Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
THE CURSE OF CUPID’S ARROW
Poe
“Love isn’t a fairytale. Love it’s just a well-marketed illusion.”– P
S hit .
I was late.
In my defense, it wasn’t entirely my fault. My stupid phone alarm hadn’t gone off. Well… okay, fine, maybe I’d forgotten to set it. But in my defense— again —I was dead tired from unpacking all my worldly possessions into my tiny apartment, which, for the record, absolutely hated me. Add to that the anxiety and excitement about the day’s meeting, and you had the perfect recipe for me popping a couple of sleeping pills the night before. The pills had worked like a charm because I’d slept like the dead—and if it weren’t for Prince, I would’ve slept through the whole day and missed my meeting with Blackthorn Publishing.
And now here I was…panicked, hair resembling a bird’s nest, and late enough to make the worst possible first impression.
I couldn’t be late. Why the hell had I taken the melatonin?
Stay calm, Poe. Don’t let the anxiety win. You’re okay. But move. Hurry the hell up.
I listened to the voice in my head—the one that usually helped me pull my shit together.
I darted to the mirror, pausing just long enough to take in my reflection. It was… fine. Passable. Not completely tragic. I’d thrown on my trusty baggy jeans—the ones that screamed effortless instead of I’m late and gave up —a plain white tee, and a black blazer. The blazer was doing a lot of heavy lifting, trying to make the whole look say professional instead of disheveled hot mess .
With a frustrated sigh, I ran a hand through my blue hair, trying to tame it—but it was a lost cause. Fine. We were going with quirky author , I told myself. Or maybe relatable hot mess. That was a thing, right?
“Brush your hair, Poe. It looks like you haven’t washed it in days.”
I sighed and stomped into the bathroom, muttering under my breath about how my hair was actively conspiring against me. It looked like I’d fought a monkey and lost. I turned on the faucet and splashed water over my wild hair until it was damp enough to force into submission. Then I grabbed the brush and started hacking through the tangles like I was on some kind of personal vendetta.
After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only three minutes—I finally wrangled my hair into a low bun. To my surprise, it actually looked… cute. Not Pinterest-board cute, but cute enough that I didn’t immediately want to rip it out and start over.
“Okay,” I muttered to my reflection, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. “This’ll have to do.”
Then I looked down at my bare feet—and froze.
“Shit. Where are my socks? My lucky socks?”
Well… they were technically my mom’s, but she’d given them to me during my first anxiety attack when I was seven and had to read a short story in front of the class. All those eyes had freaked me the hell out.
I spun around in the bathroom like maybe the socks were hiding behind the toilet or stuck to the shower curtain. Nothing. My heart started pounding as I bolted back into the war zone I called my apartment, tearing through piles of clothes, tossing shirts and shoes like I was hunting for treasure.
I flung open another drawer. “Where are you?” I hissed. “I know I put you in here, you traitors!”
“Are you talking to your socks again?”
My brother Vade’s voice crackled through my laptop, which was perched precariously on the kitchen counter amidst a graveyard of dirty wine glasses. His face—a disturbingly perfect replica of our dad’s—stared at me from the screen. White hair swept back, sharp jawline, tattoos crawling up his neck like they were alive. He looked effortlessly dangerous. A carbon copy of our father, yes—but all Uncle Enzo in spirit. Bloodthirsty, chaotic, and gleefully rebellious.
Ignoring him, I lunged for a pile of black clothes on the desk chair.
“Ugh, I’m going to be so late, Vade. So late—and I need my black socks.” I sounded unhinged.
“You have, like, twenty pairs of black socks, Poe,” he said, sipping what I really hoped wasn’t his fourth whiskey of the morning. He wore a plain black tee, his tattoos on full display, and sat there looking annoyingly composed. “Just grab another pair and stop bitching.”
“My lucky socks, Vade. Mom’s socks!” I tossed a shirt behind me, my voice climbing. “You never listen!”
“Not when you’re like this, no,” he deadpanned. Then he leaned closer to the camera, and his tone shifted. “By the way, have you talked to Dad about Cassian yet?”
I paused mid-chaos, my stomach tightening. “No. Why?”
“Because something’s going on,” he said, setting his glass down. His blue eyes narrowed—the same cold stare Dad had when he was hiding something. “Cass is in trouble, and Dad’s icing me out. You know how he gets when one of us is in deep shit.”
Of course, I knew. Our father was a vault of secrets wrapped in tailored suits and covered in ink. If he didn’t want you to know something, you wouldn’t. Period. It was a skill he’d clearly passed down to our youngest brother, Cassian, who was just as tight-lipped.
I groaned, kicking a shoe aside as I dove into another pile. “What kind of trouble? I tried calling him. He sent me straight to voicemail. He’s never done that.”
Vade shrugged, casual as ever. “Who the fuck knows. Something big, though. Dad’s dodging calls, and Cassian’s MIA. Last I heard, he fucked up someone important.”
“That’s not like Cassie,” I muttered, dread creeping in. “And Dad shouldn’t keep it from us if baby brother’s in trouble.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the favorite. You should talk to him.”
I snorted, shoving laundry off the couch. “I’m not the favorite.”
“You are, though,” he said with that infuriating grin. “You’re the writer. The dreamer. The artiste .” He dragged out the last word like it was some inside joke—which it was. “Cassian’s the golden boy, I play the black sheep, and you make Dad proud.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I muttered—but I couldn’t completely deny it.
“He loves us equally.”
Vade just smiled wider. “That he does.”
My hand finally landed on a pair of black socks wedged between the couch cushions. “Yes!” I yelled, holding them up in triumph. “Found you, fuckers!”
My gaze darted to the clock on my laptop screen.
“Oh my god, I’m going to be so late.”
Vade chuckled. “What time’s your meeting?”
“ Five minutes ago! ” I shouted, hopping on one foot to yank my socks on. “It’s with Blackthorn Publishing! The ones who signed me for three books! A big deal!”
“Ah, yes, for your panty-wetting stories,” he said with a smirk. “I’ve got a few ideas you could borrow for the dirty parts.”
Gross.
“Nope. Goodbye!” I shouted, grabbing my bag and bolting for the door.
“Good luck, baby sis!” he called before the screen went black.
That was my brother—my twin, older by two minutes. Equal parts infuriating, disgusting, and unreasonably sweet when it came to me and Mom.
“Thank you!” I yelled over my shoulder, already halfway out the door, hair wrangled into place and lucky socks finally on. Whatever was happening with Cassian and Dad would have to wait.
Today was about proving—to Blackthorn Publishing, and maybe to myself—that they hadn’t made a mistake signing me.
I burst out of my apartment building, clutching my bag like it might fly away. The city greeted me with its usual chaos—horns blaring, voices shouting, and the ever-present aroma of questionable street food. I spotted a taxi idling a few steps away and considered flagging it down—until my eyes locked on the black van parked directly in front of the building.
The door opened, and a man stepped out.
My stomach lurched.
Vernon.
Tall. Broad. Built like a tank and carved from stone, Vernon had an aura of calm menace that never faded. He was Aunt Kadra’s most trusted enforcer—her right-hand hitman, alongside her brother Crow. I’d seen him in action. He wasn’t someone you crossed.
What the hell was he doing here?
“Miss Nicolasi,” he said with a polite nod. His voice was cool. His expression unreadable. Classic Vernon.
I blinked, trying to process. “Vernon? What are you doing here?”
“The Boss wanted you protected while you’re in the city,” he replied. Tone clipped. Respectful. Delivering a message, nothing more.
“Was this Aunt Kadra’s idea or my father’s?” I crossed my arms, already knowing I wouldn’t get a straight answer.
“Both.”
Vernon didn’t elaborate, of course. He just stepped back and gestured to the open van door like this is just a normal Tuesday.
“We should go. You’re late.”
I know I’m late, but how does he know?
I didn’t have time to argue. With a frustrated sigh, I climbed into the van, muttering as I passed him, “Yeah, I know I’m late. Thank you.”
He grunted, shutting the door behind me as I settled into the seat. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something expensive. It’s weirdly comfortable—too comfortable for a vehicle that looked like it should be used to kidnap people and dump them into the Hudson River.
As the van pulled away from the curb, I glanced at Vernon, who scanned the streets with calculating eyes like he was expecting trouble.
Most people might find that odd.
But in my family?
It was normal… too damn normal.