Chapter 21 Archie
Archie
I’m not a stupid man.
People like to assume brutality equals stupidity. It makes them feel safer. But there are lines even I don’t cross—not because I lack the appetite, but because I understand consequence.
Gianni Cavalho having Mikayla doesn’t give me the right to kill him. Tempting as that thought is.
And the fact that he and I have been circling each other over that Provence property for the better part of eighteen months—sniffing out weak points, blocking permits, buying loyalty in quiet increments—that still doesn’t earn me a free pass to put a bullet in his skull.
That kind of move doesn’t end a rivalry. It detonates an empire.
The Cavalhos don’t absorb losses quietly. They answer them. Loudly. Permanently. And I may enjoy chaos, but I’m not suicidal.
So yes—I know better.
Which makes what I did next particularly irritating.
Shooting up his house wasn’t smart.
It wasn’t strategic, and it definitely wasn’t necessary. It was… a little indulgent.
All I wanted was his attention. An invitation to a sit-down where men spoke plainly and sorted out their shit… the old school way. I wanted him across a table from me, not buried under one.
I could have done it differently. I could have boxed up the hand, wrapped it neatly, and sent it through a courier like a civilized criminal. DHL. FedEx. Something reliable with tracking.
But no.
Apparently, I was incapable of setting my ego aside when it actually mattered. I needed the sound of gunfire and shattering glass to feel validated. Turns out, subtlety had never once stopped me from doing something monumentally stupid, and this time was no exception.
Because now the message had been received.
Loud and clear.
So clear, in fact, that less than a day later my phone rang—and the moment I saw the number on the screen, my stomach dropped. A cold twist settled deep inside me, sharp and familiar, like my body had recognized the danger before my mind could catch up.
Whatever silence I’d been hoping for was over.
Atlas Cavalho. The don of all dons. The man whose name didn’t need an introduction.
I stared at the screen for a full three seconds before answering, because not taking the call felt suicidal and answering too quickly felt desperate. So I split the difference.
“Yes,” I said.
I didn’t offer a friendly greeting. If the man called you, you didn’t pretend you had options.
There was a pause on the other end. Long and thoughtful as he mulled my reception to him. Atlas Cavalho’s brain was always working, always on high alert.
“Archie,” he said at last, as calm as a man discussing weather patterns would be. “Explain to me why I’m hearing about gunfire on my cousin Gianni’s property.”
I considered lying. Briefly.
Then remembered that Atlas Cavalho did not appreciate being lied to, and that appreciation was not a requirement for survival, but its absence was often fatal.
“Just two business rivals having a little tête-à-tête,” I said, keeping my tone light, like my pulse wasn’t racing.
There was a pause on the other end of the line that stretched too long.
“Oh,” Atlas said at last, unimpressed. “I believe it was more than that.”
I exhaled slowly. “So I sent him a message.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“You don’t send messages with automatic weapons,” he replied coolly. “You send messages with words. Or wine. Or intermediaries.” Then, almost lazily, “Bullets are so… last season.”
I swallowed, irritation sparking even as every survival instinct I had screamed at me to shut up and listen. “No one was hurt,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
“That,” Atlas said mildly, “is the only reason we’re having this conversation instead of holding your funeral.”
The line went quiet again, the warning hanging heavy between us.
Fair.
Because Atlas Cavalho did not take kindly to people threatening his family—and Gianni was family. He was protected. Untouchable unless Atlas said otherwise.
And I had, in one spectacular lapse of judgment, rattled the windows of a Cavalho house.
Like I said. Stupid.
The thing about Atlas was this: he wasn’t emotional, he didn’t explode or posture, he planned and calculated instead, and if something could be settled without blood he preferred it that way—not out of mercy, but efficiency.
Blood complicated things. And so, instead of ordering my execution, he did something far worse.
He set a meeting on neutral ground. In a warehouse with no weapons and no security. And this was the important part - that there would be no misunderstandings about consequences if I disrespected him and broke his rules.
“One drop,” Atlas had said, voice flat. “One drop of blood spilled by anyone in that building, and I’ll have you hung by your ankles and drained like a pig. Slowly. So everyone remembers the lesson I set with you.”
I believed him.
Which was why, now, standing in my bedroom hours later, I found myself choosing my best suit like a man dressing for court rather than war.
It was dark, Italian-cut, and understated in the way only obscene amounts of money could be. Nothing flashy that screamed I’m compensating. But it fit so well it looked like I’d been poured into it and allowed to set.
It had cost more than my last engagement ring. Possibly more than the venue for my last wedding—which, for the record, never actually happened. In case anyone missed that little global announcement involving a missing bride, a torn dress, and my hugely public humiliation.
That suit had been nice. This one was grander.
Which felt appropriate, considering I was about to attend a sit-down arranged by the don of all dons, where the wrong word could get me drained like a bad investment.
I adjusted my cufflinks and stared at my reflection, jaw tight.
If you were going to be threatened with ritual execution, you might as well look impeccable doing it.
My weapons stayed behind. That annoyed me more than I cared to admit. I didn’t like walking into rooms unarmed, especially when the man I was meeting had taken something I considered mine.
Mikayla.
My jaw tightened at the thought.
This wasn’t just about her anymore—not entirely. This was about competing. About Gianni Cavalho taking something from me openly and daring me to react.
Which I had. Poorly. But tonight wasn’t about revenge.
Tonight was about assessment and recouping my losses. About seeing Gianni up close and trying to reason with him. I buttoned my jacket and exhaled slowly. Best behaviour, I reminded myself.
Because the moment I crossed Atlas Cavalho—even accidentally—I wouldn’t be a problem anymore. I’d be the example people learned from. And I wasn’t about to end my life that way.