34. Thirty-Four #2
“It’s a reality check.” He stood up, towering over me. “You two idiots are playing with fire in a city made of gasoline. Your little performance last night? It was seen by everyone who matters. And now they’re all wondering the same thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If Harlowe Virelli can’t be controlled by Arrow Romanov, what’s the point of having an alliance at all?”
“This alliance isn’t just about me.”
“No, but you’re the linchpin,” Orion said, voice softening slightly. “The whole point of this marriage is to show that Virellis and Romanovs can coexist. That the old blood feuds can end. But if you two can’t even present a united front for one night . . .”
“It was one mistake,” I insisted.
Orion laughed. “A mistake broadcast across every underground channel in the city. The Kovenskis are old school, Harlowe. They believe in respect, loyalty, and above all, control. Arrow losing control of his bride-to-be is like blood in the water.”
I stood up, wincing as my body protested every movement. “I’m not a fucking dog.”
“No,” Orion agreed. “You’re a fucking Virelli. Which means you should know better than anyone how this game is played.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to go take care of something. Try not to start any more wars while Arrow’s gone.”
“Fuck you,” I said, but there was no real heat behind it.
As the elevator doors closed behind him, I sank back onto the couch, the weight of what I’d done finally settling on my shoulders.
I’d been so focused on hurting Arrow that I’d forgotten the bigger picture of the game.
The Romanovs. The Virellis. The Kovenskis.
Three families with enough power to tear Manhattan apart, and I’d just poked the hornet’s nest with a stick.
Arrow returned after noon, keys jingling, a fresh cut above his brow, and a halo of cold that rushed in when he kicked the door.
He brought a wind with him, the kind that rearranges leaves and, if you’re not careful, the furniture.
I could tell by the set of his jaw that whatever happened out there hadn’t solved his problems, just rearranged them into a puzzle with fewer, sharper pieces.
He found me on the couch, coffee mug empty, eyes dry from lack of sleep, but jaw set in the way that told him he wasn’t going to get an apology. He watched me for a beat longer than a man in love, and a beat shorter than a man at war.
“Did you sleep?” he finally asked, gaze flicking from my face to the blue dregs at the bottom of my mug.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I tried.”
“Did you?” He smirked, like this was the biggest joke in the world. “Only time I sleep is after a killing or a fuck.”
“Sounds healthy.”
He shrugged. “It’s what keeps me alive.”
I set the mug down, watching him warily as he stalked across the room, peeling off his jacket and tossing it over a chair. There was something different about him now—a tautness in his shoulders, a careful precision in his movements that reminded me of a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
Arrow’s eyes flicked to mine, hard as granite. “Bad enough. Kovenski’s daughter is demanding blood.”
“My blood, I assume?”
“Among other things.” He poured himself a whiskey, not bothering with ice, and downed it in one swallow. “Her father wants guarantees that our marriage won’t interfere with their business interests. He wants assurances that I can . . . control my wife.”
I bristled. “I’m not a fucking pet.”
“No,” Arrow agreed, his voice dangerously soft. “Pets can be trained.”
I rose from the couch, ignoring the protest of my bruised body. “If you came back just to insult me—”
“I came back,” he cut in, “because this is where I live. And because in forty-eight hours, we’re getting married in front of the entire city, and right now half that city is betting on which one of us will end up dead before the honeymoon.”
The bluntness of his assessment hit like a slap. I crossed my arms, trying to hide the tremor in my hands. “And the other half is waiting to see which family comes out on top when the dust settles.”
I walked to the window, looking out at the city that had trapped us both in its web. “And what does Arrow Romanov think?”
He came up behind me, his reflection ghosting over mine in the glass. “I think we’ve been playing with fire from the start, and now we’re surrounded by people who want to watch us burn.”
“You can’t blame this all on me,” I said, turning to face him. “You were with her.”
“For business.” His jaw tightened. “I told you that.”
“Your lips were at her ear. She was pressed against you. What kind of business requires that level of . . . intimacy?” I spat the word like poison.
Arrow’s eyes darkened. “The kind that keeps people alive. The kind that ensures diamonds continue flowing through our territories. The kind that makes sure when we say ‘I do,’ we actually live long enough to enjoy being married.”
“And what did she whisper to you that made you smile like that?”
His expression shifted, something almost like amusement flickering across his face. “She told me her father was planning to have you followed that night. That I should keep you close.”
The irony hit like a punch to the gut. “And instead of warning me—”