19. Nineteen
NINETEEN
ARROW
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting sharp shadows on the paneled walls. Atlas sat on the leather couch, Orion beside him. My elbows rested on the armrests like I was strapped to an electric chair.
Avoiding Harlowe for a couple of days had been necessary—staying out to handle business, making excuses to stay in my penthouse in the building Atlas owned.
For her sake, I’d told myself.
The truth was simpler.
Separation was required before I fucked her like the monster crawling inside my soul begged me to. And I couldn’t do that. Not yet.
My mind drifted back to when I told Atlas and Orion about my impending nuptials.
“I’m getting married,” I said, eyes trained on the flames.
Atlas scoffed, sharp and humorless. “To who? Another one of your obsessions with a pulse and a habit?”
I didn’t look at him. “To Harlowe Virelli.”
Silence.
Orion stiffened. “Harlowe Virelli, as in Giovanni Virelli’s daughter?”
I met his gaze. “The only one he’s got.”
A pause.
“The fuck do you mean, you’re marrying her?” Atlas leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “Since when does Arrow Romanov take a wife without a body count and at least four substitutions in the church program?”
Orion, who’d spent most of his life perfecting the illusion of being unaffected, dropped a fist against his knee. “You’re out of your mind. If you do this, there will be war. Giovanni doesn’t want peace, and you know it.”
“I’m not interested in peace,” I replied. “And Giovanni himself crawled on his knees to my father to sell his only daughter to me.”
Atlas burst out in a spasm of laughter so ugly it made the air vibrate. “Yeah, and you bought it? Jesus, Arrow. Even for you, that’s a level of self-delusion I didn’t expect.”
“It’s transactional. There’s no delusion. You think I don’t see the trap?”
“Do you really believe you can out-scheme Giovanni?” Atlas asked, his big hands clenching in the firelight. “All you’re doing is bringing the poison into your life.”
“What are you planning to do with her?” Orion asked.
I shrugged and reached for the heavy cut-glass decanter, pouring two fingers of scotch. My hands were steady and precise, but my eyes focused on nothing.
“I’m going to keep her alive; that’s the only way to break them.
Giovanni’s banking on another funeral.” I picked up the glass, studying the refraction of the flames, and set it down, untouched.
“That girl is the only thing left in his harem of power. He wants a pawn to infiltrate the Romanovs, or he wants her dead.”
“You’re giving him the nuclear option, Arrow,” Orion said, voice slicing under the fat of Atlas’s bluster. “One move and it’s open war. Are you ready for that?”
“The last of the Virellis and the last of the Romanovs. Two of the oldest bloodlines are left from the original five families. Giovanni made a deal. Harlowe and I are his insurance policy.”
“Jesus Christ,” Atlas muttered. “You’re merging dynasties like this is a medieval throne room.”
“It is.”
Orion narrowed his eyes. “And Harlowe knows about this?”
My jaw ticked. “She knows enough.”
Atlas laughed. “You mean you told her after the ring was already welded to the cage?”
“She’s not in a cage,” I snapped.
Orion raises a brow. “Could’ve fooled us. She doesn’t strike me as the ‘arranged marriage’ type. More like the ‘light it all on fire and watch it burn’ type.”
I didn’t argue. “It’s not about love.”
“It never is,” Orion replied coldly.
I stood.“It’s about power. The kind that doesn’t get erased with bullets or headlines. My father knows it, Giovanni knows it, and I know it.”
Atlas dragged two fingers across his jaw, as if weighing the pros and cons of finishing what my father didn’t. “Giovanni Virelli’s not weak. He will use her to cut your throat while you sleep. How can’t you see the knife he’s planted in her spine?”
I almost laughed. “If she cuts my throat in my sleep, she’ll have earned it. But she won’t. She’ll try, but she’ll fail. That’s the point.”
Atlas pressed his glass to his lower lip, assessing me. “So, is she in on it, or just the payload?”
I hesitated, just a flicker, but Atlas saw all. “She’s the payload,” I said. “But I’ll make her the fuse.”
Orion’s eyes moved, analyzing everything. “If you’re wrong, we’re all ghosts. They’ll take the whole East End as a dowry.”
“Then it’s a good death,” I said. “Let her walk through the fire. If there’s anything left on the other side, it’ll belong to me.”
Orion blew out a breath, rocking back. “Goddamn, Arrow. You’re really going to marry this girl.”
“White wedding dress, church, and all the expected wedding celebrations.” I added.
Atlas laughed again, and this time, it was almost approving. “God, you’re sick.”
I finally allowed myself a smile. “I am. She’s a problem,” I said.
“A psychotic one,” Orion allowed, draining his glass. “We’ve all heard the rumors about Giovanni Virelli’s daughter and her particular tastes.”
The fire held my attention while I remembered the shape of Harlowe’s wrists inside my hands, the resilient snap in her jaw, the blueprint for a woman who wouldn’t break, morphing under pressure, each evolution more dangerous.
I finished the whiskey, letting the burn cauterize the memory. “Whatever power Virelli had, it’s in decline. I’m giving him a shot at legacy. He won’t take it. He can’t.”
“He’ll try to kill you at the altar.” Orion scoffed. “He’ll poison the cake or the air you breathe.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” I said. “But I’ll keep her alive—for as long as she’s useful, and maybe a little longer.”
Atlas fixed me with a look of brotherly concern. “And you still think you can fix a broken thing by breaking it more?”
I smiled thinly. “It’s genetic.”
Orion poured himself another drink and sipped, slow and deliberate. “If she’s such a problem, why not kill her?”
The answer wasn’t as easy as I liked to pretend.
“If I have to be the last Romanov standing, I want a reason.”
Atlas hoisted his own in a mock salute. “To problems, then.”
I nodded, raised my glass to the fire, and in that quiet, the world became simple, stripped to its animal logic. Eat the pain, or be devoured by it.
“I never in a million years thought that Arrow Romanov would willingly tie himself to an enemy’s daughter to drag around.” Orion laughed. “One that hates you enough to draw blood in the night? Can’t she just poison your soup like a normal wife?”
A smile threatened to crack my composure, but even I had to appreciate the joke. “She’d probably try arsenic first. That’s the fun part.”
Orion finished his pour, studying the edge of the glass. “You’re going to regret this, Arrow. I know you like the pain, but this—this is just inviting a riot into your bed.”
“That’s the point.”
Atlas stared at me. “I hope she kills you.”
“Get in line.” Orion scoffed. “I hope she eats your fucking heart.”
Raising my glass in a small salute, I drank it down. “She’ll try. And I’ll enjoy every second of it.”
“If your plan fails, you’ll deserve whatever hell she brings to your doorstep.” Atlas laughed, taking another drink.
I didn’t answer, only watched the fire until it calcified every doubt in my bones.
Harlowe Virelli was the kind of problem you bought at auction, then spent the rest of your life racking up insurance for. I had every intention of keeping her alive. The city would throw a parade in my honor if I managed it.
When I left the study, Orion stayed behind, glass balanced on a kneecap. I considered going back to correct something—a detail, maybe, or just the rumor that I was in control—but let it rot.
A blast of cold bit into me as I stepped out onto the balcony. I took out my phone and dialed, one-handed.
The call connected.
“She’s gone,” said Natalya, not a trace of apology in her voice. “Slipped the wire sometime after midnight. Hell, I almost respect it.”
I exhaled, the smoke wreathing back into my face. “How long’s she been loose?”
“Two hours since I woke up, but probably four. You want her found alive, or should I make it easier on everyone?”
There was a time I’d have answered without hesitation. Now, the pause weighed on both ends of the line.
“I want you to do nothing.”
“What?”
“I’ll find her, Natalya.”
The line went dead with a dignified click.
Laughing came easy as I watched the camera footage from my house. The slick move of her hands as she stole some pills from my cousin’s pile in the foyer, crushing them in her fist while Natalya rambled. A quick flash, and they were dropped into the vodka bottle.
An hour later, Harlowe moved through the house, searching for a way out—I may have locked the house this time, just to see what she’d do—and my umnaya malen’kaya gadyuka found it.
Rewinding the footage three times, I tracked her slipping through the window—watched the pain register in her jaw as she hit the ground, then ran, scaling the wall until she vanished.
I let the moment play until the screen cut to static, until the only trace of her was the blood smear she left on the glass and a tuft of black hair caught in the latch.
I rarely found joy in my own undoing, but there was something so nakedly honest in her escape that it struck me as divine.
Giovanni’s daughter, ripe with hatred for my bloodline, ran headlong, knowing there was only one place in the city she could run where I wouldn’t kill her outright.
The elevator ride down felt eternal.
Cutting through the lobby, I passed the sleeping concierge with his crossword puzzle face down on the security counter, and into the garage. My car fired to life, and I sped through the city.
Even in my father’s day, the hunt had been the point—the only time any of us felt true.
I let my hands fall to the wheel, closed my eyes, and let the ghosts tell me where to find her.
There were only so many places a girl like Harlowe could run with blood on her knees, hate in her heart, and no one left in the world who’d believe she needed saving.
She would be at the only place she felt whole.