36. Thirty-Six
THIRTY-SIX
HARLOWE
The night air was crisp against my skin. Frank was already waiting with the car, standing at attention beside the open door. Atlas’s security team formed a protective barrier around Luna as we said our goodbyes.
Arrow’s hand remained at my back as he guided me to our waiting vehicle. Frank held the door open; his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. Once we were safely inside with the doors locked, Arrow relaxed marginally beside me. His fingers found mine in the darkness.
“You were good tonight,” he murmured.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I replied.
The dinner had left me feeling strangely raw and exposed in ways I hadn’t expected.
“Luna likes you,” he said after a moment of silence.
“I like her too. She’s . . . real.”
“She is.” His voice held a note of fondness I rarely heard. “Atlas is a lucky man.”
“Because she survived?” I asked, turning to study his profile in the dim light.
“Because she stayed. Even knowing what he is, what his family is. She chose to build something with him. She chose to face the chaos with him instead of running from it.”
“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” I asked. “Choosing chaos with you?”
“Aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I looked out at the city rushing past our windows, the neon signs and skyscrapers that had witnessed generations of Virellis and Romanovs tearing each other apart. The same city that would soon witness us trying to put something back together.
“I don’t know what I’m choosing,” I admitted. “But I know what I’m not running from.”
His fingers tightened around mine. “And what’s that?”
“You.” The word was my confession, pulled from somewhere deep and vulnerable. A place I usually kept locked away. “Whatever this is between us—this violence, this hunger—I’m not running from it.”
Without warning, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming.
“Two days,” he whispered against my lips. “Two days, and you’ll be mine in ways that even your father can’t undo.”
Frank cleared his throat from the front seat, reminding us we weren’t alone, and then stopped the car.
Outside the window was a cathedral. St. Ignatius looked like a Gothic dream, with its stained-glass dome and stone gargoyles watching from sharp ledges. It was magnificent with Gothic spires reaching like skeletal fingers into the night sky.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, not moving to get out of the car.
“I thought you might want to see it before you walk down the aisle. Before it’s filled with Virellis and Romanovs pretending not to want each other dead.”
Frank opened my door without a word. The cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of stone and centuries-old incense. Arrow stepped out first, then extended his hand to me. I took it.
The cathedral was even more impressive up close. Weathered stone darkened by decades of city pollution, stained glass windows glowing faintly from the lights within. The massive wooden doors were carved with scenes of saints. and sinners—fitting for our union between our families.
“Is this where you plan to make an honest woman of me?” I asked, my heels clicking on the sidewalk as we approached.
His hand tightened at my waist. “Nothing honest about either of us, Harlowe. But yes, this is where I plan to claim you in front of God and every criminal family in New York.”
The massive wooden doors creaked open as we approached. Arrow must have called ahead, because an elderly priest in traditional black waited just inside, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and secrets.
“Mr. Romanov,” he nodded, his voice like gravel stirred with honey. “And this must be the bride.”
“Father Pavel,” Arrow greeted him with a nod. “This is Harlowe Virelli.”
The priest’s eyes widened slightly at my name, but he recovered quickly, crossing himself discreetly. “A Virelli and a Romanov. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“That makes two of us,” I muttered.
The interior of the cathedral was stunning.
Moonlight filtered through the colorful glass, casting shattered patterns across the worn marble floor.
Dust motes danced in the beams of light, and dark moss grew along the walls, giving the entire space an ethereal air.
Rows of dark wooden pews stretched toward a stone altar that looked like it had survived a war, and maybe it had.
The walls were adorned with faded frescoes of saints in various states of beautiful agony.
“It’s . . .” I struggled to find the right word.
“Apocalyptic?” Arrow offered, his voice echoing against the stone.
“Perfect,” I breathed.
Father Pavel shuffled ahead of us, his shadow stretching like a specter across the floor. “The Romanovs have been patrons of St. Ignatius for generations. Your future husband’s grandfather helped rebuild after the fire of ‘86.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if the fire had been set by the Romanovs themselves, a convenient way to claim a holy place without the mess of official acquisition. The thought made me smile.
“What’s so amusing?” Arrow asked, his breath warm against my ear.
“Just imagining all the bodies that have been blessed on this altar before being dumped in the East River.”
Father Pavel cleared his throat. “The sanctuary can accommodate three hundred guests, though I understand security concerns may necessitate a smaller gathering.”
“Three hundred of our families’ enemies in one room,” I mused. “Sounds like a bloodbath waiting to happen.”
Arrow’s fingers dug into my hip. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I wandered toward the altar, my fingers trailing along the worn wooden pews. The cathedral smelled of incense, dust, and something older—the lingering scent of countless prayers offered and ignored. My heels echoed against the stone floor as I climbed the three steps to the altar platform.
Standing there, I turned to face the empty church, imagining it filled with the city’s most dangerous people, all watching as Arrow claimed me publicly. The thought sent an electric current down my spine.
“What do you think?” Arrow asked, climbing the steps to join me.
I met his gaze, unflinching. “I think it’s suitably dramatic for two people who tried to kill each other before fucking.”
Father Pavel choked somewhere in the background.
Arrow laughed, a rare, genuine sound that echoed in the vaulted ceiling.
“I think we need to add a few more exit points,” he said, eyes scanning the perimeter with the practiced efficiency of a man who’d spent his life planning escapes.
“Paranoid, much,” I replied, but I was already mentally mapping the quickest routes from altar to door, counting the seconds it would take to reach safety if gunfire erupted mid-vow.
Father Pavel shuffled closer, hands folded at his waist. “The Romanovs have always been . . . cautious. Your future husband requested extra security, and every guest will be checked for weapons.”
“Nothing says ‘I do’ like being in a room where half the people hate you.”
Arrow’s thumb traced circles on my palm, the gesture incongruously tender. “I’ve got Frank organizing security details. We’ll have men stationed at every entrance, the bell tower, and the roof.”
“What about my father’s men? They’ll expect positions too.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Your father’s men can take the south entrance and the crypt.”
“The crypt?” I laughed.
Father Pavel cleared his throat again. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss the ceremony itself? The readings, the music—”
“No choir,” Arrow cut in. “Too many variables.”
“Of course,” Father Pavel nodded. “And the vows? Traditional or . . . personalized?”
I laughed, imagining Arrow promising to cherish me until death—likely his—did us part. “I think we’ll write our own. Something about promising not to murder each other in our sleep.”
Arrow’s lips twitched. “At least not without proper motivation.”
The old priest looked genuinely concerned now, his rheumy eyes darting between us like he was watching a tennis match played with hand grenades. I almost felt sorry for him, dragged into our little war game of matrimony.
“The cathedral has excellent acoustics,” Father Pavel offered weakly, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Perhaps some classical music during the processional?”
“Something Russian,” Arrow said, at the exact moment I said, “Something Italian.”
Our eyes met, and I saw that familiar flash—the one that meant we were both imagining the same bloody outcome to our disagreement.
“Both,” I conceded, surprising myself. “Start Russian, end Italian. Like our families will.”
Arrow’s laugh was a low, dangerous thing that echoed off the stone walls. Father Pavel crossed himself again.
“I’ll leave you two to . . . explore,” the priest murmured, backing away with the practiced caution of a man who’d spent decades around predators. “The bell tower access is through that door to your left. Ring the bell if you need anything.”
With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with Arrow at the altar.
Arrow watched the old man retreat, then turned to face me fully. The stained glass threw crimson shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the intensity in his eyes. He looked like a demon who’d walked into holy ground just to prove he could.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the altar, feeling the worn stone beneath my fingertips. “I’m thinking that if we survive this wedding, it’ll be a miracle worthy of this church.”
“You don’t believe in miracles.”
“No,” I agreed, “but I believe in survival. And maybe that’s the same thing for people like us.”
He stepped closer. His hand found my waist, turning me to face him. We stood there, at the altar where we’d soon be bound, surrounded by saints who’d died for their convictions and sinners who’d kill for less.
“My father will have snipers on the roof across the street,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Even if your men search everyone, there will be guns in this church.”