8. Eight
EIGHT
ARROW
I’d never been the type to get caught up over any woman. I’d admit, being buried balls deep in pussy was my favorite activity, besides killing. Yet, there was something about Harlowe Virelli that had crawled under my skin and taken residence there.
Maybe it was the defiance in her eyes, the way she refused to break even when she was cornered.
Or maybe it was the way her tight body melted into mine at the restaurant.
I could feel the heat of her pussy against my thigh, and I knew she was just as affected as I was with our proximity.
When she stood up, I had to shift my dick to hide how fucking hard I was.
“What’s gotten into you?” Orion asked as we rode the elevator up to meet Atlas to discuss how bold the Albanians were getting.
“Just a lot on my mind,” I answered.
“If I were marrying the daughter of Giovanni Virelli, I’d be distracted too.” Orion smirked. “She’s a walking weapon.”
Don’t I fucking know it.
Orion, Atlas, and I had been friends since we were boys. I stared at the subtle smirk on Orion’s face and felt my jaw tighten.
“A walking weapon who’ll soon be defused,” I replied, though the words felt hollow even to me.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ping, revealing Atlas waiting for us in the penthouse foyer.
“Nice to see you arriving with all your body parts,” he teased. “How was your lunch date with the Virelli girl?”
I poured myself a whiskey from the crystal decanter, swirling the amber liquid before taking a measured sip. “She’s spirited.”
Atlas snorted. “That’s one word for it. I heard she spit in your face at breakfast, then grabbed you by the balls at Cartier.”
“Water, not spit,” I corrected, remembering the defiance blazing in Harlowe’s eyes. “And she chose the ugliest fucking ring in the store.”
Atlas laughed, the sound rumbling through the penthouse. “I can’t fucking wait to see her in action at the wedding. She’ll probably stab you with the cake knife.”
“She’ll try,” I said, though the idea didn’t displease me as much as it should have. Harlowe’s resistance was becoming the most interesting part of my day.
Orion sprawled across the leather sofa, his long legs stretched out before him. “The Virellis are falling apart. Giovanni’s losing his grip on the Brighton territories. Word is the Albanians are moving in, picking off his lieutenants one by one.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Atlas added, his expression turning serious. “The Albanians hit one of our warehouses last night. Three men dead.”
I set my glass down, all thoughts of Harlowe temporarily pushed aside. “Whose authorization?”
“Looks like Besnik Dervishi,” Atlas said, sliding a folder across the glass table. “His signature move—tongues cut out.”
I flipped through the crime scene photos, studying the mutilated bodies of my men with detached precision. “They’re testing us. Seeing if we’re distracted by the wedding preparations.”
“Or they think the Virelli alliance makes us vulnerable,” Orion suggested. “That we’ve gone soft.”
I closed the folder. “Then we need to correct that misconception.”
Atlas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t care what they think. I only care that these bottom dwellers are fucking with my city and my men. I’m getting tired of these fuckers making power plays on what belongs to me.”
He was right. The Albanians were encroaching on territory that had been firmly under Romanov control and, in turn, supporting Atlas, the Kingpin of The Underground, for years. Their boldness was a direct challenge to his authority and to my family, and one that couldn’t go unanswered.
“So, what’s the plan?” Orion asked, reaching for the whiskey decanter.
“We send a message,” I said, my mind already calculating the most effective response. “Not just to Besnik, but to anyone who thinks the Romanov-Virelli union means weakness.”
The conversation shifted to logistics—which of Besnik’s operations to hit, how many men to send, what kind of statement to leave behind.
I found myself only half-listening, though, my thoughts drifting back to Harlowe.
The way her body had tensed when she’d sat on my lap.
The flicker of jealousy she’d tried to mask when Katerina approached.
The stubborn tilt of her chin as she’d chosen that hideous ring.
“Arrow?” Atlas’s voice cut through my distraction. “Are you with us?”
I refocused. “Hit his processing facility in Red Hook. Take his product, burn the building, leave his lieutenant’s head on Besnik’s doorstep.” I finished my whiskey in one swallow. “Make it clean. Make it loud.”
Orion nodded, already pulling out his phone to make arrangements. “Fuck yes, we get to kill some motherfuckers tonight!”
“What about the Virelli girl?” Atlas asked, giving me a pointed look. “Any issues there we need to handle?”
I shook my head. “She’s mine to deal with.”
“Better you than me.” Orion laughed. “I’d rather face Besnik’s entire crew than try to tame that wildcat.”
The meeting wrapped up, plans solidified for tonight’s message to the Albanians. As I stood to leave, Atlas caught my arm.
“A word,” he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “The Virelli girl. You sure this marriage is worth it?”
I considered his question. Worth wasn’t a metric I typically applied to necessities.
“It consolidates power. Neutralizes a threat. Gives us control of the Virelli territories without a war. Even if the Virelli family is crumbling, their name still holds some power. And the sharks are already circling for control of what territories and contacts they still control. The only way they can do that is by killing the most important Virelli left.”
“And that’s her,” Atlas finished my thought, his eyes narrowing. “She’s the last valuable Virelli, and every power player in the city knows it.”
I nodded, appreciating that Atlas understood the chessboard better than most. “Her father’s selling her to save himself. He knows once I own her, I own him.”
“And what happens when you no longer need him?” Atlas asked, his question hanging between us like smoke.
I met his gaze steadily. “What always happens to things that outlive their usefulness.”
Atlas clapped me on the shoulder. “Just make sure the girl doesn’t become a liability. I’ve heard stories about her activities. The club. The drugs. The men.” His voice lowered.
“I’m aware of her proclivities,” I said, my tone clipped enough to end that line of questioning.
The rain had stopped by the time I left the penthouse, but the city remained slick and gleaming, streetlights reflecting off wet pavement.
The three of us and our men loaded into blacked-out Range Rovers, decked out in tactical gear.
I checked my weapon one last time, the familiar weight of my Glock a comfort against my palm.
Tonight would be bloody, but necessary. A clear message that the Romanovs weren’t weakened by the upcoming nuptials. If anything, we were more dangerous.
“Five minutes,” Orion murmured, checking the coordinates on his phone. “Surveillance confirms minimal security at the east entrance.”
I nodded, my mind oddly split between the mission ahead and thoughts of Harlowe.
The way she’d stood in that room full of sharks and never once flinched.
How she controlled the space around her just by refusing to shrink.
The small tells she didn’t think anyone noticed, and the slight tension in her jaw when someone spoke about the engagement.
The way her hand would curl into a fist before she forced it open again.
Her defiance radiated from her like heat.
It was almost like she knew exactly how this ended and had decided to burn everything on the way down.
“Focus,” Atlas hissed, noticing my momentary distraction. “You can think about your bride after we’ve finished painting the walls red.”
I pushed thoughts of Harlowe aside, slipping into the cold, calculating headspace that had earned me my reputation. The one that made men cower and women pretend not to shiver. The one that had gotten me everything I’d ever wanted.
The facility loomed ahead—a nondescript warehouse with a rusted sign that read “Atlantic Shipping.” The Albanians weren’t known for subtlety, but they were efficient.
This processing center handled millions in product each month, laundering it through a network of shell companies before distribution.
Taking it out would cripple Besnik where it would hurt most—his wallet.
It would be our message to the rest of the city, that the Romanov name still commanded fear.
“Move,” Atlas ordered, and our team flowed from the vehicles, weapons ready, faces masked. I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, my senses sharpening as we approached the warehouse. This was the clarity I needed—the simplicity of violence, and the purity of purpose.
The first guard went down silently, Orion’s knife finding his throat before he could raise the alarm. The second reached for his weapon, and I put two bullets in his chest, the silencer muffling the shots to dull thuds. We moved through the warehouse, eliminating resistance without hesitation.
Deep inside, the processing operation was in full swing. Tables laden with product, workers packaging heroin for distribution. When they saw us, panic erupted. Some ran, others reached for weapons. It didn’t matter. None of them would leave this building alive.
I caught a flash of movement to my right and pivoted, my gun finding its target—a young Albanian with fear in his eyes and a knife in his hand.
“Please,” he begged, dropping the knife. “I have a family.”
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Harlowe’s face flashing unbidden in my mind. Her accusation echoed: Monster. The boy couldn’t have been more than nineteen, his eyes wide with terror.