Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
NICO
My chest feels like it’s in a vise as I stand in the eerie blue glow of the emergency lights.
Outside, the storm’s slamming against the yacht’s hull, waves crashing.
But that’s nothing compared to the chaos inside me.
I stare at Lea, curled tight on the couch, a defensive knot screaming about the mess I’ve made.
My eyes trace the angry red welts where her robe slips. Marks I put there, deliberate strokes meant to break her. And I did. That raw, guttural sob she let out keeps running around in my head, a haunting loop I can’t shut off.
It twists with a ghost from my past, one I’ve buried deep: my mother’s last cry, that wet, desperate keen just before the blade sliced her throat. The sound of a world ending, pain beyond words.
I turn away, bile hot in my throat. This link between then and now? A crack I can’t afford, a fissure in the foundation. Alessandro hammered it into me: Emotion’s a blade for your enemies’ throats, never your own. Feel it, and you’re already bleeding out.
“We should talk,” I say, forcing the words, “about what happens next.”
It’s a tactical pivot. The emotional front is breached; I need to redraw the lines, lock down this... remorse... before it spreads like poison.
Her eyes meet mine, piercing despite the pain I’ve inflicted. She sees the fracture, damn her.
The satellite phone’s shrill cuts through, a lifeline back to my domain: threats, maneuvers, blood. I pivot away from her, grasping at the cold clarity.
“Varela,” I snap.
“Sir,” Blake’s voice crackles, tight with urgency, “we have a situation at the lake house. Isabel Vega’s here.”
Ice floods my veins, sharpening everything. “Explain.”
“She arrived twenty minutes ago. Slipped through the north perimeter without a whisper—no alarms, no trace.”
Rage surges. Isabel Vega, the cartel’s sleek liaison, with her lethal grace and those sharp eyes that miss nothing.
We’ve danced this tango before, negotiating safe passages for her “specialty imports” through my territories, her Colombian overlords paying handsomely for the privilege.
But her showing up uninvited, breaching my sanctum?
That’s not business; that’s a declaration.
“Isabel’s words?” I demand.
“‘Information that can’t wait for business hours.’ Tied to Moretti... and the Korean angle.”
My jaw locks. “Professor Song?”
“She asked if Ms. Song is with you.”
I glance at Lea, piecing it together like the journalist she is, even battered.
She knows Isabel from our earlier encounters, that charged meeting where Vega’s gaze lingered on her with more than professional interest, her subtle touches and that purring invitation to “continue the conversation” hinting at a hunger that went beyond cartels and deals.
“Contain her,” I order. “I’m en route.”
“Sir, the harbormaster?—”
“Now.”
I kill the call and hit the intercom. The captain picks up fast.
“New course,” I bark. “Back to my private dock. Full throttle.”
“Sir, the marina’s locked down. Coast Guard’s?—”
“Not a request. Plot it.”
“The swells are monsters—six to eight feet. We’re risking?—”
“I’ll own the risk. Move.”
I release the button and face Lea, her expression a veil over the storm in her eyes. “We’re docking.”
“Yes. Unexpected company demands my presence.”
She nods, slow and assessing. “Isabel Vega?”
Sharp as ever. “The cartel’s point woman. Her timing... reeks of calculation, especially after our last run-in.”
The engines roar to life, the yacht lunging forward into the maelstrom. It bucks hard, and Lea winces, gripping the couch as pain flares across her marked skin.
Something knots in my gut at the sight—regret. I crush it, grinding it under my heel. No room for it now. Isabel’s play is a threat that demands the Diplomat, not this fractured man.
“Brace yourself,” I say, voice edged with frost. “This ride’s hell.”
A wave slams us, shuddering the hull. Water pounds the glass, blurring the world.
“You sure about this?” Lea asks, eyes wide but steady.
“No.” I haul her up, careful to avoid her welts, the heat of her skin seeping through the robe despite everything. “But necessity doesn’t ask nicely.”
I strap her into a secured seat, then buckle myself nearby.
The yacht heaves through the fury, each crash a jolt that rattles my bones.
I embrace it. The raw fight against nature, cleaner than the mess she’s stirred in me.
Her gaze burns into me, and I project unyielding command, willing her to forget the man who faltered, who stopped when he should’ve claimed victory.
My mind shifts to tactics: Isabel. What intel does she dangle? This is my arena, where I excel.
The captain’s voice crackles: “Approaching dock. Coast Guard hailing—ordering stand-down.”
“Ignore,” I command. “Dock us.”
“Consequences, sir. Fines, investigations?—”
“Handled.”
We slam into the dock, lines secured amid the gale. “Stay tight,” I tell Lea. “Silent.”
She nods, understanding the stakes.
We dash into the downpour, Blake waiting with the SUV, engine growling.
“Status?” I demand, sliding in.
“Contained in your study,” Blake reports, grim. “Pushed past objections. Her guards are locked down in the east wing, under watch.”
Jaw clenched, I picture it. Isabel Vega is in my chair, rifling through my space. A blatant fuck-you, especially knowing her penchant for power plays.
“Touched anything?”
“Books, desk. Poured your top Macallan.”
The SUV tears up the drive. I eye Lea, and the shivers she tries to hide. “Blake, get her dry clothes. Then bring her to the study.”
“You want me there?” Lea asks, eyes narrowing.
“I want eyes on you.” Cold, calculated. “Isabel’s timing stinks of motive. Until I dissect it, you’re in my sight.” And truthfully, after our last encounter with her, the way her sharp eyes devoured Lea, that subtle brush of fingers lingering too long, I need to see how she plays this round.
No argument. Good.
I storm inside, shedding my drenched jacket to a staffer, as I head to the study. Push the door open—no knock, my turf.
Isabel lounges in my chair, crystal tumbler of my Macallan in hand, long legs crossed.
Her black hair gleams in a sleek twist, framing those angular features, her diamond studs catching the light with understated menace.
The tailored pantsuit clings just right, accentuating the lethal grace that makes her as deadly as she is alluring.
She doesn’t stand. The insult lands deliberately.
“Isabel,” I drawl, mild as arsenic. “To what do I owe this... intrusion?”
She sips slowly, savoring my whiskey… and my irritation. “Nico. Forgive the drama. Some intel demands face time.” Her smile purrs, not reaching those assessing eyes, sharp as ever.
“And requires commandeering my desk?” I stay standing, hands pocketed, radiating calm dominance despite the drop of rain from my hair.
She smiles, venomous. “Assumed you’d prefer privacy. Though privacy seems... flexible lately.” Her gaze slides past me—to Lea, entering now.
“Blake,” I say, not turning, “escort Ms. Vega to the sitting room. This isn’t the venue.”
Isabel rises fluidly, but her grin cuts. “Of course. Admiring the Machiavelli first edition—fitting for you.”
She saunters past, pausing inches from me. This is about power, not seduction, though the heat of her proximity reminds me of past negotiations where lines blurred. “Sitting room it is.”
As she brushes Lea: “Ms. Song. A pleasure to see you again. Still as captivating as our last encounter.” Her voice drips with that purring invitation, eyes tracing Lea’s form with open appreciation, a subtle reminder of the way she’d leaned in before, fingers grazing Lea’s arm, whispering about “continuing the conversation.”
Lea meets her stare level, a slow, knowing smile touching her lips. “Ms. Vega. I was hoping you'd think so.”
Isabel’s laugh shatters like ice, laced with intrigue. “Bold as ever. No wonder Nico keeps you close.”
The jab lands. She’s implying weakness, distraction. For Lea’s ears as much as mine. Dangerous.
No room for delay. “Lea, with me.”
I lead her to my bedroom. The door shuts behind us with a decisive click that seals us in this charged space. Her eyes bore into me, sharp and unyielding, even as the storm rages outside.
“Why the theatrics?” she asks, her voice laced with that edge I crave.
“She’s probing for cracks, don’t you see it?
Moretti, the Koreans, you.” I strip off my wet clothes with efficient movements, the fabric clinging before peeling away, revealing the hard planes of my chest. I feel her gaze on me, that flicker of heat in her eyes despite the welts I’ve branded into her skin.
It stirs my cock, thickening it with a dark hunger, a visceral reminder of how she yields beneath me.
Her body arching, slick and begging, a perfect canvas for my deepest, most depraved desires.
“She seemed... interested in me last time,” Lea says, her voice steady but edged with intrigue.
I fucking knew it. Isabel’s playing on both teams. “Don’t let it get to your head, piccola.
She’s always hunting for leverage.” I button up the dry shirt slowly, facing her fully now, letting my eyes rake over her form, noting the way her breath catches.
An idea’s forming. “You’ll sit in. Let me watch her watch you.
If her interest in you is what I think it is, that sexual pull she couldn’t hide last time, we might leverage it. Draw her in, make her slip.”