Page 53 of Beautiful Villain
“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 screamedI’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.
22
Gianni
There was a time and a place for everything.
And this was the time to sit down with Archie Popovich.
My cousin Atlas didn’t believe in half-measures.If he set a table, he made sure it was done properly.He cleared the room, swept the walls, locked down the exits, and stationed enough armed men to make even the Pope reconsider dropping by uninvited.
The warehouse reflected that philosophy perfectly.
It had been stripped to the bone—raw concrete underfoot, corrugated steel walls scarred by age and neglect, a single industrial light hanging low over a battered card table that had probably hosted more bad decisions than poker hands.There were no windows and no shadows deep enough to hide in.It was neutral ground in the purest, most unforgiving sense of the word.
I arrived at eight on the dot.
Archie Popovich was already there.
He sat behind the table like he’d been born to it, arms stretched wide across the wood, fingers loose, posture relaxed in a way that was anything but.The suit he wore was dark and perfectly tailored, expensive without screaming about it.He looked good.Archie was a handsome devil when he wasn’t being an irredeemable asshole, which, regrettably, was most of the time.
I unbuttoned my jacket as I crossed the floor and took the empty chair opposite him.I sat.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Eighteen months of quiet war lived in that silence.Bidding wars.Blocked permits.Deals that collapsed at the eleventh hour because one of us had whispered into the right ear first.We’d circled the same stretch of territory like dogs scenting blood, and neither of us had been willing to blink.
Archie smiled first.
