Page 93 of Beautiful Villain
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
“Gianni,” Atlas said, voice hardening.“I’m ordering you to stand down.Make a deal.Let him live.”
Silence stretched between us.
“We need him,” Atlas added.“Alive more than dead.I give you my personal guarantee that Mikayla will be safe.”
My jaw tightened.
“He stays away from her,” I said.“Permanently.”
“That’s part of the deal.Make him look pretty and get him to me as soon as possible, cugino.”
I ended the call without another word.
For a long moment, I stood there in the road, gun hanging loose at my side, smoke drifting around us like the aftermath of a bonfire gone wrong.
“Well,” Archie muttered, voice thin but still irritatingly composed, “how long is this intermission?Because I’d really rather not bleed outandpiss myself in the same scene.Feels like overkill.”
I turned back to him.
“Fuck,” I said calmly.Then, louder, as the full weight of the situation—and Atlas’s impeccable timing—hit me all at once.“Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuuuuuck!”
Archie raised his brows, the picture of wounded dignity despite the blood pooling beneath him.“Honestly,” he said, “the language.I’m already dying.Must you scar me emotionally as well?”
“The only reason you’re still alive,” I told him evenly, “is because of Atlas.So enjoy that while it lasts.”I leaned closer, letting my shadow fall over him.“But make no mistake—I would love nothing more than to bury you alive.Piss, blood, designer suit and all.”
He chuckled weakly, coughing through it.“You always did have a flair for romance.”
I straightened and motioned to my men.
“Get him a doctor.”
Archie exhaled, staring up at the sky.“See?Mercy suits you.You should try it more often.”
Minutes later, headlights carved through the darkness, white beams slicing across the wreckage and casting long, distorted shadows over the road.The vehicle rolled to a stop, engine ticking as it cooled, and something tight and familiar sparked in my chest.
Tone stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel with unhurried confidence.She took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance—blood, smoke, bodies, chaos—and let out a low whistle.Not impressed.Irritated, if anything.Like someone who’d arrived late to a party and realised all the fun had already been had without her.
“Of course, you’d call meafterthe fact,” she scoffed.
Our cousin Antonella “Tone” Cavalho was the one we called when someone needed patching up in the dark.When survival depended on steady hands and zero patience for drama.Tone was good at what she did; she moved like someone who’d learned long ago that panic was a luxury.
She sighed.Deep.Long-suffering.
“I leave you alone for one night,” she said, voice dry, “and this is what you get up to.”
Archie turned his head with effort, pain cutting sharp across his face—and then his eyes lit up.
Actually lit up.
“Well,” he croaked, managing something dangerously close to a smile, “if this is how I die, at least I’ll be in capable hands.”
Tone didn’t miss a beat.She rolled her eyes and dropped to her knees beside him, already snapping on gloves like she was dealing with a particularly dramatic car accident rather than a crippled crime lord bleeding into the gravel.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said briskly.“I’m here to keep you alive.Charm is not part of the service.”
She peeled back the ruined fabric at his knees, her expression sharpening into pure clinical focus.
