38. Thirty-Eight
THIRTY-EIGHT
HARLOWE
Erebus was located beneath the building, on a floor accessible only by invitation and requiring a special keycard. The elevator doors slid open to reveal a dimly lit corridor with black walls that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect.
Its entrance was guarded by a pair of men who looked like they could benchpress a car. They nodded at Arrow and Orion, then gave me a thorough once-over before stepping aside.
Neon lights illuminated the club in shades of pink and purple, casting everything in a surreal glow. Unlike La Lune Noir, which had an air of performative decadence, Erebus felt dangerous—a playground for people with too much power and too few inhibitions.
“Remember what I said,” Arrow murmured against my ear, his hand possessive at the small of my back. “You stay with me.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue as we descended a curved staircase.
The music grew louder with each step, a pulsing, hypnotic beat that I could feel in my chest. At the bottom, the space opened into a cavernous room bathed in red light.
Bodies moved together on elevated platforms, some clothed, some not.
The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and expensive perfume.
“Welcome to Erebus,” Orion said with a theatrical sweep of his arm. “Where the damned come to play.”
The club was divided into sections, each with its own theme.
To the left, a bar stretched along the wall, staffed by bartenders in leather harnesses.
To the right, private rooms with gauzy curtains that revealed just enough to tantalize without giving everything away.
In the center, a dance floor that doubled as a stage for performances that would make a porn star blush.
“The meeting room is upstairs,” Arrow said, guiding me through the crowd.
His grip on my waist tightened every time someone’s eyes lingered on me a second too long.
Bodies writhed in the shadows, pleasure and pain intermingling in a symphony of moans that nearly drowned out the music. I felt at home here.
We weaved through the crowd, Arrow using his body as a shield between the wandering hands of strangers and me. A woman in nothing but a leather harness and stilettos brushed against my arm, her pupils blown wide with whatever drug was circulating tonight.
“Fresh meat?” she purred, her fingers trailing along my shoulder.
Before I could respond, Arrow’s arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against him with enough force to make my breath catch. “Not available,” he growled, the warning in his voice unmistakable.
The woman smirked, unperturbed. “Pity. She looks delicious.” She melted back into the crowd, already hunting for her next target.
“I could have handled that,” I muttered against his ear.
“I know,” he replied, his breath hot against my neck. “But then I’d have to kill her, and Atlas frowns on murder in his club. Bad for business.”
We passed a series of private alcoves where bodies intertwined in various states of undress, some watched by small audiences, others hidden behind the gauzy curtains that revealed only silhouettes.
A man in a custom suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent caught my eye, his gaze lingering on my exposed skin before Arrow’s glare sent him looking elsewhere.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
“The meeting room is this way,” Arrow said, guiding me toward a staircase at the back of the club.
“I thought we were here for me to explore,” I countered, deliberately slowing my pace to take in more of the club. “You can’t show me a candy store and expect me not to at least look at the merchandise.”
His fingers tightened on my hip, drawing me closer. “You can look all you want. From beside me.”
A woman’s scream pierced the air—pleasure, not pain—followed by applause from a gathered crowd.
I turned to see a stunning redhead suspended from the ceiling in an intricate rope harness, her body contorted into an impossible arch as a masked figure worked her with a vibrating wand.
The crowd watched, transfixed, some touching themselves, others whispering to companions.
“Shibari demonstration,” Orion explained, following my gaze. “They do them every hour. The woman’s a professional. Makes more in one night than most people do in a month.”
“Impressive,” I murmured, watching the way the ropes bit into her skin. “She’s beautiful,” I said, watching her face contort with pleasure.
I reluctantly tore my gaze from the suspended woman, allowing Arrow to guide me through the crowd.
We climbed a spiral staircase to a mezzanine level that overlooked the main floor.
Up here, the music was muted, the lighting less dramatic.
He swiped a keycard, and the door slid open to reveal a space with half-moon alcoves of blood-red velvet seating and a series of private tables where men in expensive suits were already gathered.
The air smelled of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and power.
This wasn’t just a meeting space; it was a throne room for men who considered themselves kings.
Five men occupied a large booth in the mezzanine’s corner.
Their conversation halted as we entered.
I recognized two of them immediately—Vasily Petrov, a Russian arms dealer whose name appeared in my father’s ledgers more often than his own children’s, and Marco Esposito, a Sicilian whose family had been feuding with mine since before I was born.
The others were less familiar, but their eyes held the same calculating coldness I’d grown up seeing around. my father’s dinner table.
Each member had their own private security standing in the shadows, pretending not to pay attention to their bosses, but I knew their eyes and ears missed nothing.
“Gentlemen,” Arrow greeted.
The men raised their glasses in response, eyes lingering on me.
Arrow’s hand remained at my waist, his thumb tracing small circles against my bare skin.
I could practically feel the temperature in the room drop as they evaluated me—not just as a woman, but as a commodity, a chess piece in whatever game they were playing.
“I see you’ve brought a guest,” Vasily said, his Russian accent thick as molasses. His eyes tracked from my face down to my heels and back up again with the practiced assessment of a man who bought and sold people as casually as others traded stocks.
“This is Harlowe Virelli,” Arrow replied, the subtle emphasis on my last name sending ripples through the group. “My fiancée.”
I watched their reactions—the slight widening of eyes, the quick glances exchanged, the recalculation happening behind careful poker faces. Everyone knew about the Virelli-Romanov feud. Everyone knew what this marriage meant.
“Giovanni’s daughter,” Marco said, rolling the words around his mouth like he was tasting wine. “I haven’t seen you since you were a child. You’ve grown . . . formidable.”
I smiled, but not at all warmly. “That tends to happen when you’re raised by wolves.”
A laugh rumbled through the group—not genuine amusement but the obligatory acknowledgment of a dangerous woman’s wit. Arrow guided me to an empty seat, and I slid in beside him, acutely aware of how everyone’s eyes followed my movements.
Arrow’s hand came to rest on my knee, a silent warning. I ignored it, keeping my smile fixed on Marco, whose eyes kept drifting to the necklace at my throat—the red A that marked me as Arrow’s.
“The Albanians have been making moves. They think your wedding will provide opportunities,” a man I didn’t recognize said, his accent vaguely Eastern European.
“Opportunities for what?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“For a shift in power,” Vasily said bluntly. “Two families at war, suddenly united? It makes people nervous. Nervous people do stupid things.”
“Like, try to kill us at our own wedding?” I suggested.
Arrow’s fingers tightened on my knee. “The Albanians are just one concern,” he said. “We’ve identified at least three separate groups that might see the ceremony as a chance to eliminate two problems at once.”
“How romantic,” I drawled. “Nothing says ‘till death do us part’ like a shared hit list.”
The men laughed—genuinely this time—and I felt Arrow’s grip relax slightly.
I was playing my part well: the dangerous, sharp-tongued bride with a taste of chaos.
Arrow’s thumb traced circles on my thigh as the men discussed security arrangements, the movement of their men, and which territories would remain neutral during the ceremony.
“The Triad has agreed to stay out of it. For a price, of course.”
“Of course,” Arrow nodded. “And the Cartel?”
“Still negotiating,” Vasily replied. “They want assurances about the heroin routes through Queens.”
I watched the exchange with fascination.
This was the world my father had kept me at the edges of the real business, the currency of power and blood.
Arrow had brought me straight to the center of it, whether he intended to or not.
I felt oddly at home here, among these dangerous men with their careful words and lethal intentions.
A woman in a leather corset appeared with a tray of drinks.
She bent low as she placed a glass in front of me, her cleavage deliberately displayed.
I caught the scent of jasmine and cigarettes as she lingered a moment too long.
When she straightened, her eyes met mine with an unmistakable invitation before she moved on to serve the others.
“Your security team is in place?” Marco asked Arrow, dragging my attention back to the conversation.
“Twenty men inside the church, another thirty on the perimeter,” Arrow replied. “Plus whatever Harlowe’s father brings.”
“Which will be considerable,” I added. “Appearances are everything to him.”
“So tell me,” Marco leaned forward, fingers steepled, “how does it feel to be the sacrificial lamb? Giovanni must be desperate to offer his only daughter to the Romanovs.”
I kept my smile firmly in place. “Men like you always think women are pawns. That’s why you keep losing to queens.”
A muscle in Marco’s jaw twitched. I’d struck a nerve. Rumor had it his wife had cleaned him out last year and fled to Monaco with his personal trainer, who also happened to be her lover.
“My father didn’t offer me,” I said. “He sold me. There’s a difference.”
Marco’s laugh was genuine this time, a bark of surprise. “Sold to the highest bidder, eh? At least Arrow here has the resources to keep a woman of your appetites satisfied.”
“You have no idea,” I murmured, letting my hand slide onto Arrow’s thigh under the table, feeling the muscle tense beneath my touch. I was playing with fire, but fire had always been my favorite element.
Vasily raised his glass. “To unholy matrimony. May your enemies die screaming.”