35. Thirty-Five
THIRTY-FIVE
HARLOWE
Ipawed through the closet for something to wear, finding a black long-sleeved dress with a high collar and a slit up the right leg. I paired it with heeled boots, a bold red lip, and soft makeup, and let the A pendant fall down the front of my dress.
Arrow watched me from the doorway, his eyes tracking every movement as I slid the lipstick across my mouth.
“What?” I asked, catching his reflection in the mirror.
“Nothing.” But his face said everything.
He wore black pants with a black shirt open at the collar, his tattoos peeking out. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms and the expensive watch on his wrist. Even when Arrow dressed in a deceivingly simple way, he somehow still looked dangerous.
Arrow approached me and wrapped his arms around my stomach, his eyes drifting from my stomach to meet my eyes in the mirror. “Try not to mention the Kovenskis. Atlas isn’t happy about the situation.”
“Atlas isn’t happy? Join the club,” I muttered, securing my earring. “What am I supposed to talk about? The weather?”
His fingers traced the chain around my neck. “Talk about the wedding. About how excited you are to become my wife.”
I snorted. “No one would believe that.”
“Make them believe it.” His voice dropped lower. “Make me believe it.”
Turning to face him, I searched his expression for any hint of mockery, but found only sincerity. For once, I kept my bitchy retort to myself.
“I could burn the world down for you,” he continued. “I might have already started.”
The words caught in my throat. It was the most honest thing he’d ever said to me, and I didn’t know how to respond. What do you say to someone who admits they’d burn the world for you? Someone who might already have struck the match?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Arrow’s thumb brushed over my bottom lip, smudging my carefully applied lipstick. “It means I’ve made choices. To protect what’s mine.”
“What kind of choices?”
He stepped back, breaking contact. “The kind we don’t discuss before dinner with friends.”
“Wait!” I followed him into the bedroom. “You can’t just drop that bomb and not spill the beans.”
Arrow looked at me with that infuriating half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”
I pulled a face and punched him in the arm. “Don't patronize me, Arrow. If you’re making moves that affect us, I deserve to know.”
His expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might shut me out again.
Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Svetlana’s father is trying to leverage his connections to block our marriage license. Says a union between Romanovs and Virellis threatens the balance of power.”
“And?” I pressed.
“And I reminded him that his diamond imports rely on our shipping routes. That his daughter’s social standing in this city exists because I allow it to.” Arrow’s eyes met mine. “I also might have mentioned that your father still controls the docks where his merchandise arrives.”
My breath caught. “You involved my father?”
“I didn’t have to. He called me after the club incident. Giovanni was . . . surprisingly supportive.”
“Of me?” I couldn’t hide my shock.
His laugh was short and humorless. “Of us. Apparently, he finds it amusing that his daughter has the balls to publicly humiliate a Romanov and still have him crawling back.”
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. It was exactly the kind of twisted logic my father would appreciate—his daughter showing strength while still securing the alliance.
“So we’re good?” I asked cautiously.
“We’re standing on a knife’s edge,” Arrow corrected, checking his watch. “But we have leverage now. Your father on one side, my father on the other. The Kovenskis in the middle.” He held out his hand to me. “Ready?”
I took his hand, feeling the calluses on his palm. “You think I’m pretty?” I asked, unable to keep from smirking.
“What?” he raised an eyebrow at me, then he realized he had used the word pretty when describing my head, and even he couldn’t stop the grin that lit up his face.
He reached out and touched my face, his thumb brushing against my bottom lip. “You’re fucking gorgeous, and you know it, Harlowe.”
“Tell me more,” I teased, leaning into his touch.
Arrow’s eyes darkened as he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “I’d rather show you, but we’d be late for dinner.”
Even after everything, his proximity still affected me like a drug. “Later, then.”
“A promise,” he murmured, stepping back. “Come on, Atlas hates when people are late.”
We took the private elevator down to the garage, where Frank was waiting with the car. He nodded to Arrow, then gave me a look that was part concern, part amusement.
“Evening, Principessa,”* he said, opening the door. “Nice to see you in one piece.”
I rolled my eyes. “Takes more than a Romanov to break me, Frank.”
“Don’t I know it.” His eyes crinkled at the corners.
The drive to Carne, a high-end restaurant on the Upper West Side, was mostly quiet.
Arrow kept his hand on my thigh the entire ride, his thumb tracing small circles on the fabric of my dress.
The city lights streamed past the tinted windows, casting shadows across his face that made him look like something out of a nightmare—beautiful and deadly.
Frank caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Your father called. Wanted to know if you need extra security for the rehearsal dinner?”
I stiffened. My father rarely concerned himself with my safety unless there was a threat worth noting.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“That I’d discuss it with Mr. Romanov.” Frank’s eyes flicked to Arrow.
Arrow’s grip tightened on my thigh. “Tell Giovanni we have it handled. The Romanovs will provide security.”
Frank nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Neither was I.
“My father wouldn’t offer protection unless he thinks I need it,” I said quietly, for Arrow’s ears only.
“He’s just flexing,” Arrow replied, but there was something in his tone that made me uneasy. “Reminding me that you’re still a Virelli.”
“I’ll always be a Virelli.”
His eyes met mine. “And after tomorrow’s rehearsal, everyone will know you’re about to be a Romanov too.”
The restaurant came into view, a sleek glass-and-stone structure with a line of black SUVs parked outside. I recognized Atlas’s security team standing by the entrance, their suits unable to hide the bulges of their weapons. Arrow squeezed my thigh once more before Frank pulled up to the curb.
Arrow had told me about how Luna was trafficked by Nikolai, and Atlas saved her.
Both Atlas and Arrow came from long lines of men who kept their secrets close, rarely died of natural causes, and never let their wives outlive them unless it could be avoided.
I tried to picture a child between us: Romanov instability, Virelli ruthlessness, topped with Arrow’s cool survivor eyes.
Born ready to break the world or sell it piece by piece.
We went inside side by side, the doorman flinching at Arrow’s pace but not daring to do more than tip his cap.
The inside was cold, baroque, and candlelit.
The clientele tonight were monsters in their best skins: Manhattan oligarchs, ex-mobsters disguised as foodies, and a whole pack of high-gloss influencers sipping $80 cocktails and perfecting their predator faces for every selfie.
The hostess recognized us immediately, her eyes widening slightly before she composed herself. “Mr. Romanov, Ms. Virelli. Mr. King and Mrs. King are waiting for you in the private room.”
We followed her through the main dining area, where conversations hushed as we passed.
I felt the weight of dozens of eyes tracking our movements, phones discreetly capturing our passage.
By morning, these images would be all over social media—Arrow Romanov and his wild Virelli fiancée, out in public together after the club incident.
Good. Let them look. Let them see us together, united despite everything.
The private dining room was separated from the main restaurant by a wall of smoky glass.
Atlas and Luna were already seated at a sleek black table when we entered.
Atlas rose immediately, his imposing figure filling the space.
Despite his designer suit, there was something primal about him, a leashed violence that reminded me of Arrow.
Luna remained seated, her elegant features softening into a smile when she saw us.
“You made it,” Atlas said, extending his hand to Arrow. The two men clasped forearms in that way that powerful men do, not quite a handshake, more like warriors acknowledging each other’s strength.
“Traffic was light,” Arrow replied, his hand settling possessively at the small of my back.
Luna stood then, her silk dress flowing around her pregnant belly like water. She embraced me, her perfume enveloping me in jasmine. “Harlowe,” she murmured against my cheek. “Wow! You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” I said, and meant it. Luna was stunning in that effortless way that made other women both envious and desperate to be her friend. Even pregnant, she was radiant.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, nodding at her belly.
Her hand moved instinctively to rest on her stomach. “Like I’m carrying a future MMA fighter. This little one never stops moving.”
Atlas appeared beside her, his hand covering hers protectively. The gesture was so tender it almost seemed out of place coming from a man whose reputation was built on ruthlessness.
“She’s been craving the strangest combinations,” Atlas said, his eyes never leaving Luna’s face. “Pickles and ice cream was just the beginning.”
“The baby wants what it wants,” Luna laughed, leaning into him. “Just like its father.”
Atlas guided us to our seats, signaling the waiter for wine. “We ordered the ‘82 Bordeaux,” he said. “Hope that’s acceptable.”
Arrow nodded. “Perfect.”