Chapter 11 Archie
Archie
I noticed the man before he noticed me.
He was middle-aged, thick around the waist. His bare feet were encased in sandals that closely resembled what Jesus wore in all those religious movies I’d been forced to watch growing up.
He stood at the edge of his front lawn across the street from the church, hose in one hand, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his shorts.
Water arced lazily over a row of overwatered hydrangeas like he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do.
Which was a lie.
He’d been watching us the whole time we were talking to Leo. With interest.
When our eyes met, he looked away immediately, turning his attention back to his plants as if we were no more interesting than traffic noise.
I crossed the street slowly, hands loose at my sides, my men hanging back where they belonged. The hose hissed softly. The street smelled like wet earth and cut grass and old stone—the kind of quiet neighborhood that liked to believe nothing bad ever happened here.
“Evening,” I said.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just angled the spray away from me, like we were neighbors chatting about the weather.
“Evening,” he replied. His accent was local. He seemed like the kind of man who’d never left this street and never needed to.
“Nice night for it,” I added, nodding at the garden.
“Plants like routine,” he said. “People, too.”
I smiled. I liked him already.
“You see much excitement around here yesterday?” I asked lightly.
He shrugged. “The church was busy.”
“It was a wedding,” I said. “Mine.”
That got his attention. Not enough to turn fully toward me—but the hose stuttered for half a second.
“Ah,” he said. “That explains the commotion.”
“And the drama,” I prompted.
He sighed then, like I’d forced him into a conversation he’d hoped to avoid. Finally, he looked at me properly. His eyes were sharp. Measuring.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
“Done what?”
“Run,” he replied. “From the altar. It’s… not right. A good Catholic girl doesn’t leave her future husband at the altar.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Uncatholic.”
There it was. His Kryptonite.
I leaned in just slightly, lowering my voice—as though what I had to say was for his ears only. “I thought the same.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“She embarrassed you,” he went on. “Embarrassed God, too. Sacrament’s not a suggestion.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And you strike me as a man who values order. Tradition. Family values.”
He snorted. “Someone has to.”
For a moment, it felt almost companionable. Two men agreeing on the state of the world. On how things should be.
Then I asked, casually, “You didn’t happen to see where she went, did you?”
His face closed instantly.
“I don’t get involved,” he said, turning the hose back to the flowers. “Not my business.”
Of course.
I nodded, stepped back—and my heel sank straight into his garden bed. The crunch was loud. So was the silence that followed. He stared at the crushed flowers like I’d just murdered a family member.
“That,” he said slowly, “was African Blue Basil.”
I glanced down. “It’ll grow back.”
“No,” he said. “It won’t.”
I met his eyes and saw the shift immediately.
The righteousness was gone. The quiet Catholic moralizing had drained out of him, replaced by something sharper and far more useful—indignation. He wasn’t a man defending God anymore. He was a man ready to go to war over a crushed plant, offended on a deeply personal level.
I sighed inwardly.
“How much?” I asked.
He didn’t even blink. Just adjusted the spray of the hose like he was watering his dignity back into place.
“For the plants,” he said, then paused, eyes sliding back to mine, “or for the information?”
I smiled. Slow. Polite. I knew my smile usually made people nervous.
“Let’s be efficient,” I said. “Both.”
That was when he finally turned the hose off.
He faced me fully now, chest out, shoulders squared. Enjoying the fact that I needed something from him, and that God had clearly stepped out of the negotiation.
He gave me a number.
I laughed, the sound sharp and incredulous in the quiet street.
He didn’t smile. Nor did he avert his eyes. Fearless was one word that came to mind.
“That’s steep for basil.”
“You stepped on my garden and killed my rare basil,” he replied calmly. “And you want me to remember things I’d rather forget.”
I tilted my head, studying him.
“That number would buy you a new garden,” I said. “And the house next to it.”
He shrugged. “What can I say?” Meaning take it or leave it.
I took a step closer without appearing threatening. I just needed him to remember who he was bargaining with.
“You’re charging me like you’ve got leverage,” I said calmly.
He met my gaze without wavering.
“I do,” he said. “You stepped on my basil.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I laughed again—quieter this time. Appreciative.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re one of those.”
He crossed his arms. “You want cheaper, you can find another witness.”
We both knew there wasn’t one.
I countered.
He shook his head immediately. “Not worth the confession.”
He countered back. Catholic duty vanished entirely somewhere around the second offer.
In the end, greed won—as it always did. He sighed, making a deep and dramatic sound.
“Add a little extra,” he said. “For emotional distress.”
I stared at him.
“I watched a bride run barefoot down the street,” he continued. “That stays with a man.”
I exhaled slowly, then nodded once.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
He nodded back, satisfied.
Only then did he tell me about the car.
“She got hit by a black sedan,” he said, finally. “And I have the registration number.”
I stepped carefully around the rest of his plants as I left.
Behind me, the hose resumed its steady hiss. Next time, I wouldn’t step on anyone’s basil.
As I walked back toward my men, I felt the familiar curl of satisfaction tighten in my chest. I always got shit done.
She got hit by a car. Then she was dragged into said car and whisked away.
When I got home, I went inside and poured myself a drink I didn’t need, hands steady, mind anything but. The glass shattered against the far wall a moment later, alcohol bleeding down marble like a sacrificial offering.
Gianni fucking Cavalho.
I had to question—briefly, fleetingly—whether Mikayla was worth the effort. If not for the sheer, exquisite humiliation of losing her, and losing her to him, I might have let the whole thing go. Written her off as a poor investment. A sunk cost.
But that wasn’t what this was.
This was now about vengeance.
About the unbearable image of her sitting in his car, in his space, breathing his polluted air. Of her looking at him instead of at me. Of his hands—those smug, capable hands—on something that belonged in my world, under my control.
I couldn’t stand upright with the weight of it.
I paced the length of my study, pulse thrumming, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. She didn’t belong in his clutches. She didn’t belong anywhere near him. Gianni Cavalho just kept bleeding unfortunately into my life.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that he would do everything in his considerable power to use her to spite me.
Because that was our language.
Territory. Leverage. Pressure points.
And Mikayla—sweet, stubborn Mikayla—was the softest one I had.
The irony almost made me laugh.
I’d assumed she’d come back to me on her own. Cold feet. Regret. Fear. She’d been bred for it—conditioned to seek safety in familiar cages. I’d been patient. Generous, even. I’d given her space to panic, to run, to embarrass herself at the altar like a foolish girl in a melodrama.
But Gianni had been there.
That was the part I kept circling back to. The coincidence of it. The timing too perfect to ignore. He hadn’t stumbled into her path—he’d intercepted it. Snatched her up in the middle of her escape like a prize he hadn’t even known he was hunting until it landed in his hands.
And now he had her.
I smiled slowly, darkly, as the pieces began to arrange themselves.
If Gianni thought he could take something from me without consequence, he was gravely mistaken. If he thought I wouldn’t come for her—come for both of them—then he’d grown complacent.
Mikayla wasn’t lost. She was misplaced.
And Gianni Cavalho had just done me the courtesy of revealing exactly how much she was worth.
I picked up my phone and made the first call. Then the second.
By the time the sun dipped behind the hedges, I had a plan forming—elegant, inevitable, and deeply personal. Gianni wanted to play games? Fine. I’d remind him that I’d been doing this longer. Much longer.
I lifted another glass in a mock toast to the empty room.
“Enjoy her,” I murmured. “Borrowed things are always the easiest to break.”
And this time, I intended to collect what was mine—with interest.