Chapter 10 Gianni
Gianni
“I’ll be well enough to leave in a few days,” she said. “So I need to know what happens after that.”
I took a sip of water, buying myself a second I didn’t need.
“You leave,” I said. “If that’s what you want.”
She stilled. Not relaxed, but alert. Like she knew better than to trust the quiet.
“I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t,” I said. “But you should listen to me anyway.”
Her jaw tightened. She shifted on the couch, careful, controlled—then winced a fraction too late to hide it. The pain was still bad. She hated that I’d noticed.
“I know who you are,” she said quietly. “Or at least the circles you move in.”
“Ah. There it is,” I murmured.
She didn’t look away. “I don’t trust that staying here won’t compromise me,” she continued. “Or that leaving won’t put me straight back in his reach. Same same.”
I set the glass down slowly. The soft clink landed louder than it should have.
“Well,” I said evenly, turning to face her fully, “that simplifies things.”
She braced.
“You can take your chances here,” I continued, “under my protection. Or you can take them out there—with Archie Popovich hunting you down.”
Her chin lifted, defiant even now. Even injured and cornered into a future she couldn’t predict.
“He’ll forget about me,” she said. “Eventually. I’m sure he has more important things to worry about.”
I crossed the room and took the chair across from her, sitting low, forearms resting on my knees.
“Archie doesn’t forget,” I said calmly. “Men like him don’t lose well. They don’t let go of their anger, especially that which is accompanied by humiliation. At the very least, he will destroy you.”
Her throat bobbed.
“You didn’t just leave him,” I continued. “You humiliated him. In public. In front of people whose respect he needs. You didn’t bruise his pride—you exposed it.”
She swallowed once. And in that small, involuntary movement, I knew she understood exactly how dangerous her hope had been.
“If you go back to your old life,” I went on, “your old house, your old routines—he’ll find you.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. But eventually.
And when he does, he won’t make the mistake of letting you walk away again.
And you know your stepfather better than I do; he will not be able to protect you. ”
Silence pressed down between us, thick and heavy.
“You’re safer here,” I said. “That’s not a promise. It’s a fact.”
“And what does that cost me?” she asked.
Everything, I didn’t say. But it hung there between us.
“It costs you freedom,” I said honestly. “But you don’t really have that right now anyway. Archie took it the moment he decided you were his.”
Her fingers curled into her shirt.
“I can disappear,” she said.
I shook my head once. “No. You can hide. There’s a difference. And he will always find you.”
She looked away, jaw tight, breath shallow—then back at me.
“How do you know him?” she asked.
There it was. The real question.
I leaned back, exhaled slowly. Truth, then. Enough of it.
“I grew up beside men like Archie,” I said. “Different fathers. Same table. I know exactly how the likes of Archie Popovich operate.”
Her brow furrowed.
“We’re not friends,” I continued. “We’re not allies. But there are rules, and we know each other well enough to understand how far the other will go.”
“And what are the rules?” she asked quietly.
“There are none,” I said. “Until you decide which ones are worth breaking.”
Her pulse jumped. I could see it in her throat.
“What’s in it for you?” she asked. “Because this—” she gestured weakly at the room, the guards, the careful stillness of it all—“you’re not doing this out of kindness.”
I met her gaze and didn’t look away.
“Kindness is a luxury,” I said. “And I don’t deal in luxuries.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes did—like she was bracing for a truth she already knew.
“Bad men can do good things, Mikayla,” I went on. “Because sometimes the right action aligns with their interests.”
She searched my face for the lie. For the crack. For the excuse. She didn’t find one. Because there wasn’t one. Bad men did good things all the time. They just never did them for free.
I poured myself a drink I didn’t need and didn’t touch it. The glass sweated in my hand, cold against my palm, anchoring me. Control always began with stillness. With not reacting.
She was already planning her exit.
I saw it in the way she talked about days.
Not weeks. Not months. Days—like time was still something she owned, like she could count it out neatly and walk away once it ran out.
She didn’t understand that she’d already crossed the point of return.
That a man like Archie didn’t forgive. He didn’t cool off.
If Archie Popovich was looking for her, it was for one reason only.
To kill her.
Not out of passion. Not even out of anger. But because after being exposed and embarrassed in public, the only thing that mattered to him was saving face. Men like Archie didn’t reclaim control—they erased the reminder that they’d ever lost it.
I hadn’t lied to her. He would never let this insult or the loss of power go. And he would certainly not let go of the woman who had reminded him—publicly—that he could bleed.
I saw her clearly now, without the rush of adrenaline or the shield of bravado. Injured, but alert. Afraid, but never small. She took up space even when she tried not to—when she believed she shouldn’t.
When I looked at her, I didn’t see a victim.
I saw fire. The kind that caused problems. The kind that made men shift their grip on the world.
I set the untouched glass down and moved to the window, scanning the grounds out of habit. The perimeter lights were steady, the guards in position. Everything was exactly where it belonged and exactly how it should be.
In a day or two, when the swelling faded and the pain dulled, she would try to leave again. I had no doubt she’d smile and thank me for my hospitality as she tried to convince herself she was ready.
I would let her heal, let her believe that the choice was hers.
And when the world outside reminded her how narrow her margin for error truly was, she would stay.
Not because I forced her, but because she’d realize there was no other option to ensure her safety.
I rolled my shoulders once, working out tension I rarely allowed myself to notice.
This was going to be messy.
Personal.
Dangerous in ways I usually avoided—not because I feared them, but because I understood the cost. Personal problems had a way of slipping past rules. They blurred lines and demanded attention at inconvenient moments and refused to stay contained.
But Mikayla. Mikayla was different.
I’d built my life on separation. On distance. On knowing exactly where I ended and everyone else began. People were assets, liabilities, or temporary complications. You handled them accordingly. Cleanly. Without attachment.
She was none of those things.
I’d told myself she was leverage. A means to an end. A way to force Archie Popovich’s hand without firing the first shot. That was true. It was the strategic and logical thing to do. But logic didn’t account for the way she occupied space.
Not loudly. She was just there. Present. Unwilling to shrink even when she thought she should. Even when fear pressed close and pain dragged at her movements, she held herself like someone who had learned to endure without surrendering.
That kind of resilience didn’t beg for protection.
It challenged it.
I moved through the house slowly, listening to its familiar rhythms. I paused outside her door and almost knocked.
Almost.
Instead, I turned away and headed down the corridor, issuing quiet instructions into my phone. More eyes. A tighter perimeter. Not because I planned to cage her—but because the world outside would.
And if she tried to run before she understood that?
I needed someone there to make sure she survived long enough to learn the difference.