Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
NICO
I watch her sleep, the first light of dawn casting a golden glow across her face.
Her dark lashes rest against her cheeks, and her breathing comes slowly and evenly.
For once, the perpetual furrow between her brows is gone, and her lips—those defiant, challenging lips that have driven me to the edge of madness—are slightly parted in perfect repose.
Lea Song. The journalist. The daughter. The pawn that became a queen on my board.
No, not a pawn. Never just a pawn. She was always something more dangerous. A piece that moved by her rules.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above her cheek but not touching, unwilling to disturb this moment of peace.
Last night replays in my mind: her body beneath mine, her whispered confessions, her surrender.
For the first time since I found her bound in that abandoned factory, I allowed myself to believe that she might truly be mine.
Not just as a possession, or a means to an end. But mine in a way that makes my chest ache when I look at her.
The realization should terrify me. Alessandro’s words echo in my mind: “Love is a luxury you cannot afford. It’s the one weakness that cannot be turned into strength.
” Yet as I watch Lea’s chest rise and fall, I question the fundamental principles that have governed my life.
What if Alessandro is wrong? What if this—this consuming, irrational desire to protect her at all costs—is not a weakness but a unique power?
I ease myself out of the bed, careful not to wake her. She stirs slightly, her hand reaching for the warm space I’ve vacated, and something in my chest tightens at the unconscious gesture. I pull the duvet higher around her shoulders, then quietly retrieve my robe and leave the bedroom.
Back in my office, the city spreads out before me; Chicago waking to another day.
The first rays of sunlight glint off the glass towers, transforming them into blazing pillars of gold and crimson.
From this height, the city looks orderly, peaceful—a perfect illusion.
I know better than most what lurks beneath that gleaming surface: the carefully maintained balance of power, the labyrinth of alliances and enmities, the constant threat of chaos.
My world. The one I’ve spent a lifetime building and protecting.
I pour myself a coffee and settle behind my desk, but I make no move to check my emails or messages. My mind is elsewhere, caught in an unfamiliar state of... contentment? Is that what this strange lightness is? This feeling that the weight I’ve carried for so long has somehow shifted?
The events of the last twenty-four hours replay in my mind.
The stark terror of learning Lea had been taken.
The cold calculated fury as I planned Moretti’s destruction.
When I saw her bound to that chair, alone and vulnerable, the relief that crashed through me when she was safe was so overwhelming it nearly brought me to my knees.
And later, the way she came to me—not out of fear or calculation or obligation, but with a hunger that matched my own. For the first time, there was no game between us, no strategic moves or countermoves. Just her body against mine, her skin under my hands, her voice in my ear.
I close my eyes, savoring the memory. It feels dangerous to indulge in this, like standing at the edge of a precipice, the fall both terrifying and tempting.
I’ve spent my entire adult life maintaining control—over my emotions, my business, my city.
Love is the ultimate surrender of control.
Yet here I am, allowing myself to imagine a future where I might have both: my empire and my queen.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Enter,” I call, straightening in my chair and schooling my features into their usual mask of composed authority.
Blake steps into the office, his posture military-straight, his expression professionally neutral.
“Good morning, sir,” he says, closing the door behind him. “I have the final security report on yesterday’s incident.”
I gesture for him to continue, noting a slight hesitation in his manner. Unusual for Blake, who is typically direct to the point of bluntness.
“The property was secure as of 0400 hours,” he reports. “All teams have completed their sweeps, and we’ve found no further evidence of intrusion. The distraction at the east perimeter appears to have been the only breach point.”
“Good,” I nod. “And the men who allowed that breach?”
“Disciplined accordingly, sir. Also, Domingo has been... dealt with. As you instructed.”
I acknowledge this with a slight inclination of my head. Betrayal, even at the lowest levels, must have consequences. It’s a principle that has kept my organization intact while others fractured under pressure.
Blake shifts his weight slightly, something clearly still on his mind. “There is one additional matter, sir.”
“Go on.”
He reaches into his jacket and produces a small black object—a burner phone, basic and nondescript.
“Ms. Song found this during her walk yesterday. On the grounds.”
I frown, the first ripple disturbing my morning’s unusual calm. “A piece of trash Moretti’s thugs left behind. Get rid of it.”
“Sir,” Blake says carefully, and that hesitation is back, more pronounced now. “I had Alessandro’s tech team examine it. It’s operating on a highly secure, military-grade encrypted network.”
I lean forward slightly, my attention sharpening. “Explain.”
“This isn’t a thug’s phone, sir. This is a ghost. It’s the kind of untraceable hardware a player like Isabel Vega would use.”
The name sends concentric circles of disturbance through my morning’s peace. Isabel Vega. The cartel liaison who walked into my lake house uninvited. Who showed a pointed, personal interest in Lea. Who, by all accounts, is as ambitious as she is dangerous.
“Where exactly did Ms. Song find this?” I keep my voice even, betraying none of the sudden unease coiling in my gut.
“Near the eastern garden path. The same area where we found evidence of perimeter tampering.” Blake hesitates again, then adds, “She said she heard it ringing and answered it, but the caller hung up immediately.”
“And you believe her?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Blake’s face remains carefully neutral. “It’s not my place to question Ms. Song’s account, sir.”
Of course not. Blake is a soldier, not a strategist. He reports; he doesn’t interpret.
“That will be all, Blake,” I say, reaching for the phone. “Leave this with me.”
He places it on my desk, nods once, and withdraws, closing the door quietly behind him.
Alone again, I stare at the innocuous black rectangle, this small object that has introduced a discordant note into my morning’s harmony.
Slowly, I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.
It’s a cheap model, the kind you can buy with cash at any convenience store, but Blake’s tech team revealed its sophisticated interior. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Just like...
No, I shut down the thought before it can fully form. But the seed is planted, and doubt, once introduced, spreads like a virus.
I set the phone down and rise from my desk, suddenly unable to sit still. I move to the window, staring out at the city without really seeing it. My mind races, examining angles and possibilities with the cold precision that has kept me alive and in power.
The timing is too convenient. Lea’s abduction. The abandoned factory. The perfect rescue. And now this phone, found in the exact area where security was breached.
It’s a setup.
The thought lands with the weight of certainty, and with it comes a pain so acute it’s physical, a knife twisting beneath my ribs. I press my palm against the cool glass of the window, struggling to breathe through it.
No, argues another voice in my head. You saw her fear. You felt her relief when you found her. You held her in your arms as she trembled with gratitude and desire. That can’t be faked.
Can’t it? Haven’t I seen master manipulators before? Haven’t I been one myself?
I pace, my mind at war with itself. The diplomat in me—the cold, calculating strategist who has navigated the treacherous waters of Chicago’s underworld for decades—screams that this is a trap.
The convenient “kidnapping,” the burner phone, Lea’s sudden, insistent desire to visit Purgatorio tonight.
.. they form a pattern too clear to ignore.
But there’s another voice now, one I’ve never heard before. The Lover. And he desperately rejects this conclusion. He replays every moment of our reunion: her tears, her passion, the way she clung to me afterward as if afraid I might vanish. He argues it felt too real, too raw to be a performance.
Why would she do this? The question echoes in my mind, a tormenting refrain. What motive would drive her to such elaborate betrayal?
I have no answer because I’m missing a crucial piece. Her betrayal seems senseless—a deeply personal wound inflicted for no reason I can fathom.
I force myself to stop pacing and think logically. There must be an explanation. Perhaps Isabel is coercing her somehow. Or blackmailing her. Or maybe Lea is playing a double game—pretending to work with Isabel while actually feeding me information.
Yes, that must be it. She found the phone and brought it to Blake’s attention immediately. If she were truly working against me, wouldn’t she have hidden it? Used it secretly?
But then why did she answer it at all? And why in that blind spot in the garden, away from the cameras?
The questions multiply, each one spawning a dozen more, until my head pounds with them. The pain of potential betrayal is a physical thing, far worse than the bullet wound in my side from Moretti’s attack.