40. Forty
FORTY
HARLOWE
The night of the rehearsal dinner had come, with the wedding only a day away.
The rehearsal dinner felt like a cease-fire in a war zone.
Everyone armed but pretending they weren’t, smiles that didn’t reach their eyes, and enough tension to snap a steel cable.
I wore a white dress that clung to every curve, a deliberate mockery of bridal innocence with a slit high enough to show the bruises Arrow had left on my inner thigh.
The necklace with his initial rested against my throat, a collar and a claim.
Atlas and Luna had chosen Sanctum for the rehearsal dinner—neutral ground where neither Virellis nor Romanovs could claim home advantage. The private dining room glittered with candles and crystal, bathing everyone in a golden light that made even the most hardened killers look almost human.
I watched my father from across the room, cataloging the new lines around his mouth, the silver threading through his once-black hair.
Giovanni Virelli looked smaller somehow, less mythic than the monster of my childhood memories.
He hadn’t approached me yet, choosing instead to work the room with calculated precision, shaking hands with men who’d rather put bullets in him.
“Your father’s avoiding you,” Arrow murmured, appearing at my side with a glass of champagne. His hand settled at the small of my back, warm and possessive.
“Good,” I replied, taking the glass. “The longer he stays away, the longer I can pretend this isn’t happening.”
“What? The wedding or the fact that he sold you to me?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”
“There’s all the difference in the world.” Arrow’s voice dropped lower, his lips brushing my ear. “Your father thinks he’s punishing you. I think he’s given me the only thing worth having in this city.”
I scanned the room, taking in the uneasy alliances forming in the corners and the whispered conversations behind raised glasses.
The Romanov contingent kept to one side, Arrow’s uncles and cousins watching me with predatory curiosity.
The Virellis clustered near the bar, their hands never straying far from where I knew they kept their weapons.
“How many people in this room want us dead?” I asked, sipping my champagne.
“At least half.” Arrow’s hand tightened at my waist. “The other half is waiting to see if we kill each other first.”
I laughed, the sound drawing my father’s attention from across the room.
Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I was eight years old again, standing in his study with skinned knees and a defiant tilt to my chin.
He excused himself from his conversation and began making his way toward us, each step deliberate and measured.
“Showtime,” I murmured, draining my champagne and setting the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray.
Giovanni Virelli stopped before us, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked between Arrow and me. He was dressed in a black tailored suit, the Virelli crest pin gleaming on his lapel.
“Harlowe,” he said, my name sounding foreign on his tongue. “You look well.”
“Father,” I replied, the word bitter as arsenic. “Surprised to see you here. I thought you’d send a representative.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And miss seeing my only daughter’s rehearsal dinner? What kind of father would that make me?”
“The same kind you’ve always been,” I said, feeling Arrow’s hand tighten at my waist.
My father’s gaze dropped to Arrow’s hand on me, then to the necklace at my throat. Disgust flickered across his face.
“Romanov,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “I trust you’re treating my investment well. She’s always been difficult,” my father replied, as if I wasn’t standing right there. “But I assume you’ve found ways to manage that particular trait.”
I felt Arrow’s body tense beside me, coiled like a snake ready to strike.
Before he could respond, I stepped slightly forward, putting myself between Arrow and my father.
“I’m right here, Father. Perhaps you could address me directly instead of talking about me as if I’m livestock you’re selling at auction. ”
My father’s eyes narrowed, that familiar flash of cold anger I’d grown up fearing. But I wasn’t a child anymore, cowering in corners while he raged.
“Always so dramatic,” he said, his Italian accent thickening as it did when he was annoyed. “This marriage is business, Harlowe. Nothing personal.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” I tilted my head, studying him. “That selling your daughter to the family responsible for Luca’s death is just business?”
The muscle in his jaw ticked—the same tell Arrow had when he was fighting for control. “Your brother made his choices.”
“And now you’ve made mine.” I felt Arrow's hand at the small of my back, steady and grounding. “Tell me, Father, did you even negotiate a good price? Or was getting rid of me reward enough?”
My father’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You ungrateful—”
“Careful, Giovanni,” Arrow cut in, his voice silky with threat. “That’s my future wife you’re speaking to.”
The tension between them crackled like a live wire. Two apex predators circling, neither willing to show weakness. My father’s gaze slid from Arrow to me, then back again.
“You’ve defiled my daughter,” he said, nodding toward the necklace at my throat. “Branded her like cattle.”
“No,” Arrow replied coolly. “Just making sure everyone knows she belongs to me.”
My father’s laugh was bitter. “That’s what you think this is? Ownership? My daughter belongs to no one. Never has. That’s her problem.”
I felt something unexpected bloom in my chest at his words—not quite pride, but something adjacent to it. Even in his cruelty, my father acknowledged the one truth about me that had always been constant: I was ungovernable.
“Perhaps that’s why she’s perfect for me,” Arrow said, his hand sliding to cup my hip. “I’ve never wanted anything docile.”
My father’s gaze fixed on me, searching for weakness. I met his stare unflinchingly, chin tilted in that way he’d always hated.
“You look like your mother,” he said finally, the words carrying more weight than anything else he could have uttered. “She would have hated what you’ve become.”
“She would have hated you more,” I replied, the words escaping before I could swallow them back.
A flash of something—pain, maybe, or just irritation—crossed his face before the mask slipped back into place. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, already turning away. “I’ll see you at the church.”
I watched him retreat, back straight, shoulders rigid, every inch the don even as the years were finally catching up to him. I felt Arrow’s fingers brush against mine, a subtle reminder that I wasn’t alone anymore.
“He’ll never apologize,” I said quietly. “Not for selling me, not for Luca, not for anything.”
Arrow’s eyes followed my father as he rejoined his men by the bar. “I don’t expect him to. Men like Giovanni don’t apologize—they just find new ways to justify their cruelty.”
I turned to face Arrow, studying the sharp planes of his face in the golden light. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but I could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
Before I could respond, Orion appeared at Arrow’s shoulder, leaning in to murmur something in his ear. Arrow’s expression hardened, jaw tightening as he gave a short nod.
“What is it?” I asked when Orion had melted back into the crowd.
“Your father’s men are getting too close to mine. Tensions are high.” His hand slid to my hip, anchoring me to his side. “Might be nothing. Might be everything.”
I scanned the room, noting the invisible lines dividing Virellis from Romanovs, the way security personnel from both sides circled each other like wary wolves. “The day before the wedding seems like a terrible time for a bloodbath.”
“There’s never a good time for one.” Arrow surveyed the room. “I’ve arranged for extra security, just in case.”
“Are you expecting trouble?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“Always.” His gaze settled on my father, who was now deep in conversation with one of Arrow’s uncles. “Especially from him.”
Luna appeared at my side, her pregnant belly preceding her. She looked radiant in a midnight blue gown. “There you are,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Atlas is about to make the toast.”
I glanced at Arrow, who nodded slightly, before pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Go. I need to speak with Orion anyway.”
“How are you holding up?” Luna asked.
“Better than I expected,” I admitted. “No one has tried to kill me yet, so that’s something.”
She laughed, and the sound was bright against the low murmur of tense conversation. “The night is young.”
Atlas cleared his throat, commanding attention with nothing more than his presence. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. He stood tall, glass raised, looking every inch the king of his domain.
“Tonight,” Atlas began, raising his glass higher, “we gather to celebrate what many thought impossible—a union between the Virellis and the Romanovs.”
I felt Arrow come up behind me, his hand sliding around my body to rest against my stomach. I watched the faces around the room. Some looked amused, others skeptical, a few openly hostile.
“Two families,” Atlas continued, “with histories written in blood and vengeance, now joining together through marriage. Arrow and Harlowe represent something new in our world—not peace, perhaps, but possibility.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I spotted my father’s expression darkening, his fingers tightening around his glass until I thought it might shatter. The Romanovs looked equally uncomfortable, shifting on their feet like predators denied their kill.
“To Arrow and Harlowe. May your enemies fall before you, and may you only turn your knives on each other when it leads to pleasure rather than pain.”
Laughter—uneasy but genuine—broke the tension. Glasses clinked as people drank, though many eyes remained watchful above the crystal rims.