Chapter 4 Gianni
Gianni
“How did it go with the witnesses?” I asked as I stepped into the converted meeting room.
Enzo, Larry, and Dunn were already there, spread out like they’d been waiting to deliver a group presentation titled Why This Isn’t Our Problem Anymore.
“It’s a good thing those devout Catholics don’t look too kindly on Russians,” Dunn said, flicking his lighter. On. Off. On. Off.
I hated that habit. Deeply. Passionately.
“They’d rather shake hands with a nice Italian boy like yourself—their words, not mine—than the Russian outsider,” he continued. “Better the devil you know, and all that moral gymnastics.”
“And you’re sure no one saw anything?” I asked.
Which, translated loosely, meant that no one wanted to remember seeing anything.
Enzo gave me a thin smile. Larry shrugged.
Dunn snapped his lighter shut with a snap. Fucking finally. “Everyone saw exactly what they needed to see. And then promptly forgot it while they conducted their neighbourhood watch meeting.”
Good. The best loyalty wasn’t purchased. It was earned—by doing the wrong thing around the right people, and knowing their memories would be as selective as their morals.
That was why I had rules. Like all good mobsters did.
They weren’t noble. They weren’t complicated. Rules were the reason I was still breathing while men louder, crueler, and far more sentimental were fertilising the outskirts of the city. Sentiment got you killed. The wrong kind of noise got you noticed for the wrong reasons. And never ended well.
I was also a smart man—at least, that’s what I told myself on a daily basis, usually right before ignoring my own advice.
The first order of business had been to find out who she was. That part wasn’t difficult, considering I’d clipped her with my car directly outside the church where she was meant to be getting married. Subtlety had left the building long before she did.
Rule one: Never act on impulse. Which was ironic, considering Mikayla Gregory was currently breathing on my couch like a very expensive impulse buy I hadn’t planned for and definitely couldn’t return. Still—I’d checked the math. Twice.
I hadn’t planned on keeping her. That would’ve broken a rule. A very old one.
Rule two: Never touch what belongs to another man—unless you’re prepared to finish the war it starts. Women, territory, money. Ownership was currency in my world. Stealing any of it wasn’t theft—it was a declaration of war. And I’d just signed one in blood.
She was meant to be a problem I handed off. An inconvenience that wandered into my life, bled on my floor, and left behind a massive upholstery bill. Something Enzo would deal with after I made a few calls and washed my hands of it. Then I learned her name. And who she was supposed to marry.
Her stepfather’s reputation surfaced immediately—less a man, more a walking liability.
A gambler with ambition far exceeding his intelligence, the kind who owed money everywhere and loyalty nowhere.
At one point, half the city had been waiting their turn to collect from him.
He was the textbook definition of a dead man walking—he just hadn’t received the memo yet.
And Archie Popovich.
Archie was many things—violent, arrogant, territorial—but subtle wasn’t one of them.
He was also my problem. Not because we’d ever shared a drink or sat across a table negotiating like civilised criminals, because neither of us was, but because we both wanted the same territory and neither of us believed in sharing.
Which meant conflict was inevitable. And now I had his bride.
And there she was—half-dressed, bleeding on my furniture, defiant enough to run from a monster without fully understanding what kind of monster she was running from.
A brave move. Also a catastrophically stupid one.
Because the monster she’d been set to marry was far more dangerous than she realized—and far less forgiving. Archie Popovich didn’t just punish disobedience. He curated it. Took his time. Made examples. The kind of man who smiled while plunging the knife in your back.
I felt something close to satisfaction settle in my chest. Archie hated to lose. Hated it with a passion that bordered on religious devotion. He’d been planning this quietly, carefully. Smart, for him. A marriage meant legitimacy. Respectability. A pretty bow tied around a bloody empire.
And now?
Now his future wife was barefoot in my house, wrapped in one of my blankets like it might protect her from reality, staring at me as if I were the final judge, jury, and executioner. As if I might decide her fate on a whim.
She didn’t look eager to go anywhere, either. Which was interesting.
I turned back to her, already aware that my rules were about to become… somewhat flexible.
Rule three: Debt is power. People are collateral. And Mikayla wasn’t just a woman—she was Gregory’s unpaid balance and Archie’s future legitimacy. A symbol both men thought they owned. I didn’t steal people. I acquired assets.
“You ran,” I said.
“Yes.”
“From him?”
“From the wedding.”
I paused, letting that sit between us for a moment. Important distinction. Running from a man meant fear—panic, instincts screaming. Running from an arrangement meant something else entirely. Instinct. Intelligence. A last-second grasp at self-preservation before the trap snapped shut.
Either way, she’d ruined Archie Popovich’s night.
That alone almost earned her a drink.
“You understand,” I said slowly, carefully, “that I could send you back.”
The color drained from her face so fast it was almost impressive. “Please—”
I lifted a hand, stopping her mid-implosion. “I could,” I repeated. “And it would buy me a quiet week and a very violent favor.”
She swallowed before she nodded once, telling me in no uncertain terms that she understood. She didn’t beg again.
Which was good. Because begging bored me.
“But I won’t,” I said.
Her head snapped up. Hope flared in her eyes—bright, reckless, and completely premature.
I extinguished it immediately.
Rule four: If you break a rule, make sure the payoff outweighs the body count. Stealing Archie Popovich’s almost-wife was an unfortunate mistake. But I would turn that to my advantage. In the form of leverage.
Her breathing was shallow, chest rising too fast. Fear, yes—but also anger. The good kind. The kind that meant she was still fighting.
Rule five: Protect what’s under your roof—or kill it yourself. Once someone crossed my threshold, they were my responsibility. Temporarily, at least. Letting harm come to her now would make me look weak. And I didn’t survive by looking weak.
“I’m keeping you,” I said.
Her jaw tightened. A flash of heat crossed her expression—defiance, fury, pride. But she didn’t argue.
Smart girl. I straightened and turned to Enzo.
“Get her a room.”
He hesitated. “The basement?”
I looked at him. Slowly.
“Other than the basement.”
His brows shot up. “You’re sure?”
I tilted my head. “Are you questioning me?”
He vanished immediately. Also smart.
Rule six: If you’re going to be the villain in someone else’s story, make sure you win. Archie would call this kidnapping. I called it positioning. Archie would come looking. Loudly. Carelessly. Convinced rage and ownership were the same thing.
And when he did, I’d be holding the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world. I hoped.
Rules were meant to keep men alive.
Breaking them—carefully—was how empires were built.