20. Twenty #4
He perched on a stool across from me, hands folded into a church steeple. I thought he might reminisce about executions or the benefit of calorie-dense foods in a siege. Instead, he just regarded me, eyes half-lidded and heavy.
I finished my bread with exaggerated slowness. “Will you tell the world you shot your cousin for the sake of a Virelli bitch? Or do I get painted as the femme fatale who turned the house against itself?”
Arrow considered. “What would you prefer?”
“I don’t care. I just want to know which story to rehearse before the next gun comes out of a drawer.”
He nodded, and the silence took the shape of respect. “You outsmarted her. If anyone comes, they’ll believe it was an old blood debt. I’ll cover the rest.”
Not a charity, but as a gift to the only person left who’d never beg for his protection.
“So that’s it. No new rules, no sudden rise in the security protocols? Back to business as usual with a vacancy on the Romanov organizational chart?”
Arrow shrugged. “She wasn’t the last one who thought you weren’t worthy. They’ll fall in line, or they’ll fall.” He watched the play of my hands against the countertop, how they shook slightly, then stilled. “Our wedding is weeks away. All you have to do is show up.”
“And if I don’t?”
He smiled, worn and wolven. “I’ll level the city to ash and salt the roads with your Virelli bones until you do.” He sipped his espresso, eyes softening for just a beat. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
The silence bloomed until it was almost comforting.
“Don’t run too far, malen’kaya gadyuka.”
I stood, brushing crumbs off my nightgown, and caught the glint in his eye as I passed him. “I’m just going to take a walk. Call off the sniper nest,” I said.
He laughed, honest and low, and let me go.
The glass doors were unlocked, and I slipped through them into the long, formal yard, bare feet burrowing into the dew.
Past the frost-glazed hedges, the city connived and murmured as if nothing had ever happened.
The world is always more ordinary than you think possible, even after someone’s wiped the kitchen with your life.
I vaulted the perimeter wall and paced the whole backlot, contemplating escape routes. The blood rushing in my veins was a strange kind of relief. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. I wanted to sob, but wouldn’t give the universe the satisfaction.
On the second lap, I found the embers of a bonfire pit, half-buried in wet grass.
A shovel stuck in the mud. A child’s forgotten toy.
White stones circled the charred heart. I picked the thing up, traced the fluted handle, and for a moment, pictured using it as a weapon, splitting a skull with its edge, or at least denting the jaw of whatever came next.
A bird chittered above the hedge. The air was so clean, it nearly erased the memory of gore.
I sat on the wall and watched the clouds bruise the sky, chewing a blade of grass until my jaw went slack.
Two hours later, Arrow’s security brought me a coat—no message, just the gesture. I zipped it to my chin and watched my breath ghost the air.
When I went back inside, Arrow sat at the table, reading the newspaper like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn’t look up as I came in, though his hand flattened over the tremor in the print at the turn of each page, smoothing the unruly edge with the same unhurried control he applied to everything he touched.
I poured myself more coffee, burned my tongue on the first sip, and watched him from over the mug’s curve.
After a long pause, he folded the paper with care, lined up the corners precisely, and placed it on the counter. “Have you ever read the society pages?”
“Only for the obituaries,” I said, which made him smile.
He gestured me over with two curved fingers—a lazy, summoned-to-a-throne motion. I went to him because fighting now would feel too theatrical, and I was tired.
“You’ll need a dress.”
I blinked. “For what?”
The silence answered. “Our official engagement party.”
“Didn’t we already have one of those?”
“The last one was more of an announcement dinner. This one will have the entire city in attendance.”
Great. That meant it would be covered by every lens and paparazzi in the city. I nearly laughed.
“When is it?”
“Tonight.”
He watched my face morph—doubt, horror, and then a giggle that stuck in my throat. “Are you serious?”
“The designer is already on her way.” He stood, stretching the old blood and trauma out of his shoulders, then crossed to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of water, and drank half in one go.
The casual violence of it—the way he slammed the cap on the counter afterward—made something bright and unreal spark behind my eyes.
“What’s expected of me?” I asked, gratified to hear my voice at least try to rise to the occasion.
Arrow wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and smirked. “You’ll be at my side.”
“What if I refuse? You gonna shoot me in the face, too?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Not until the afterparty.”
A snicker escaped me. “I should probably shower.”
Then, I walked away from him, not waiting for permission.
* Sweet girl