Chapter 5
Archer
I stared at my phone, trying to figure out what kind of restaurant Gianna would actually enjoy, when I realized I had no idea what she liked.
Italian? Too presumptuous. French? Too formal. Japanese? Maybe—but which kind? Sushi, ramen, something else entirely?
I’d already made a reservation at Marea for Friday night. Michelin-starred, consistently excellent, the kind of place where you could actually have a conversation without shouting over music.
But sitting here now, reservation confirmed, I realized making assumptions about what Gianna wanted felt wrong. Maybe a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown would make her uncomfortable instead of impressed.
I needed to know more about her.
The business meeting with Hector was scheduled for this afternoon. He was expanding one of his restaurants, needed legal consultation on the property acquisition. I could ask him then. Casually. Just gathering information about a former employee.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jake.
Jake
Drinks tonight?
I texted a quick response telling him we will see if my schedule allowed it.
Hector’s office was in Tribeca, above his flagship restaurant.
His assistant waved me through without announcement; I’d been here enough times that formality felt unnecessary.
The office itself was all windows and clean lines. Furniture that looked simple until you noticed the hand-carved joints and perfectly matched wood grain. Photographs lined one wall—his daughter at various ages.
Hector stood when I walked in. He looked well.
“Archer.” His handshake was firm, warm. “Good to see you.”
“You too. How’s Lily?”
The question transformed his face. Made him look younger, less like a businessman and more like a father who couldn’t quite believe his luck.
“Eleven now. Wants to be a marine biologist.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“She read one book about coral reefs and decided that’s her life now.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Last week she tried to convince me to install a saltwater aquarium in the restaurant. For ambiance.”
I smiled despite the tension in my chest. “What did you say?”
“I told her we’d discuss it when she’s old enough to maintain it herself.” He poured coffee from a French press. “She’s already researching filtration systems. I give it six months before I’m building an aquarium.”
“Sounds like you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.” He handed me a cup. “Once she decides on something, there’s no talking her out of it.” He smiled, “Sarah’s like that too. Once she decides she wants something, she makes it happen through sheer force of will.”
I’d met his wife, Sarah, a few times over the years—warm, sharp-witted, the kind of woman who could run a household and a business with equal competence.
We spent twenty minutes on business. The property acquisition was straightforward—zoning approvals, permit adjustments, environmental surveys. Hector had done most of the legwork himself, just needed legal eyes to confirm everything was airtight.
“You’re getting good at this,” I said, reviewing the documents he’d prepared. “Might put me out of business.”
“Doubtful. I know enough to be dangerous, not enough to be competent.” He leaned back in his chair, coffee cup balanced on one knee. “Besides, I prefer cooking to paperwork. Just like knowing what I’m signing so nobody can take advantage.”
“Smart.”
“Learned that the hard way.” He smiled but there was an edge to it. “Early days, I signed things I shouldn’t have. Cost me money and sleep. Now I read everything twice.”
We finished reviewing the contracts and he refilled both our cups. He added a shot of whiskey to his without asking if I wanted the same. The afternoon sun came through the windows at an angle that made the amber liquid glow.
“I ran into Gianna,” I said finally. “At NYU.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. Not surprised exactly, but interested. “Did you?”
“We got coffee together.” I turned my cup, watching the whiskey swirl. “Talked for a while.”
“And?”
“And I’m considering offering her work.” The lie tasted wrong in my mouth, bitter and immediate. “My company could use someone with her perspective on tenant rights.”
Hector’s expression didn’t change but something in his eyes shifted. Like he could see straight through me and was choosing not to comment on what he found there.
“You want to know about her,” he said. Not a question.
“I want to know if she’s the right fit for the job.”
The silence stretched. Hector set his cup down carefully, precisely, like he was buying time to decide something.
“She might not want me discussing her business,” he said finally.
“I’m not asking for gossip. Just want to understand her better before I complicate things professionally.”
He studied me for a long moment. I kept my face neutral, the same expression I used in board meetings when I needed to hide what I was thinking.
“Gianna’s remarkable,” he said. “Smart, principled. She doesn’t compromise when it matters. She cares about tenant rights because it’s personal for her.”
My pulse kicked up. “How personal?”
“Her family was displaced ten years ago.” His voice went wary. “The development firm bought their building, pushed everyone out. You know how it works—buy cheap, renovate, triple the rent, call it revitalization.”
The room felt smaller suddenly, the afternoon sun too bright through the windows.
“The stress killed her father,” Hector continued. “Heart attack three weeks after they got the eviction notice. She was twenty-two, just started law school.”
I gripped my cup to keep my hands steady. “What company was responsible?”
“Devlin… wait, isn’t that your dad’s before?” He took a drink from his glass.
Brooklyn. Ten years ago. Hundreds of families. Each word landed like a hammer strike. I just nodded.
“That’s why she does what she does,” he continued.
I smiled like this was just useful information, like my entire world wasn’t collapsing around me.
“She’s tough,” Hector said. “Tougher than she looks. But she’s been hurt enough for one lifetime. So if you’re serious about working with her—or whatever this actually is—remember that.”
“I will,” I managed. “And, could you, maybe, not tell her about my father?” I didn’t tell Hector that it was actually me who orchestrated that.
He nodded in understanding. “Sure, man.”
I left his office and made it to my car, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles went white.
Brooklyn. Ten years ago. Hundreds of families displaced.
My phone felt like lead when I pulled it out. I knew what I’d find before I even opened the files. Knew it in my bones, in the sick certainty settling in my stomach.
By evening, I was three drinks deep when Jake finally showed up at the bar in Midtown.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to me. “Who broke your heart?”
“No one.”
“Then why are you drinking like someone died?”
The laugh that came out of me sounded wrong even to my own ears. “Maybe they did.” The words tasted like truth I didn’t want to admit.
“Okay, cryptic.” He signaled the bartender for his own drink. “You want to talk about it or just drink until you can’t remember why you’re drinking?”
“The second one.”
“Fair enough.”
We sat in silence for a while. The bar was crowded, loud with voices and laughter and the clatter of glasses. Normal people having normal evenings, unburdened by the knowledge that they’d destroyed lives a decade ago.
The whiskey burned going down but didn’t touch the cold settling in my chest.
“I might have done something unforgivable,” I said eventually, the words scraping out of me.
Jake looked at me, really looked at me. “Did you kill someone?”
“Not directly.”
“Then it’s probably forgivable. You’re being dramatic.”
I wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe there was a path back from this, a way to make it right.
“Come on,” Jake said, apparently deciding I needed distraction instead of philosophy. “There’s a group of women at the end of the bar who’ve been looking at you since you walked in. Let’s go say hi.”
“Not interested.”
“Since when are you not interested in beautiful women?”
“Since always. You know I don’t do that.”
“Your loss.” He stood, adjusted his collar, his expression confident like he’d never been turned down. “More for me. You sure? The redhead looks exactly like your type.”
“I’m sure.”
He shrugged and headed over anyway. I watched him turn on that charm that had been getting him out of trouble since we were kids. He bought drinks and made them laugh, leaning in close to one while already eyeing another.
The bartender refilled my glass without being asked. Maybe I looked like I needed it.
“Does your girlfriend know about your flirting with others?” I asked when Jake came back for his drink.
“We’re on a break.”
“A break or broken up?”
“Does it matter? A man has needs, Archie. Can’t be expected to sit around waiting.”
I looked at him. My oldest friend. Someone I’d known since we were eight years old building forts in his backyard and planning futures that felt impossibly far away. He’d always been like this—charming and careless and somehow getting away with it because people forgave him for being Jake.
I’d always looked past it because friendship was loyalty, and loyalty meant accepting people’s flaws—even when you disagreed with their choices.
But tonight, sitting here with the knowledge of what I’d done weighing on me, I couldn’t watch him play games with women who didn’t know he was playing.
“I’m leaving,” I said, standing.
“What? We just got here.”
“You just got here. I’ve been here long enough.”
“Archer, come on. Don’t be like that.”
But I was already moving toward the door, needing air, needing to be anywhere but here pretending everything was fine when nothing was fine.
Jake called after me. I didn’t turn around.
Outside the city was loud and bright and completely indifferent to the fact that everything had just fallen apart. I walked without direction, hands shoved deep in my pockets against the cold that wouldn’t leave my chest.
I’d made a reservation at Marea for Friday night. Had been planning what to say to make Gianna laugh, what questions to ask to learn who she was beyond that one perfect night three years ago.
I pulled out my phone. Stared at the reservation confirmation glowing in the dark.
Then I canceled it.
My thumb hovered over her contact information.
I couldn’t sit across from her at dinner knowing what I knew.