Chapter 38
Gianni
Fate, it would seem, was a pretty big bastard.
I had the gun raised. Steady. Close enough that Archie could see his own reflection in the barrel if he wanted to be poetic about it. He was bleeding out on the gravel, defiant even on his back, knees ruined, pride hanging on by a thread.
This was supposed to be the clean part.
The End.
My phone rang.
For a split second, I considered ignoring it and letting it ring out. I wanted the world to wait while I finished what I’d started. But instinct—older than anger, older than vengeance—made my thumb twitch.
It was Atlas.
I swore under my breath and stepped back, lowering the gun just enough to answer.
“You have impeccable timing,” I said flatly.
“If you haven’t killed him yet, don’t pull the trigger,” Atlas replied. Straight to the point, as always.
I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Then cursed under my breath.
“Give me one reason,” I said.
There was a pause on the line.
“The Russians are furious,” Atlas said. “Some fuckwit on our end rerouted a shipment without clearance. Weapons meant for Novosibirsk ended up in Trieste. The Bratva sees it as a deliberate insult.”
I opened my eyes and stared down at Archie, who was watching me with far too much interest for a man bleeding through his trousers.
“And?” I asked.
“And they’ve frozen every channel we have,” Atlas continued. “Ports. Banking. Logistics. We’re one bad move away from open retaliation.”
That got my attention.
“You’re telling me this now,” I said slowly, “because—”
“Because Popovich has history with them,” Atlas cut in. “He’s the only one who can open that door without bloodshed.”
I looked at Archie again.
He grinned. The smug bastard actually grinned.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
“Gianni,” Atlas said, voice hardening. “I’m ordering you to stand down. Make a deal. Let him live.”
Silence stretched between us.
“We need him,” Atlas added. “Alive more than dead. I give you my personal guarantee that Mikayla will be safe.”
My jaw tightened.
“He stays away from her,” I said. “Permanently.”
“That’s part of the deal. Make him look pretty and get him to me as soon as possible, cugino.”
I ended the call without another word.
For a long moment, I stood there in the road, gun hanging loose at my side, smoke drifting around us like the aftermath of a bonfire gone wrong.
“Well,” Archie muttered, voice thin but still irritatingly composed, “how long is this intermission? Because I’d really rather not bleed out and piss myself in the same scene. Feels like overkill.”
I turned back to him.
“Fuck,” I said calmly. Then, louder, as the full weight of the situation—and Atlas’s impeccable timing—hit me all at once. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuck!”
Archie raised his brows, the picture of wounded dignity despite the blood pooling beneath him. “Honestly,” he said, “the language. I’m already dying. Must you scar me emotionally as well?”
“The only reason you’re still alive,” I told him evenly, “is because of Atlas. So enjoy that while it lasts.” I leaned closer, letting my shadow fall over him. “But make no mistake—I would love nothing more than to bury you alive. Piss, blood, designer suit and all.”
He chuckled weakly, coughing through it. “You always did have a flair for romance.”
I straightened and motioned to my men.
“Get him a doctor.”
Archie exhaled, staring up at the sky. “See? Mercy suits you. You should try it more often.”
Minutes later, headlights carved through the darkness, white beams slicing across the wreckage and casting long, distorted shadows over the road. The vehicle rolled to a stop, engine ticking as it cooled, and something tight and familiar sparked in my chest.
Tone stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel with unhurried confidence.
She took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance—blood, smoke, bodies, chaos—and let out a low whistle.
Not impressed. Irritated, if anything. Like someone who’d arrived late to a party and realised all the fun had already been had without her.
“Of course, you’d call me after the fact,” she scoffed.
Our cousin Antonella “Tone” Cavalho was the one we called when someone needed patching up in the dark. When survival depended on steady hands and zero patience for drama. Tone was good at what she did; she moved like someone who’d learned long ago that panic was a luxury.
She sighed. Deep. Long-suffering.
“I leave you alone for one night,” she said, voice dry, “and this is what you get up to.”
Archie turned his head with effort, pain cutting sharp across his face—and then his eyes lit up.
Actually lit up.
“Well,” he croaked, managing something dangerously close to a smile, “if this is how I die, at least I’ll be in capable hands.”
Tone didn’t miss a beat. She rolled her eyes and dropped to her knees beside him, already snapping on gloves like she was dealing with a particularly dramatic car accident rather than a crippled crime lord bleeding into the gravel.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said briskly. “I’m here to keep you alive. Charm is not part of the service.”
She peeled back the ruined fabric at his knees, her expression sharpening into pure clinical focus.
Archie hissed as she prodded gently. “Shame,” he muttered. “I fall in lust very easily. Occupational hazard.”
I crossed my arms.
“You can keep your eyes to yourself,” I said flatly.
Archie glanced up at me, unrepentant even now. “What? I appreciate beauty. It’s practically a character flaw.”
“Touch her,” I replied pleasantly, “and Atlas will not be able to save you twice.”
Tone shot me a look over her shoulder, unimpressed. “Can we not threaten the patient while I’m working?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“No,” I said. “We cannot.”
She snorted—a sharp, inelegant sound—and went back to her work, muttering under her breath about egos, idiots, and men who confused blood loss with flirting.
Archie watched her with open curiosity now, something quieter than lust settling behind his eyes. Interest.
And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Not because I cared what Archie Popovich felt—but because Tone didn’t belong anywhere near men like him. She was all sharp edges and steady hands, all competence and moral backbone. He was chaos and corruption, and I didn’t want her around that shit.
They were polar opposites.
And I’d lived long enough to know that sometimes, those were the combinations that burned the hottest—and ruined the most lives.
Tone finished stabilising him and sat back on her heels. “He’ll live,” she said. “Unfortunately.”
Archie chuckled weakly. “You wound me.”
“I’ve seen worse,” she replied, already pulling off her gloves. “And they complained less.”
For a moment, their eyes met.
It was just a moment. I cleared my throat. That was enough groundwork for one night.
I crouched in front of him one last time, drawing his attention away from her.
“You’ll live,” I said quietly. “But you leave Mikayla alone.”
His face was pale now, sweat clinging to his hairline, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. He nodded once.
“A deal is a deal.”
“And understand this,” I added, leaning in close enough that he could see exactly how little mercy I had left. “Every breath you take from this moment on is borrowed. You can thank Atlas Cavalho for the mercy you received tonight.”
Archie smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll send him flowers.”
I straightened and turned away before the urge to change my mind took hold.
Fate had intervened.
I didn’t like it.
But as long as Mikayla was free—and Archie remembered precisely who he owed—I could live with the bastard staying alive.
For now.