Beautiful Obsessions (Beautifully Ruined #4)

Archie

It would have been so easy to mistake the wine for blood.

The man sitting across from me kept swirling it in his glass without drinking it. I could tell exactly the kind of man he was by the way he did that…

People who come to negotiate drink. People who come to threaten stall.

The restaurant around us hummed with quiet luxury. Low lighting and soft music. Waiters moving noiselessly between tables.

I rested my elbows on the table and studied him.

He had the look of a man who thought he was clever. The type who practiced confidence in the mirror before leaving the house.

His haircut was too precise, the lines around the temples freshly shaved like he’d stopped by a barber an hour before this meeting.

His watch was expensive—very expensive—but the way he angled his wrist when he spoke told me he wanted me to notice it.

His suit was tailored to look effortless, the fabric soft enough to pass for casual luxury while quietly costing more than most people’s annual salary.

Everything about him was rehearsed.

The posture. The smile. Even the way he held his wine glass, fingers carefully placed as though someone had once shown him how powerful men were supposed to drink.

But the performance was thin.

Men who owned that kind of wealth didn’t need to advertise it.

They wore their money the way old soldiers wore scars—without ceremony. This man, however, had built himself a costume. And I would have bet a very comfortable sum that it was all for show. Think big. Look big. Convince the world you belonged at the table long enough that no one noticed you didn’t.

I had seen the trick before.

Every city had a handful of men like him—well-rehearsed scammers who survived by pretending they were far more dangerous, connected, or valuable than they actually were.

And the moment he sat down in front of me, I knew exactly which category he belonged to.

He was sweating.

Not profusely, but enough to let me know he was nervous and trying not to show it.

Across from me, Atlas Cavalho didn’t bother hiding his boredom.

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, his expression calm in that dangerous way that made lesser men nervous.

The man cleared his throat.

“So,” he said slowly. “Let’s talk about the situation.”

Ah. There it was.

I lifted my glass and took a slow sip of the wine.

“What situation?” I asked pleasantly.

Atlas’s mouth twitched faintly.

The man glanced between us, calculating.

“Word travels quickly,” he said. “And lately the word traveling is… expensive.”

“Everything is expensive these days,” I replied. “Inflation.”

Atlas snorted quietly.

The man’s smile tightened.

“There’s a bounty on your head,” he said finally.

I set my glass down.

“Yes,” I said calmly. “That.”

Atlas’s eyes slid toward me.

“Two million euros,” he added, as though the number itself might impress me.

It didn’t. I was quite offended, actually, that two million euros was all I was worth to someone.

I leaned back in my chair.

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “that’s flattering.” Not.

The man blinked in surprise before he spoke again.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“Oh, I understand it perfectly.”

Two million euros was simple math. It meant someone powerful wanted me dead. Powerful enough to convince every ambitious psychopath in Europe that my head was worth chasing.

Atlas drummed his fingers lightly against the table.

“You should take it seriously,” Atlas said to me, though I could see the twitch in his lip telling me he wanted to put on a show for our guest.

“I am.”

Atlas raised an eyebrow.

“No,” he said calmly. “You’re not.”

He turned to the man.

“Someone will take the job,” Atlas continued. “That’s what a bounty that size guarantees.”

The man nodded eagerly, grateful that he was finally getting his point across.

“Yes. Exactly.”

I sighed softly.

“Must we pretend this is a revelation?” I asked.

Atlas ignored me.

“You’ve made enemies, Archie.”

I smiled faintly.

“Occupational hazard.”

Atlas leaned forward slightly.

“Even retired professionals would come out of the woodwork for that amount of money.”

“Yes,” I said. “I imagine they will.”

The man across from us finally leaned in. And there it was. The moment he had been working toward.

“I might have information,” he said.

Atlas rolled his eyes.

I folded my hands on the table.

“Do you?”

He nodded slowly.

“But information has value.”

Here we go.

I waited. He waited.

We stared at each other across the table while the restaurant continued moving quietly around us.

“I could tell you who placed the bounty.”

Ah. Extortion. Classic.

“And what,” I asked pleasantly, “would you like in return?”

The man smiled.

“Protection.”

Atlas laughed. Actually laughed. A short, sharp sound that made the man stiffen.

“You want protection from the man whose head has a price on it?” Atlas asked.

The man flushed slightly.

“Well—when you put it like that—”

I sighed.

The sigh of a man who had hoped—briefly—that this evening might offer something interesting. Instead I had been given a con man.

“Let me understand,” I said slowly. “You came here. To a private dinner. With two men who have buried more enemies than most people have acquaintances…”

The man swallowed.

“…to attempt a negotiation based on information you refuse to share.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded.

“Yes.”

I looked at Atlas. Atlas looked at me. Then he leaned back again.

“Do what you want,” he said.

I reached for the fork beside my plate.

The man frowned slightly.

“I’m not sure you understand—”

I moved.

The fork slid across the table and into his eye before the sentence finished leaving his mouth.

The sound he made was extraordinary.

A wet scream exploded from his throat as the fork sank deep into the socket.

The table lurched violently as he recoiled, knocking over his wine glass.

Liquid sprayed across the white linen. And across my shoe.

I stared at it.

The man was screaming now, hands clawing at his face as blood poured between his fingers.

The restaurant had gone silent.

I sighed heavily as I looked down at my shoes.

“Now look what you’ve done.”

Atlas leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temple.

“You didn’t even give him a warning.”

“He had several.”

The man thrashed in his seat, shrieking.

I removed the fork carefully.

More liquid followed.

Atlas glanced at my shoe.

“Expensive.”

“Yes,” I said irritably.

I looked back at the man.

“Now,” I said calmly, “we’re going to try this again.”

He sobbed.

Fear is very clarifying.

“Who placed the bounty?” I asked.

He gasped.

“Russian—”

Progress.

“Which one?”

He choked.

“Bro… ther… hood.”

Atlas’s expression darkened.

That confirmed something we had both suspected.

I leaned closer.

“You see,” I said softly, “this could have been a very simple conversation.”

The man whimpered. I was sure he had now lost sight in one eye.

Blood dripped steadily onto the table.

Atlas looked bored again.

I placed the fork back beside my plate.

“Next time,” I added gently, “lead with the interesting stuff.”

The man nodded frantically.

Across from me, Atlas studied my face.

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” he said.

“The bounty?”

“Yes.”

I reached for my wine again.

The restaurant slowly began pretending nothing had happened. Europe is wonderful that way.

“Well,” I said calmly, “if someone wants me dead badly enough to spend two million euros…”

Atlas waited.

“…then I suppose I should start preparing.”

Atlas’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“Preparing how?”

I smiled faintly. Many times, I’d been told that I had a smile that makes reasonable men reconsider their life choices.

“My own funeral.”

Because someone had just placed a very expensive target on my head. And if there was one thing I had learned in life—it was that survival always favored the man who was prepared.