy you—watching me fall apart?”
The question is a direct challenge. She's flipping the script.
“I want the truth,” I murmur, advancing until her back presses against the counter.
A smirk curves her lips, sly and perceptive. “No, you don’t. Your empire runs on lies and manipulation. Truth would destabilize everything.”
There she is. The authentic Lea, her intellect sharp as a blade. A primal satisfaction courses through me, tempered by caution. She’s revealing this deliberately. A temptation. And it only heightens my urge to claim her here, to reaffirm my dominion.
Before I can respond, my earpiece crackles—a sharp burst of static. Blake’s voice, clipped and urgent.
“Sir, we have an unauthorized vehicle approaching the main drive. White, low-speed. No plates. Should we intercept?”
I straighten instantly. No deliveries are scheduled. Alessandro would have called if he needed something.
“Hold position,” I command, moving swiftly to the security panel by the back door. “Give me a visual.”
“Sir, we can neutralize the threat before it reaches the residence,” Blake insists, his military training overriding any sense of nuance. “Standard protocol for an unidentified approach.”
The screen flickers to life. A white golf cart is making its way up the curved driveway, driven by a woman with silver hair styled in an impeccable bob. Even through the grainy security feed, I can make out the flash of diamonds at her throat and wrists.
Eleanor Davenport. Goddammit.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, a wave of profound irritation washing over me. Marco would have known. He would have recognized the vehicle, understood this particular “threat,” and handled it with a quiet sigh and a dry comment about the local wildlife. Blake sees a target.
“Blake,” I say, my voice dangerously calm as I activate the exterior camera feed. “If you or any of your men so much as point a weapon at that golf cart, I will ensure your next post is guarding a weather station in Antarctica. Do you understand me?”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end. “...Sir?”
“The threat,” I say into my earpiece, pinching the bridge of my nose, “is a seventy-two-year-old woman armed with what I can only assume are muffins. Stand down. All teams. Now.”
“...Yes, sir,” Blake replies, the confusion clear in his two-word response.
“Stay here,” I instruct Lea, who has been watching this exchange with undisguised curiosity. I don’t bother explaining. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. If asked, you’re a business associate staying here temporarily while consulting on a project.”
I step onto the front porch just as the golf cart comes to a stop.
Eleanor Davenport emerges with the vigor of a woman half her age.
She’s dressed in a pale blue linen pantsuit that likely costs more than most people’s monthly salary, her silver hair not moving a millimeter despite the light breeze.
“Nico, darling!” she calls, lifting a wicker basket adorned with an elaborate bow. “I’ve brought welcome-back muffins!”
Eleanor Davenport has never baked a muffin in her life.
The basket is a prop, an excuse for reconnaissance.
This is what she does. Monitors the comings and goings of everyone in the lakefront community, collecting information like others collect art or wine.
In her youth, she would have made an excellent intelligence operative.
“Mrs. Davenport,” I say, moving down the steps to greet her. “This is unexpected.”
“Well, when one sees lights at all hours and increased security patrols, one gets concerned about one’s neighbors,” she replies, eyes sharp despite her jovial tone.
She’s fishing, and not subtly. The increased security is a legitimate concern, but not one I’m about to discuss with her.
“Just a precaution,” I say smoothly, taking the basket from her hands. “It was a business matter that required some additional attention. Nothing for the neighborhood to worry about.”
Her eyes flick past me to the house, and I know the exact moment she spots Lea. Her plucked eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch, and a predatory gleam enters her eyes.
“And who is this lovely young lady?” she asks, voice dripping with curiosity.
I turn to see Lea has disobeyed my instruction to stay in the kitchen. She stands framed in the doorway, a vision in simple jeans and a cream sweater, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looks like she belongs here, and the realization unsettles me.
“This is Lea Song,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Lea, this is Mrs. Eleanor Davenport, our neighbor from three properties down.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Davenport?” Lea says, her voice soft, respectful. She steps forward and extends her hand with perfect grace.
Eleanor takes Lea’s hand, but her eyes are cataloging every detail. “Song? That’s an unusual name. Where is your family from, dear? You have such an exotic look.”
The question is vintage Eleanor. It’s innocent but designed to extract information while simultaneously establishing a subtle hierarchy. I open my mouth to intervene, but Lea beats me to it.
“My mother is Korean; my father was Italian-American,” she says. “I grew up primarily in London and Chicago.”
“How fascinating,” Eleanor coos, though her tone suggests Lea’s background is more unusual than fascinating. “And what is it you do, my dear?”
“I’m a consultant,” Lea says smoothly. “I’m working with Nico on a project for his foundation.”
The foundation. It’s an actual entity, though primarily a vehicle for laundering certain funds and creating tax advantages. Lea has clearly been paying attention to my instructions.
“The foundation! Of course,” Eleanor exclaims, her eyes lighting up with fresh interest. “I’m always telling you, Nico, you need to be more public with your good work.
And to have such a lovely consultant helping you.
..” Her gaze sweeps over Lea again, this time with a more pointed assessment.
“You’ve been holding out on us, darling.
What sorts of causes are you two focused on? ”
“Educational initiatives, primarily,” I reply, steering her toward the patio before she can launch into a full interrogation. “Please let’s sit. Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Eleanor says, settling into one of the patio chairs with the air of someone planning a lengthy stay. “Earl Grey if you have it, darling.”
I glance at Lea, who nods slightly and disappears inside to prepare the tea. The moment she’s gone, Eleanor leans forward, diamonds catching the sunlight as she moves.