48. Forty-Eight
FORTY-EIGHT
HARLOWE
Iwoke to darkness and the sound of breaking glass.
My body was still heavy with sleep, muscles pleasantly sore from hours of lovemaking. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined the noise. But then I heard it again—a muffled thud, followed by what sounded like a silenced gunshot. Then another. And another.
My hand reached across the bed, seeking Arrow’s warmth.
Empty.
Cold sheets where he should have been.
My heart lurched as I sat up, adrenaline flooding my system. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and through it I could hear sounds that made my blood run cold. Scuffling, grunts of pain, and more of those terrible muffled pops.
I grabbed Arrow’s shirt from the floor and pulled it on, my hands shaking as I searched for anything that could serve as a weapon. My fingers closed around a heavy crystal vase on the nightstand just as the bedroom door burst open.
Three men in black tactical gear and ski masks flooded into the room, weapons raised. I threw the vase at the nearest one, satisfaction flaring as it connected with his head. He stumbled, but the other two were already on me.
“No!” I screamed, fighting with everything I had. My nails raked across exposed skin, my knee connecting with someone’s groin. But they were trained, professional, and I was one woman in a borrowed shirt against armed men.
One of them grabbed my hair, yanking my head back painfully. “Stop fighting, Principessa,”* he said in accented English. “Or we’ll make this much worse for your husband.”
The threat froze me instantly. “Where is he? What have you done with Arrow?”
Instead of answering, they dragged me from the bedroom. The hallway was a nightmare—bodies of Arrow’s security team scattered across the floor, blood pooling on the marble. Some were still alive, groaning in pain. Others were terrifyingly still.
“Oh God,” I whispered, bile rising in my throat.
They pulled me down the stairs, and that’s when I saw him.
Arrow was on his knees in the center of the foyer, surrounded by at least a dozen armed men. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. His chest was bare, bruises already forming across his ribs. But his eyes—his eyes were pure fury as they found mine.
“Harlowe,” he growled, straining against his restraints. “Don’t fucking touch her!”
One of the men holding me laughed. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, Romanov.”
I struggled against their grip, desperate to reach Arrow. “Let him go! Whatever this is about, it’s between our families. He doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t what?” a familiar voice cut through my protests. “Doesn’t deserve this?”
The crowd of masked men parted, and my father stepped into view.
Giovanni Virelli looked immaculate despite the early hour in a tailored suit, with perfectly styled hair, not a single sign that he’d just orchestrated a violent home invasion. He surveyed the scene with cold satisfaction, his eyes lingering on Arrow’s battered form before settling on me.
“Hello, daughter,” he said pleasantly, as if we were meeting for brunch rather than standing in a room full of blood and violence. “I see you’ve been busy.”
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing. “You did this? You ordered this?”
“Of course I did.” He stepped closer, his expression hardening. “Did you really think I would let your betrayal stand? That I would allow a Romanov to defile my daughter and face no consequences?”
I spit on his face. “You traitorous motherfucker! I’ll fucking kill you,” I screamed, fighting against the hands that held me.
My father wiped the spittle from his cheek with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. The calmness of his expression terrified me more than any outburst of rage would have.
“You always did have your mother’s fire,” he said, almost admiringly. “Though she was smart enough to know when to direct it appropriately. But, just like your mother, you need constant redirection.” He backhanded me with such force that my head snapped to the side, blood filling my mouth.
I struggled against the men holding me, my heart hammering against my ribs. The taste of copper filled my mouth, but I forced myself to stand tall, to meet my father’s gaze without flinching.
“You won’t get away with this,” I spat, blood speckling my lips.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Arrow roared, lunging forward despite his restraints. Two men immediately moved to restrain him, one delivering a vicious blow to his kidney that made him grunt in pain.
“Stop!” I screamed, fighting against the hands holding me. “Don’t hurt him!”
My father’s smile was cold. “Oh, we’re just getting started, figlia.”*
He circled Arrow slowly, like a predator assessing prey. “Do you know the history between our families, Harlowe? The real history, not the sanitized version you learned as a child?”
I didn’t answer; my eyes locked on Arrow. He was breathing hard, blood dripping from his split lip, but his gaze never wavered from mine. In his eyes, I saw fury, but more so, fear for me.
“The Romanovs,” my father continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, “have been stealing from the Virellis for three generations. Territory, business, respect. But the greatest theft of all was personal.” He stopped in front of Arrow, looking down at him with undisguised hatred.
“This man watched my wife die. Held her hand while she poisoned herself. And he did nothing to stop her.”
“She made her choice,” Arrow said, his voice rough but defiant. “I honored it.”
My father’s hand shot out, backhanding Arrow across the face with enough force to snap his head to the side. “You encouraged it! You filled her head with ideas about protecting Harlowe, about escaping me. You turned my own wife against me!”
“You turned her against you!” Arrow spat blood onto the marble floor. “Every time you raised your hand to her. Every time you treated her like property. You destroyed her long before I ever spoke to her.”
Another blow, this one to Arrow’s ribs. I heard something crack, saw Arrow’s face contort with pain, and something inside me shattered.
“Stop it!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Please, Father, stop!”
Giovanni turned to me, his expression shifting to something almost sad. “You see what he’s reduced you to? Begging. My daughter, who I raised to be strong, to be ruthless, reduced to begging for the life of a Romanov.”
“I’m begging because I love him,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Because he's my husband. Because you’re wrong about him.”
“Love,” my father repeated, the word dripping with contempt. “Love is what weak women use to justify their betrayals. Your mother loved you, and look where that got her. Dead, alone except for this monster.”
“She wasn’t alone,” I said fiercely. “He stayed with her. He kept his promise to her. That’s more than you ever did. You watched her break when Luca died. You didn’t avenge him. You killed her. You’re the monster.”
My father’s expression darkened. “You defend him. Even now, even after I’ve shown you what he truly is—a thief, a manipulator, a man who watched your mother die—you still defend him.”
“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin despite my tears. “Because he’s shown me more loyalty, more honesty, more love in a few months than you’ve shown me in my entire life.”
His fist came so fast I didn’t see it coming. My head snapped to the side, pain exploding across my cheek. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Arrow roar with rage, the sound of a struggle as he fought against his restraints.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” my father hissed, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him. “I gave you everything. A name, a legacy, a place in this world. And you threw it away for him.”
“You gave me nothing but fear and pain,” I shot back, tasting blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek. “Arrow gave me a choice. He gave me freedom.”
My father released me with a disgusted sound, turning back to Arrow. “Freedom. Is that what you call it?” He gestured to his men. “Bring the tools.”
My blood ran cold. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you a lesson, daughter.” My father’s smile was terrible to behold. “You want to choose him over your family? Over your blood? Then you’ll watch what that choice costs.”
Two of his men returned carrying a metal case. When they opened it, I saw instruments that made my stomach turn—pliers, knives, a blowtorch, and other things I couldn’t identify and didn’t want to.
“No,” I whispered, horror washing over me. “No, please, Father, don’t do this.”
“You made your choice,” he said coldly. “Now live with the consequences.”
He selected a pair of pliers from the case, testing their grip with a casual air that made my skin crawl. Arrow’s eyes tracked the movement, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch.
“I’ve had to stay silent while your husband rubbed my nose in the dirt, while he paraded you around like one of his whores. But now that you’ve married him, by law, everything he owns, everything he is, is now yours. But this?” He gestured around the bloody scene. “This is mine.”
Arrow spat blood onto the marble floor. “You won’t win this, Giovanni. My men are already on their way.”
My father laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. “Your men are dead or dying. The ones who aren’t here, anyway. This house was your fortress, Romanov. Now it’s your tomb.”
I struggled against the men holding me, desperate to reach Arrow. The shirt I’d thrown on—his shirt—was stained with blood from my split lip, the fabric catching on my wrists as I fought.
“Let me go!” I screamed, twisting in their grip. “Father, please—“
“Silence her,” he ordered, not even looking at me.
One of the men holding me clamped a hand over my mouth, cutting off my protests. I bit down hard, tasting leather and blood as he cursed and tightened his grip, his other hand twisting my arm painfully behind my back.
“That’s better,” my father said with a satisfied nod. He turned back to Arrow, the pliers glinting in the dim light. “Now, where were we?”