Chapter 20 #2
I return to my desk and sink into my chair, suddenly exhausted. The burner phone sits there, a silent accusation. I could call the tech team, have them trace the last call, attempt to crack the encryption. But deep down, I already know what they’ll find: nothing. A ghost, just as Blake said.
The pain becomes too much. As a defense mechanism honed over years of survival, I retreat into the one persona that has never failed me: The Diplomat.
I feel it happening—the emotional turmoil receding, replaced by cold, simple logic.
My heart encases itself in ice, the vulnerability of moments ago sealed away behind impenetrable walls.
I accept the most logical, if devastating, conclusion: I am being played. The sudden, insistent desire to go to Purgatorio tonight is connected to Isabel’s encrypted phone. The location of the trap has been designated, and Lea is leading me to it.
The hurt is still there, a molten core beneath the ice, but now it fuels something else: a cold, patient, and lethal fury.
I send a text to Blake: My office. Now.
While I wait, I compose myself completely, burying any trace of the emotional turmoil that preceded this moment. By the time Blake knocks and enters, I am once again Nicolás Varela, The Diplomat, the man who has maintained order in Chicago’s criminal underground for over a decade.
“Sir?” Blake stands at attention, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
“I want a full staffing and security review at Purgatorio for tonight,” I say, my voice calm and controlled, but with an edge that makes Blake’s posture stiffen further.
“Use Alessandro’s most trusted men. Every employee on shift is to be vetted, especially those with access to the VIP areas and my office. ”
“Yes, sir.” Blake’s response is immediate. “May I ask what we’re looking for?”
I meet his gaze directly. “There may be a mole in our house, Blake. I want them found.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He nods once, sharply. “Consider it done. Anything else?”
I consider for a moment, then add, “I want a secondary team in place. Not visible to the regular security detail. Men you trust implicitly, positioned to observe without being observed.”
“A shadow team,” Blake says, already thinking operationally. “I’ll handle the placement myself.”
“Good. That will be all for now.”
After he leaves, I sit in silence for a long moment, staring at the burner phone. Then I open my desk drawer and drop it inside, shutting it away with a decisive click.
Tonight, I will play my part to perfection. I will be the besotted fool, the powerful man undone by love. I will give Lea—and whoever is watching—exactly the performance they expect.
And then I will spring the trap on the trappers.
The restaurant is bathed in amber light, with the soft glow of candles creating intimate pools of illumination throughout the space.
I’ve chosen Vittorio’s deliberately—not one of my own establishments, but a competitor’s, ensuring there are outside witnesses to our “love story.” The ma?tre d’ leads us to the most secluded booth, a corner nook draped in burgundy velvet, offering the illusion of privacy while still being visible to the rest of the dining room.
I am consciously setting a stage for the performance. Let’s see how my leading lady performs under the lights .
Lea looks stunning in a black dress that emphasizes the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders.
Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her face, and her lips are painted a deep red that draws the eye.
She moves with the graceful confidence I’ve come to associate with her, but there’s a subtle tension in her shoulders, a slight quickness to her breath that only someone studying her as intently as I am would notice.
Is it nerves about tonight’s betrayal? Or simply anticipation of our evening together?
The moment we are seated, I ignore the menus completely.
My focus is a tangible force directed solely at her.
I reach across the table, taking both of her hands in mine, lifting them to my lips for a lingering kiss.
My eyes devour her, genuinely appreciating her beauty even as I search for tells—the micro-expressions that might betray her.
“You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you,” I tell her, and it’s not entirely a lie. Even now, knowing what I suspect, there’s a physical ache in my chest when I look at her.
She blushes, a perfect rosy tint spreading across her cheeks. Is it real? An involuntary response to the attention? Or is she that good of an actress? It doesn’t matter. The performance is flawless.
I feel a sharp pang, a mixture of admiration for her skill and the profound pain of her deceit.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replies with a small smile, her eyes meeting mine with what appears to be genuine warmth. “I’m still not used to seeing you in anything but those perfect suits.”
I’m wearing a charcoal cashmere sweater over a white button-down, casual by my standards but still elegant. “I thought I’d surprise you,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken under my touch.
A distinguished older waiter approaches our table, the picture of professional decorum. “Good evening, Mr. Varela, Ms. Song. A pleasure to have you. May I start you with an apéritif?”
I don’t even glance at him. Instead, I lean across the table, cup Lea’s face in my hands, and capture her mouth in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that is unequivocally for public consumption. I feel her initial surprise, then her surrender as she returns the kiss, her lips parting under mine.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are slightly dazed, her breathing uneven. Good. Let her be off balance.
The waiter freezes, his notepad held awkwardly mid-air. He waits a beat, then clears his throat discreetly. “Perhaps... some champagne to celebrate the occasion?”
I break the kiss, but my eyes never leave Lea’s. I address the waiter without looking at him, my voice a low purr. “An excellent suggestion. A bottle of the ‘96 Krug. And then give us ten minutes. We have some... catching up to do.”
The dismissal is total, framing us as new lovers who cannot bear to be apart. The waiter retreats, visibly flustered.
Alone again, I keep up the physical affection, my thumb stroking her cheek. My conversation is light, but my mind is a razor, dissecting her every response.
“Tell me what you were thinking about today, while I was gone,” I say, watching her face for any flicker of deception.
“Only about you coming home,” she says, turning her face to press a kiss into my palm. “About this.”
A perfect answer. Vague, romantic, unimpeachable. She gives me nothing. She’s good. Better than I thought. I feel a thrill of the hunt despite myself. This is a game between equals.
“Nothing else?” I press gently, my voice teasing. “No grand journalistic investigations? No exposés in the works?”
Something flashes in her eyes—so quickly I almost miss it. Wariness? Guilt? But her smile never falters. “How could I focus on anything else after what happened? Besides,” she adds, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I think I’ve found a much more... interesting story to pursue.”
The double meaning in her words sends a cold certainty through me. Whatever is planned for tonight, she is committed to seeing it through.
Finding her verbal defenses impenetrable, I change tactics.
I slide from my side of the table into the booth next to her, pinning her into the corner.
The move is swift, dominant, and looks entirely like a lover’s impetuous act.
I drape an arm over the back of the booth, my hand resting on her shoulder, my body caging hers.
Under the cover of the tablecloth, my other hand finds her thigh, my fingers beginning a slow, deliberate ascent up the smooth skin.
She shivers, her breath catching audibly. That at least is real. Her body doesn’t lie, even if her mouth does. This is my advantage. She desires me, and her desire is the one variable she can’t completely control. I will use it against her.
“I’ve been thinking,” I murmur, my lips close to her ear, “about that night at the lake house. The first time you admitted what you wanted from me.”
Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as my hand slides higher. “Which was what?”
“To be claimed,” I remind her, watching her reaction closely. “To be mine, publicly and privately. To walk into a room on my arm and feel the power in knowing you belong to me.”
She swallows, a subtle but visible movement in her elegant throat. “I remember.”
“Tonight,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, “everyone at Purgatorio will see exactly who you belong to. What you are to me.” My hand reaches the apex of her thighs, and I feel her heat through the thin fabric of her underwear. “And what I am to you.”
Her breathing is shallow now, her lips slightly parted. “And what is that?” she asks.
I lean in until my lips brush her ear. “Everything.”
The waiter returns with the champagne, even more flustered now to find us practically intertwined. As he fumbles with the bottle, I take it from him.
“I’ll handle it,” I say smoothly. I pour two glasses, my eyes locked on Lea’s. I hand her a glass, our fingers brushing. I turn to the defeated waiter. “The chef’s tasting menu. All courses. And please don’t disturb us again unless the building is on fire.”
The waiter nods and flees. I turn back to Lea, a predatory glint in my eye. “Now,” I whisper, leaning in to kiss her neck, just below her ear where I know she’s sensitive, “where were we?”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Her free hand comes up to grip my sweater, either pulling me closer or steadying herself—I’m not sure which.
“Nico,” she breathes, and for a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to believe that the desire in her voice is genuine. Whatever trap awaits me tonight, her feelings, at least, are real.
But then I remember the burner phone, and the ice around my heart thickens. This is a performance. An elaborate deception leading to my downfall.
I raise my champagne glass, offering a toast. “To tonight,” I say, my voice betraying none of the cold fury building inside me. “And all it promises.”
Her glass meets mine with a delicate chime. “To tonight,” she echoes, her eyes holding mine as she takes a sip.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, and I think of Moretti, and Isabel, and whatever they’ve promised her.
I think of the elaborate trap being set at Purgatorio right now, and the counter-trap I’ve arranged.
I think of how, in just a few hours, this beautiful, dangerous woman will learn exactly who she’s been playing games with.
I’ve been The Diplomat for longer than you’ve been alive, piccola, I think as I sip my champagne. Tonight, we’ll see who the better player truly is.