Page 52 of Beautiful Villain
Butno.
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.
