Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
NICO
Reports scattered across my desk told a disturbing story. Moretti’s crew had gone completely silent. In my line of work, silence never meant peace. It meant trouble was brewing.
I flip through surveillance photos, shipping manifests, and financial records.
The edges of the pages cut into my fingertips as I search for the pattern, the hidden message in this vacuum of information.
Nine days without a single notable movement from Moretti’s lieutenants.
No street-level activity. No financial transactions through his known channels. Nothing.
This isn’t a retreat. It’s preparation.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. Blake enters without waiting for my response, a habit he’s adopted since Marco’s death that I find both presumptuous and necessary. He carries a leather portfolio and wears a carefully neutral expression that tells me he has information I won’t like.
“Morning report, sir,” he says, placing the portfolio on my desk.
I gesture for him to continue, not looking up from the shipping manifest I’m studying. It details a pharmaceutical delivery from a Korean company. Legitimate on paper, but the routing is suspiciously circuitous.
“It’s been nine days, sir. Absolute radio silence from Moretti’s camp.” Blake’s tone is professional but laced with concern. “No chatter, no movement from his known lieutenants. It’s too quiet.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. In the three weeks since Marco’s murder, Blake has proven himself competent if not irreplaceable. He lacks Marco’s instincts, but his attention to detail is exceptional. He wouldn’t have mentioned the silence unless it worried him.
“You’re right,” I say, tapping my finger against the edge of the desk.
I stand and walk to the window. The lake stretches out before me, sunlight dancing across its surface in a deceptive display of tranquility. Beyond that water lies Chicago, my city, where Moretti is plotting his next move.
“The North Korean shipment is the prize,” I continue, watching a sailboat cut through the waves. “He’s waiting for it to get closer before he strikes.”
Blake nods. “That gives us two weeks at most, according to our intelligence.”
Two weeks. The tightness in my chest intensifies. Not enough time to fully secure my position, especially with my enforcer dead and Lea still an unresolved variable in the equation.
“What about our assets in the Seattle Port Authority?” I ask.
“Loyal, but under increased scrutiny. Moretti’s been spreading money around. Nothing obvious, but enough to make some of our people nervous.”
I turn back to face him. “Double their compensation. I want eyes on every container from Seoul for the next month.”
“Already done, sir.”
I nod, appreciating his initiative. Not quite Marco’s level of anticipation, but progress.
Blake shifts his weight, a subtle tell that he has more to report—something he’s less comfortable delivering.
“What else?”
He clears his throat. “On a... social front, sir. Mrs. Davenport has called twice. She’s insistent that you make an appearance at the Children’s Hospital charity planning committee. She mentioned your ‘newfound commitment to family’ and how it would look if you weren’t involved.”
I feel my jaw tighten. Eleanor Davenport, the lake’s self-appointed social gatekeeper, has been leveraging our fabricated engagement since the moment she extracted the lie from us.
Under normal circumstances, I would simply ignore her, but appearances matter now more than ever.
Any deviation from expected behavior could trigger scrutiny we can’t afford.
“She’s boxed us in,” I say, the admission tasting bitter. Being manipulated by a society gossip is an annoyance I neither need nor have time for. “Fine. We’ll give her a show.”
I walk back to my desk, mind already calculating the most efficient solution to this social problem without compromising security.
“We’ll set up a reception for the top twenty donors. On the yacht. Sunday afternoon.” I make each decision rapidly, visualizing the event. “A charity focus. It will be controlled, visible, and it will get her off my back.”
Blake nods, making notes in his small black book. “And Ms. Song?”
“Will play her part,” I say with finality. “She understands what’s at stake.”
Of course, understanding and compliance are different matters entirely.
Since our power play in the bedroom—since she turned my own methods against me—Lea has been frustratingly unpredictable.
Compliant on the surface, yes, but with a new confidence that suggests she believes our dynamic has shifted.
She’s wrong.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Blake.
“Just one thing, sir. Alessandro called. He wants to know if you’ve decided about Professor Song.”
Eunji Song remains at large, her operation intact despite our best intelligence efforts to locate her. We can’t use Lea as leverage if we can’t communicate our threats to the professor.
“Tell him I’m exploring all options,” I reply, dismissing Blake with a wave.
After he leaves, I return to the window. The lake house has become a pressure cooker. Mounting tensions with Moretti, Alessandro’s increasing demands for decisive action, and Lea’s unsettling ability to get under my skin.
I need to reestablish control on all fronts.
Sunday arrives with perfect weather. Cloudless blue skies, a gentle breeze, and temperatures in the mid-seventies.
The kind of day that makes the wealthy feel entitled to their good fortune.
My yacht, The Diplomat , gleams in the afternoon sun, sixty-five feet of polished luxury anchored at the exclusive North Harbor Marina.
I stand at the rail of the upper deck, surveying the preparations. The staff moves with practiced efficiency, arranging flowers, positioning tables, stocking the bar. Everything pristine, everything perfect, everything under my control.
“The guest list is at twenty-four,” Blake informs me, appearing at my side. “All confirmed. Mrs. Davenport insisted on adding the Montgomerys and Judge Harrington.”
I suppress my irritation. “Fine. Make sure security has updated photos of everyone.”
“Already done. And the catering staff has been vetted. No unfamiliar faces.”
I nod, satisfied with his thoroughness. “And Lea?”
“Getting ready in the master stateroom.”
I check my watch. Guests will begin arriving in thirty minutes. “I’ll go see her. Monitor the preparations.”
The interior of the yacht is cool and hushed, a sleek cocoon of polished teak and soft leather that muffles the bustle on deck, the clink of champagne flutes being arranged, and the low hum of staff completing preparations for the reception.
I stride through the main salon, bypassing the dining area where a dark wood table gleams under crystal stemware set for an intimate donors’ lunch, and head down the corridor to the master stateroom.
The air here carries a faint trace of saltwater and something richer, more intimate.
Her scent, lingering from our nights of relentless “education.”
I enter without knocking. There are no barriers between us, no sanctuaries she can hide in. This space is mine, and so is she.
Lea’s at the king-sized bed. The one where I’ve had her bound every night this past week, drilling obedience into her with silk restraints, commands, and pleasure-pain that leaves her shattered and begging.
She’s adjusting her dress—a cream-colored summer sheath.
The fabric hugs her hips and makes her breasts look amazing.
Her golden skin glows under the soft cabin lights, and her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders.
Her makeup is subtle but makes her full lips and defiant eyes pop.
She looks like a mafia king’s fiancée: elegant, and totally fuckable.
She turns at my intrusion, expression schooled into neutrality, but I catch the subtle hitch in her breath, and the way her thighs press together ever so slightly. “Is it time?”
I don’t answer immediately, letting my gaze rake over her.
The faint shadows of bruises on her wrists from last night have nearly vanished, but I know they’re there, tender echoes of how I had her spread-eagle on this very bed—wrists lashed to the headboard, ankles bound wide to the posts, her pussy exposed and dripping for me.
I teased her mercilessly with that giant dildo first, thick and veined, sliding it in slowly, watching her arch and whimper as I pumped it deep, stretching her, building her to the brink until she was sobbing my name, her walls clenching greedily.
Then I’d yanked it free, replacing it with my cock—bigger, hotter, throbbing as I slammed home, claiming every inch while she screamed in ecstasy, her body convulsing around me in total surrender.
“Almost,” I finally reply, crossing the room in measured steps until I’m towering over her, the heat of my body invading her space. “But first, we clarify today’s expectations.” My voice is a low growl, laced with the memory of her cries.
I reach out, adjusting her dress with deliberate slowness, my fingers grazing the warm silk of her throat. She doesn’t flinch, but her pulse leaps under my touch. Good. The training is embedded deep. Her body craves my dominance now, even as her mind spars.
“This isn’t mere socializing,” I continue, my hand sliding down to cup her breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.
She bites her lip, a soft gasp escaping.
“It’s a goddamn performance. These donors, the elite who fund my empire, they’ll scrutinize us.
They must buy the facade: you as my devoted fiancée, all mine. ”
“I understand,” she murmurs, voice steady but breathy, her back arching subtly into my palm. “I can play the part.”