5. Five
FIVE
ARROW
“Mr. Romanov,” Frank greeted me with a slight nod, his face impassive as ever. “Miss Virelli is upstairs.”
I stepped past him into the Virelli mansion, noting the faint scent of polish that clung to the walls.
Everything in this place reeked of old money clinging to former glory.
From the worn patches on the Persian rugs, carefully hidden under furniture, to the tarnish at the edges of the gilded frames holding the portraits of dead Virellis, and their cold, judgmental eyes.
“Has she eaten?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Frank’s hesitation told me everything. “She’s . . . resistant today.”
I smiled. Of course she was. Harlowe Virelli would rather starve than give me the satisfaction of her obedience. Her stubborn defiance was becoming predictable, which made it all the more amusing to dismantle.
“Where is she?” I asked, unbuttoning my suit jacket as I glanced up the grand staircase.
“Her room. Upstairs. Turn right. Door at the end of the hall. She’s been there since yesterday.”
I nodded and moved toward the stairs.
Frank’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm with a familiarity that would have cost most men their fingers.
“Sir,” he said quietly, “she’s in a dark place.”
I shrugged off his touch, straightening my cuffs. “Aren’t we all, Frank?”
His face remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed concern. “She hasn’t slept. She’s been drinking. Remember what we discussed.”
Pausing, I studied the old soldier.
Frank had watched Harlowe grow up, had probably wiped her tears, and taught her to throw a punch. His loyalty to her was touching, if misguided.
“I remember everything,” I said. “Now, step aside.”
I climbed the stairs, noting the security cameras tucked discreetly in the corners. Giovanni was paranoid, but not paranoid enough. My team had already mapped every blind spot in this house. I knew exactly where to stand if I wanted to disappear.
The third floor was quieter, the air heavier with disuse. I followed the hallway to her room, pausing outside the door. No sound came from within.
No knock.
This would be her first lesson. The door yielded beneath my touch, swinging open to a room bathed in half-light. The curtains were drawn, and the only illumination came from a single lamp by the bed. The room smelled of stale alcohol and expensive perfume.
I found her sprawled across the bed, her dark hair fanned out against white sheets.
She wore a silk slip that had ridden up her thighs, exposing bruises in various stages of healing.
Some were fresh—purple and angry—while others had faded to a sickly yellow.
The marks of her rebellion, mapped across her skin.
She didn’t stir when I entered, though I knew she was awake by the tension that rippled through her body. Playing dead wouldn’t save her. Not from me.
“Get out,” she said without opening her eyes, her voice raw and cracked at the edges.
I ignored her command, moving deeper into the room, taking inventory of the chaos—empty bottles, discarded clothes, a small silver tray with the remnants of white powder.
Self-destruction as an art form.
“This is pathetic,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Her eyes snapped open then, bloodshot and furious. “Fuck you.”
Mascara smudged beneath her eyes, lips bitten raw.
Beautiful, even in her rebellion. I’d never been one for pretty things—they broke too easily and demanded too much care.
But Harlowe was different. Her beauty was weaponized, a distraction from the knife she’d gladly slide between your ribs if given half a chance.
I smiled, enjoying the spark of life in her gaze. Even now, drowning in her own misery, Harlowe Virelli refused to bow her head. It was what made her valuable. Her father had been right about one thing: she wouldn’t break easily. She would need to be unmade, piece by piece, and rebuilt in my image.
Crossing to the bed, I sat on the edge, watching her scramble away from me like a wounded animal. Her eyes, even clouded with substances, tracked my every movement with animal awareness.
“I told you to eat,” I said, my voice deceptively soft.
“And I told you to go fuck yourself.” She pushed herself up, the silk slip sliding further up her thigh. “You don’t own me yet.”
“Yet.” I smiled, enjoying the word. “At least you understand the inevitable.”
I reached out and caught her wrist before she could pull away, my fingers finding her pulse. It raced beneath my touch—a frightened bird’s heartbeat. She tried to yank free, but I tightened my grip, just enough to demonstrate the futility.
“Let go of me,” she hissed.
“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t liquid?” I asked, ignoring her demand. My thumb traced the prominent bone of her wrist, blue veins visible beneath pale skin, mapping her fragility.
“I’m not hungry.” She stared at me with hatred so pure it was almost admirable.
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. I asked when you last ate.”
She looked away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. I could see the calculation behind her eyes, weighing defiance against the inevitable. My thumb pressed harder against her pulse point.
“Two days,” she finally muttered. “Happy now?”
I moved to her closet, sliding open the door to reveal rows of designer clothes, each piece more expensive than the last. I selected a simple black dress and tossed it onto the bed beside her.
“Thirty minutes,” I repeated. “Get dressed.”
“Or what?” She laughed, a brittle sound that caught in her throat. “You’ll drag me out naked? That’d be great for the Romanov prince’s image.”
“Or I’ll strip you, bathe you, and dress you myself. And trust me, Harlowe, you won’t enjoy my methods.”
Her eyes widened fractionally, the first genuine reaction I’d gotten since entering the room.
She believed me. Good.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” I added, moving toward the door. “This is your life now. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be.”
“Nothing concerning you will ever be easy,” she spat.
Pausing at the threshold, I allowed myself a small smile. “On that, at least, we agree.”
I closed the door behind me and checked my watch. Twenty-nine minutes. I had no doubt she would test me. In fact, I was counting on it.
Frank was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his posture rigid. The old fuck gave nothing away, but his eyes followed me with the careful assessment of a man who’d spent decades watching for threats.
“Will she be joining us?” he asked, voice neutral.
“She will,” I replied, straightening my cuffs. “Though I suspect she’ll make us wait until the last possible second.”
Frank nodded once. He’d known Harlowe longer than I had, and understood her stubbornness intimately.
I checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes.
“Tell me, Frank,” I said, moving toward the dining room where I’d wait. “What does she fear most?”
Frank hesitated, his loyalty to Harlowe warring with his desire to see her safe.
“Not pain,” he finally answered. “She seeks that out.”
I nodded. I’d seen the surveillance video from La Lune Noire—the way she arched into the strike of the crop, and the ecstasy on her face when fingertips pressed against her throat.
“Not death,” Frank continued. “She’s been courting that since her brother died.”
“Then, what?” I pressed, though I already suspected the answer.
His eyes met mine. “Being forgotten. Being insignificant. Being exactly what her father always thought she was—an afterthought.”
He’d hit the nail on the head in a way that surprised me. The old man knew her better than her own father did. Being forgotten. Being insignificant. Those were fears I could use.
“Bring her down when she’s ready,” I said, checking my watch again. “Twenty minutes.”
I moved to the dining room, where I waited.
Seventeen minutes left. I wondered if she would call my bluff.
Part of me hoped she would. Breaking her resistance would be satisfying in ways I rarely allowed myself to indulge.
Fourteen minutes. Twelve. Ten. The seconds ticked by with a precision that pleased me.
I wasn’t a man who enjoyed waiting, but for her, I’d make an exception.
There was something I found fascinating about knowing she was upstairs, weighing her options, realizing how few she actually had.
Five minutes. The dining room was immaculate, set for two with heavy silver and crystal that caught the light.
Giovanni’s tastes were ostentatious, desperately clinging to old-world grandeur.
When Harlowe became mine, I would strip away those pretensions.
I preferred clean lines, minimal decoration. Nothing to distract from what mattered.
Three minutes. I adjusted my cufflinks, French platinum with an obsidian inlay that matched the collar I’d given her.
Two minutes. I heard movement upstairs, the soft pad of feet, a door opening and closing. She was cutting it close. Testing boundaries already.
One minute. The stairs creaked, and I smiled to myself. I didn’t turn when she entered the room, keeping my back to her as I studied a painting on the wall—some Renaissance reproduction, with gilded frames and martyred saints.
“Punctual,” I observed, finally turning to face her. “I’m impressed.”
Harlowe stood in the doorway, wearing the black dress I’d selected.
It molded to her frame, emphasizing her curves.
Her hair was damp, hastily pulled back, and her face was scrubbed clean, though the remnants of last night’s mascara still shadowed her eyes.
She’d made an effort, but deliberately left enough imperfection to communicate her resistance. I approved of the subtlety.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said, her voice stripped of emotion.
I gestured to the chair across from me. “Sit.”
She obeyed, though every line of her body radiated defiance. Frank appeared silently, placing a plate before each of us. Eggs, toast, and fresh fruit were arranged with the precision of someone who understood that presentation mattered.
Harlowe stared at her plate without moving.
“Eat,” I said.