11. Eleven
ELEVEN
HARLOWE
The day had come to walk through the reception hall. Frank was waiting outside, leaning against the car. His weathered face betrayed nothing as he opened the door. “You’re late.”
“I’m aware.” I slid into the back seat.
I’d chosen a backless white dress that showed just enough of the bruises on my skin to make a statement. The wedding planner would hate it. Arrow would understand it for exactly what it was—a big fucking middle finger.
Frank glanced at me in the rearview mirror as he pulled into traffic. “He’s already there.”
“Let him wait.” I turned to the window. “How bad is it going to be?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror again. “Bad enough that I insisted on bringing you myself instead of him sending Ivan or Yuri.”
I nodded, appreciating his honesty. Frank had been with my family since before I was born.
He’d seen the rise and fall of the Virelli empire.
From watching my life fall apart when my brother was slaughtered, before my mother ended her life, to my father making desperate alliances to save what little power he had left.
And now he was protecting me as I was sacrificed to the very family that had destroyed ours. He was more of a father to me than my own flesh and blood.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I asked quietly.
“Which part?”
“All of it. Fighting him. Going to La Lune Noire. The collar.”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the road.
“I think you’re doing what you need to survive. But survival and living aren’t the same thing, Principessa.”
“I just need to make it through today,” I said, more to myself than to Frank.
“And tomorrow? And the day after that? And every day for the rest of your life as Mrs. Romanov?”
I ignored him.
The final walkthrough was baroque even by mob wedding standards.
Dante’s Hall was an orgy of marble and brass, ceilings dripping with gold leaf and the ghosts of long-gone barons.
Effigies of old New York watched from the walls, their eyes as dead as the fortunes that built them.
The entire upper floor was walled off for the event.
Frank drove me uptown, an unchanged sentry in his black suit, but this time, when he opened my door, Arrow was already waiting at the curb.
He wore a midnight blue suit, and a black shirt unbuttoned to the base of his throat, the tapestry of tattoos covering the tops of his hands and throat.
Arrow didn’t say anything at first, as he took me in, assessing the backless white dress and the visible marks I’d deliberately left on display.
His gaze lingered on my neck where the obsidian collar rested.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.
I didn’t apologize. “Traffic.”
“Hm.” His mouth twitched. “Liar,” Arrow said, taking my arm as if the gesture were casual rather than possessive.
I stiffened but didn’t pull away. “Spying on me again?”
“We’ve been through this, Harlowe.” His thumb traced a circle against my inner elbow, gentle enough to make my skin prickle.
Mrs. Montalto bustled toward us, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. Her pearls clacked against each other as she moved. Her nervous energy radiated from her in waves, eyes widening when she saw the bruises decorating my neck and the faint marks on my wrists.
“Miss Virelli!” Her voice pitched higher. “And Mr. Romanov. Wonderful. We’re just about ready to begin the walk-through.”
Arrow’s hand slid to the small of my back, palm against bare skin. “Lead the way, Mrs. Montalto.”
She guided us through the grand entrance, chattering about floral arrangements and seating charts. I barely heard her. I was too aware of Arrow’s touch, the heat of his hand branding me through the thin fabric of my dress.
The main hall was cavernous, with soaring ceilings and marble floors that echoed with our footsteps.
Workers scurried around, hanging drapery and setting up tables, a battalion of florists and lighting guys all scurrying around Arrow.
He didn’t notice them. He just lit a cigarette and watched me, like I was the only part of the world not already on fire.
“The head table will be here,” she said, gesturing to a raised platform. “With immediate family on either side.”
Arrow exhaled smoke, his eyes never leaving mine. “My father will be seated at the far end. I want the Virelli delegation as far from him as possible.”
Mrs. Montalto made a note, her pen scratching furiously. “Of course, Mr. Romanov.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Afraid they’ll kill each other before dessert?”
“I’m preventing a scene,” he replied. “Your father has a tendency to provoke my father when he drinks.”
“And your father has a tendency to execute people who provoke him,” I shot back.
A ghost of a smile touched Arrow’s lips. “Precisely.”
Mrs. Montalto cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Perhaps we should discuss the, ah, dance floor arrangements?”
We followed her to the center of the hall, where workers were installing an elaborate parquet floor. The entire time, Arrow kept his hand on my lower back, his thumb occasionally brushing against the edge of my spine, sending unwelcome shivers across my skin.
“The first dance will take place here.” Mrs. Montalto gestured with a flourish. “We’ll dim the chandelier lights and use pin spots to create an intimate atmosphere as you and Mr. Romanov share your first dance as husband and wife.”
Bile rose in my throat at her saccharine tone. There would be nothing intimate about being paraded around this dance floor like a prized mare. Arrow’s fingers pressed harder against my spine, as if he could sense my disgust.
“What song have you chosen?” Mrs. Montalto asked, glancing between us with expectant eyes.
“We haven’t,” I said flatly.
At the same time, Arrow said, “Tchaikovsky’s ‘Valse Sentimentale.’”
I turned to him, unable to mask my surprise. “Classical? Really?”
His eyes held mine, unreadable and cold. “Did you expect death metal, Harlowe?”
“I expected something less romantic,” I admitted, hating the way his mouth curved at my discomfort.
“Romance has nothing to do with it,” he replied. “It’s tradition.”
Mrs. Montalto beamed, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Tchaikovsky is perfect! So elegant, so timeless.” She scribbled on her clipboard. “Now, shall we discuss the cake cutting? We’ve positioned it just there, beneath the second archway.”
As she droned on about fondant and sugar flowers, my gaze drifted to the vaulted ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching light that spilled through the stained-glass windows and cast rainbows across the venue.
“Miss Virelli?” Mrs. Montalto’s voice pulled me back. “I asked if you’d like to see the bridal suite?”
“Of course,” I replied.
We followed her through a side door and up a winding staircase.
The bridal suite was cream and gold, with a chaise lounge by a window overlooking Central Park.
A vanity was positioned in the corner, surrounded by lights for hair and makeup.
It was the kind of room where blushing brides were supposed to giggle with their bridesmaids and sip champagne.
“You’ll prepare here,” Mrs. Montalto explained. “We’ve scheduled hair and makeup to arrive at noon. The ceremony begins at four.”
I walked to the window and pressed my palm against the glass, staring out at the people below before turning to face him. “And where will you be?” I asked Arrow.
“Two doors down,” he replied. “Close enough to hear when you try something stupid.”
Mrs. Montalto’s smile faltered. “Well! I’ll give you two a moment while I check on the floral arrangements.” She backed out of the room, her heels clicking down the marble hallway.
When the door closed behind her, the air thickened, suffocatingly so.
Arrow’s reflection appeared in the window beside mine, his face impassive as he studied me. I refused to turn around, watching him through the glass instead.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” he said quietly, his eyes dropping to the visible bruises I’d deliberately left exposed. “The collar. The marks. What point are you trying to prove?”
“That I’m not yours yet,” I replied, turning to face him. “I belong to no one.”
He moved closer, crowding me against the window. “Every mark on your body belongs to me now, whether I put it there or not.” His finger traced the edge of the collar. “Even this.”
“Is that why you came on stage at La Lune Noire? To stake your claim?”
“I came because you looked at me.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, but his eyes were hard as steel. “You broke your own rules, Harlowe. You acknowledged me in the middle of your performance.”
I swallowed, hating how my pulse jumped when he said my name. “It was a mistake.”
“It was a surrender.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek. “Small, but significant.”
“Fuck you,” I whispered, but there was no heat behind it. I was too tired, too raw from everything—the club, the wedding preparations, the collar around my neck, the A carved into my hip.
“I’m sure you’d like that,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Another way to fight me.”
I stepped sideways, needing distance from his heat, his scent, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room.
“I’m not fighting you. I’m surviving you.”
He caught my wrist. “There’s a difference between survival and self-destruction. You’re dancing on that line, Harlowe.”
“Let go of me,” I said quietly.
To my surprise, he did, his fingers uncurling slowly.
“You need to understand something. This isn’t a game anymore. The families will be watching us. Every gesture, every look, every word will be scrutinized. If they sense weakness—”
“If they sense I hate you, you mean.”
His jaw tightened. “If they sense discord, they’ll start plotting. Your father has enemies who would love nothing more than to see this alliance fail. My father has rivals waiting for any opportunity to challenge him.”