28. Twenty-Eight #2
Compromised. It was the worst thing you could be in our world—worse than weak, worse than broke. To be compromised meant your decisions weren’t your own anymore. It meant you had a vulnerability that could be exploited.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Orion just nodded, but his eyes said he wasn’t convinced. “I told Atlas you’d be an hour. And that was me being generous.”
“One hour late. How will I ever get back in Atlas’s good graces?” I teased, knowing Atlas would be annoyed, but also understood the fragility of the situation with my father.
Atlas was waiting in the back booth of the unmarked speakeasy.
The place was a throwback to the Prohibition era with dark wood and brass fixtures, and a single bartender who knew better than to look up when the door opened.
He didn’t stand when we approached. His stillness was part of what made him deadly—like a statue that only moved when you blinked.
“You good?” he asked, not looking up from the amber liquid in his glass.
“Just shit with my father.” I slid into the booth across from him, noting the manila folder centered on the table between us. “What couldn’t wait?”
He finally raised his eyes to mine. Atlas had the kind of face that gave nothing away—handsome in a classical sense, but cold as marble. His suit was impeccable, as always, not a wrinkle to be found, despite the late hour.
“Your fiancée’s father is making moves.” He pushed the folder toward me. “Giovanni thinks you’re distracted.”
Flipping open the folder, I scanned surveillance photos of Giovanni meeting with representatives from three different families. The timestamps showed they were all within the last forty-eight hours.
“He’s desperate,” I said, though something twisted in my gut. “He knows he’s losing power.”
“He’s gathering allies,” Atlas corrected. “And he’s telling them you’ve gone soft over his daughter.”
The irony—Giovanni using Harlowe as bait while simultaneously telling them I’ve gone soft over her.
I shook my head. “What’s his plan?”
“My guess?” Atlas leaned forward, voice dropping. “He’s positioning for one last power play. You marry his daughter, he gains our protection, then orchestrates a hit on you. With you gone, Harlowe inherits everything as your widow, and control reverts to Giovanni.”
“He clearly doesn’t know his daughter very well.” I laughed darkly.
“Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Atlas countered. “How certain are you that she isn’t part of this?”
The question hung between us, weighted with implication. I thought of Harlowe sleeping in my bed, vulnerable and marked with my bruises. The way she’d looked at me with defiance, even as she surrendered her body—the bite marks she’d left on my neck.
“She’s not working with him.”
Atlas and Orion exchanged a look I didn’t like.
“You sound pretty confident for someone who’s only known her for a few weeks,” Orion remarked.
“I know enough.” My tone made it clear the subject wasn’t up for debate.
Atlas sighed, tapping the folder. “There’s more. Giovanni’s been in contact with the Albanians—the same ones your father just ordered a hit on. Coincidence?”
Closing the folder, my mind raced through the implications. If Giovanni was aligning with the Albanians while my father was targeting them, it wasn’t a coincidence.
It was a fucking trap.
“When did these meetings happen?” I tapped the surveillance photos.
“The last one was yesterday,” Atlas said. “Right before the party.”
I leaned back, pinching the bridge of my nose. The timing was too perfect. My father pushes for Albanian blood, Giovanni cozies up to them, and suddenly there’s a sniper with my name on their bullet. The whole thing reeked of coordination.
“You think my father and Giovanni are working together.”
Atlas didn’t confirm or deny, but his silence spoke volumes. “I think you should consider all possibilities.”
“This isn’t about territory anymore,” Orion added. “It’s about succession.”
My father’s words echoed in my head. Don’t disappoint me. The old bastard was setting up a test—one I wasn’t meant to pass. If I killed Giovanni, I’d lose Harlowe. If I didn’t, I’d look weak. Either way, I’d fail in my father’s eyes.
“What does Harlowe know?” Atlas asked.
“She’s not a part of this.”
Atlas studied me. “You keep saying that. What makes you so sure?”
“Because she hates him more than she could ever hate me.” I took a sip of the whiskey Atlas had waiting for me. “Giovanni kept her in a cage, beating the shit out of her for her defiance, then he sold her to me without blinking.”
“And you think that’s enough to turn a daughter against her father? The only family she has left?” Atlas asked.
“I know it is.” I thought of the way she’d looked at Giovanni across the party, the cold hatred in her eyes. The way she’d held herself perfectly still, like she was counting the steps between them and deciding if she could cross the distance with a knife before security stopped her.
“You’re taking a hell of a risk,” Orion said.
I shrugged. “Life’s boring without a few risks.”
Atlas leaned forward. “This isn’t about risk, it’s about survival. If you’re wrong about her—”
“I’m not.”
“—then you’re putting all of us in danger. Not just yourself.”
The implication stung. I’d never put Atlas, Luna, or Orion at risk—they were the only family worth having in this mess. But I couldn’t explain what I felt for Harlowe. How could I make them understand what I barely understood myself?
“Give me time,” I said finally. “I need to find out what Giovanni’s planning.”
“The wedding’s in two weeks,” Atlas reminded me.
“Time’s almost up,” I said.
“Always is in this game.” Atlas knocked back the rest of his drink. “Watch your back. With the wedding this close, someone’s going to make a move. If it isn’t Giovanni, it’ll be your father.”
The thought of my father touching Harlowe made something primitive rise in my chest. “Let them try.”
I left Atlas and Orion at the speakeasy, my mind racing. Manhattan never fully slept, but at this hour, it dozed—a predator with one eye open, waiting for the next meal to stumble by.
My phone vibrated in my pocket—a message from Frank.
She’s awake. Asking for you.
I stared at the message, trying to ignore the twisting in my gut. Harlowe asking for me, wanting me, it shouldn’t have made my pulse quicken like that.
I tucked my phone away and got into the car.
The city blurred past the window, all neon smears and shadowed corners. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Atlas and Orion had said. Was I compromised? Had I let myself become vulnerable over a woman who might still be playing for her father’s team?
No. I knew what I saw in her eyes when she looked at Giovanni. That wasn’t an act.
When I reached the penthouse, I found her standing at the window, wearing nothing but my shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. She didn’t turn when I entered, but I saw her body tense, recognizing my presence.
“You left,” she said, her voice quiet but accusing.
“Had business.” I shrugged off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor. “You were sleeping.”
Now she turned, and I saw something dangerous in her eyes. Not anger, but something deeper. “Business with your father?”
I froze. “How did you know that?”
Her smile was small, knowing. “Frank keeps me informed. Old habits.”
I crossed to her, needing to touch her, to remind myself of what was real between us. This dance between us—violence and desire, threat and need—had become our new language. When my hands found her waist, she didn’t pull away, but her eyes remained questioning.
“What did he want?” Her fingers trailed the stubble on my jaw.
“The usual—to remind me of my place.” I brushed her hair back from her face, studying her features in the blue glow of the city lights. “To make sure I haven’t forgotten what it means to be a Romanov.”
“And have you?” Her voice was soft, but her question cut deep.
There was no humor in my laugh. “That’s what he’s afraid of.”
She turned back to the window, her reflection ghostly against the glass. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw blood. Yours. Mine. I don’t know anymore.”