46. Forty-Six #2
Atlas approached, Luna on his arm, her blue dress flowing elegantly around her pregnant form. “The happy couple,” he said, raising his glass. “Who would have thought?”
“Not me,” Orion admitted with a grin. “I had money on you two killing each other within the week.”
Arrow’s arm tightened around my waist. “That’s still a possibility.”
I laughed, the sound genuine despite the tension humming beneath the surface of the celebration. “Depends on how this reception goes.”
As if on cue, I spotted my father entering the ballroom, surrounded by his capos. He wore the same tailored tuxedo, but his expression was thunderous as he surveyed the room.
“Showtime,” I murmured, taking a long sip of champagne.
Arrow followed my gaze, his jaw tightening. “Remember what we discussed. No matter what happens, we face it together.”
I nodded, steeling myself for the confrontation I knew was coming. My father wouldn’t let my public rejection go unanswered. In our world, every slight demanded a response.
Arrow and I circulated through the room, accepting congratulations from guests who’d been our enemies mere weeks ago. The Virelli capos regarded me with suspicion and grudging respect, while the Romanovs watched me like a viper in their midst—beautiful but potentially deadly.
Dinner was a tense affair, with Virellis and Romanovs seated at opposite ends of the long table, neutral parties strategically placed between them. I sat at Arrow’s right, my hand resting on his thigh beneath the table, a silent reminder of our alliance.
“You’re doing well,” Arrow murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. “They’re all watching, wondering what power you hold over me.”
“And what power is that?” I asked, turning to face him.
His eyes darkened. “The power to make me forget every other consideration when you’re near. The power to make me want to burn down cities just to watch the flames dance in your eyes.”
I shivered, his words both threat and promise. “And here I thought it was just my charming personality.”
His laugh was low and dark, drawing the attention of several nearby guests. “That too,” he conceded. “Your particular brand of chaos is intoxicating.”
When dinner concluded, the DJ began playing, and Arrow stood, offering me his hand. “Dance with me, Mrs. Romanov.”
I placed my hand in his, allowing him to lead me to the dance floor. As we moved together, his hand firm at the small of my back, I felt the weight of every eye in the room upon us.
“You’re thinking too much, moya lyubov,”* Arrow murmured, his lips close to my ear.
“Hard not to when everyone is watching, waiting for us to fail.”
“Let them watch,” Arrow said, pulling me closer as we swayed to the music. “Let them see exactly what they’re dealing with.”
As we danced, I felt the tension in the room shift, conversations pausing as guests observed our performance.
Arrow moved with a predatory grace, his body a shield between me and potential threats.
I matched him step for step, refusing to be led, refusing to be anything less than his equal on the dance floor.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused, watching his lips curve into a dangerous smile.
“Watching you in that dress, with my ring on your finger?” His hand slid lower, fingers digging into the curve of my hip. “I’m enjoying every fucking second.”
I pressed closer, feeling the hard line of his body against mine. “Careful, husband. People are starting to stare.”
“Let them.” His lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “They’re lucky I’m not ripping this dress off of you and fucking you on the dance floor right now.”
I laughed, the sound rich and genuine despite the tension of the evening. “That would certainly make the society pages.”
“And give your father a heart attack,” Arrow added, his eyes flicking briefly to where Giovanni stood watching us with barely concealed rage.
“Don’t tempt me,” I murmured, earning another dark laugh from Arrow.
As the song ended, Arrow spun me out then back into his arms, the movement so graceful it drew scattered applause from those watching. When I was flush against him again, his lips found my ear.
“Three o’clock,” he whispered. “Your father’s heading this way.”
I tensed but didn’t turn to look. “Ready when you are.”
Arrow’s hand slid possessively to the small of my back as we stopped dancing. He kept me close to his side as my father approached, flanked by two of his most trusted capos.
“Daughter,” my father said, his voice carefully modulated to hide his fury. “You look . . . radiant.”
“Thank you,” I replied, matching his false warmth. “It’s amazing what happens when you’re not treated like property.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A word, if I may. In private.”
Arrow’s grip on me tightened almost imperceptibly. “Anything you have to say to my wife, you can say in front of me.”
“I’m not asking,” my father replied, his voice hardening. “Harlowe, now.”
I exchanged a look with Arrow, reading his silent message clearly: we face this together. I nodded slightly before turning back to my father.
“Lead the way,” I said, my voice steady.
My father guided us to a small alcove off the main ballroom, far enough to be out of earshot but still within view of the guests. His capos positioned themselves to block anyone from approaching.
“Your little stunt at the altar,” my father began without preamble, “was disappointing, but not unexpected. What I didn’t expect was your complete disregard for our arrangement.”
“Our arrangement,” I repeated, feeling Arrow’s presence behind me like a shield. “You mean the one where I was supposed to spy on my husband for you?”
My father’s expression darkened. “This marriage was supposed to give us leverage. Instead, you’ve handed the Romanovs everything on a silver platter.”
“Your mistake was thinking I’d ever help you destroy Arrow,” I said, stepping closer to my father despite the warning glance from Arrow. “You sold me, remember? You traded me like livestock. Why would I lift a finger to help you?”
“Because you’re a Virelli,” he hissed, his composure slipping. “Because your blood—“