48. Forty-Eight #3
My father’s smile faded. “You’re right. But I’m not done with her.
No, Romanov prince, I’ve planned everything, and in turn, I’ve secured the future bloodline of the Virellis.
You know, once word got around that I’d given my only daughter to the most hated family in New York, you’d be shocked to know the number of offers I had to reconsider.
Families offering to pay in territory, money, even blood, if I’d give them to them.
So, I thought to myself, why not make a deal with the Albanians for my daughter?
They’ve always wanted to breed with the Virelli bloodline.
And they’ve offered quite the compensation. ”
My blood ran cold.
“You wouldn’t,” I whispered, unable to believe even my father could sink this low.
He laughed, the sound echoing off the marble floors.
“The contract is already signed. After your husband’s tragic death, you’ll be too distraught to return to the Romanovs.
You’ll come back to your family, to your father who loves you despite your betrayals.
And then, when you’re vulnerable, I’ll have you married to Tariq Vasili, the Albanian prince. ”
“Never,” I spat. “I’d die first.”
My father’s eyes hardened. “That’s what your mother said too.
But death isn’t always an option.” He gestured to one of his men, who produced a syringe filled with clear liquid.
“This will make you . . . compliant. You won’t remember what happened here today.
You’ll wake up in your childhood bedroom, confused, traumatized by your husband’s violence.
And I’ll be there to comfort you, to guide you toward a more . . . suitable match.”
I felt the world tilt beneath me, my legs growing weak. The man holding me tightened his grip, keeping me upright as my vision blurred.
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
“I’m thorough,” my father corrected. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this moment. The end of the Romanov line. The restoration of Virelli honor.” He looked down at Arrow with cold satisfaction. “And you, the last Romanov son, will die knowing you failed to protect what was yours.”
The knife pressed harder against Arrow’s throat, a thin trickle of blood running down his neck. I watched in horror as my father prepared to end my husband’s life, to frame me for his murder, to destroy everything we had built.
I heard Arrow’s voice, low and steady despite the blade at his throat. “Kill me if you must, Giovanni. But you’ll never have her. Harlowe is stronger than you know.”
My father laughed, the sound echoing off the marble floors. “Strong? She’s weeping like a child.”
The knife pressed harder against Arrow’s throat. I watched in horror as the blade bit deeper, blood welling up around the steel.
“No!” I screamed, finding strength I didn’t know I possessed. I drove my elbow back into the gut of the man holding me, twisted free, and lunged forward.
My father turned at my movement, his eyes widening as I threw myself at him. The knife sliced through the air as we collided, missing Arrow’s throat by inches. We crashed to the floor together, my father’s surprise giving me the momentary advantage.
“You ungrateful—” he snarled, regaining his footing.
I scrambled back, adrenaline surging through my veins. The room seemed to move in slow motion as I assessed my options. Arrow was still restrained, but his eyes blazed with a fierce pride as he watched me.
My father lunged for me, but I rolled away, grabbing a decorative candlestick from a nearby table. I swung it with all my strength, connecting with his temple. He staggered back, blood streaming down his face, his expression one of pure shock.
“You will pay for that, daughter,” he hissed, wiping blood from his eye.
“Bring her to me,” he ordered his men, who were now moving toward me with renewed determination.
I backed away, keeping the candlestick raised like a weapon. “Stay back,” I warned, my voice steadier than I felt.
One of the men laughed, advancing with his hands outstretched. “Come on now, Principessa.* Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
I swung the candlestick again, catching him across the cheekbone. He howled in pain, but the other two grabbed me from behind, wrenching the makeshift weapon from my grip.
“You’ve always been too emotional,” my father said, approaching me now with the knife still in his hand. “Like your mother.”
“She wasn’t emotional,” I spat, struggling against the men holding me. “She was terrified of you.”
His face contorted with rage. “I loved her! I gave her everything!”
“You gave her nothing but pain!” I shouted, twisting in their grip. “You broke her, and now you’re trying to break me.”
“Not break. Remake. You’ll thank me one day, Harlowe. When you’re safely married to the Albanian, when you’ve forgotten this Romanov filth, you’ll understand that I did this for you. Put the knife in her hand!”
One of the men forced my hand open, and I watched in horror as my father wiped the handle clean, and then pressed the knife’s handle into my palm. His fingers closed around mine, making my grip tight around the weapon.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, trying to pull away.
“Setting the scene,” my father said calmly. “Your fingerprints on the murder weapon. The first piece of evidence.”
He dragged me toward Arrow, who watched with burning eyes as my father positioned me beside my kneeling husband. With his hand still wrapped around mine, he raised the knife toward Arrow’s chest.
“Stop!” I screamed, fighting against his grip with everything I had.
My father’s strength was overwhelming, his determination absolute. The knife inched closer to Arrow’s heart as I struggled, tears streaming down my face.
“I will kill you for this,” Arrow growled, his voice raw with pain and rage. “Even if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Empty threats from a dead man,” my father replied, tightening his grip on my hand. “Harlowe, watch closely.”
The knife descended toward Arrow’s chest. I saw the resignation in his eyes, the acceptance of his fate. But I refused to accept it.
With a surge of strength born from pure desperation, I twisted my body, driving my elbow into my father’s ribs. He grunted, his grip loosening for just a moment—but that moment was enough.
I tore free and slammed my palm against the knife’s hilt, driving it not into Arrow but into my father’s thigh.
He howled in pain and surprise, stumbling backward. Blood bloomed across his perfect suit as he clutched at the knife embedded in his leg.
“Bitch!” he snarled, his composure finally shattering completely. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
The room erupted into chaos. Arrow, seizing the opportunity, threw his weight against one of the men holding him, sending them both crashing to the floor. The other captors hesitated, unsure whether to help their wounded leader or continue restraining Arrow.
I grabbed a heavy vase from a nearby table and swung it at the head of the man closest to me. It shattered against his temple, sending him crumpling to the floor. The other man released Arrow to come after me, but I was already moving, adrenaline making me faster than I’d ever been.
“Harlowe!” Arrow called out as he struggled against his restraints. “The kitchen! In the drawer by the sink!”
I didn’t question him. I ran, my bare feet sliding on the marble floor as I dodged the men trying to intercept me. My father was shouting orders behind me, his voice growing more frantic as his men moved to stop me.
I burst into the kitchen, my eyes scanning frantically for the drawer Arrow had mentioned. There were so many—which one?
“Left of the sink!” Arrow’s voice carried from the foyer, followed by the sound of a struggle.
I yanked open the drawer, and my fingers closed around cold metal. A gun—a sleek, black pistol that felt heavy and deadly in my hand. I checked it quickly, finding it loaded, the safety already off.
When I returned to the foyer, the scene had shifted dramatically. Arrow had somehow managed to free one hand from the zip ties, blood streaming from his wrist where he’d torn through his restraints. He was on his feet now, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered animal despite his injuries.
“Arrow!” I called out, raising the gun. “Get down!”
He dropped immediately, trusting me without question. I fired twice in quick succession, hitting one of the men advancing on him. The man stumbled back, clutching his shoulder.
“Harlowe, behind you!” Arrow shouted.
I spun around to find another of my father’s men lunging at me. I fired again, my shot going wide as he knocked me off balance. We crashed to the floor together, the gun skittering across the marble.
My father was still on his feet, despite the knife in his thigh. He limped toward me, his face contorted with rage and pain.
“I should have killed you at birth,” he spat, blood frothing at the corner of his mouth. “Like the worthless disappointment you are.”
I scrambled backward, my hands searching frantically for the gun. My fingers closed around cold metal—not the gun, but the knife my father had dropped during our struggle.
“Stay back,” I warned, brandishing the blade. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He laughed, the sound ragged and broken. “You already have, daughter. You’ve destroyed everything I built.”
“You destroyed it yourself,” I countered, my voice steadier than I felt. “With your cruelty, your obsession, your need to control everything and everyone.”
From across the room, I heard the sickening crack of bone as Arrow broke free completely. He rose like a phoenix from the ashes of his restraints, blood streaming from his wrists, his broken fingers hanging at unnatural angles. But his eyes—his eyes burned with pure determination.
“Giovanni,” Arrow growled, his voice carrying across the chaos. “It’s over.”
My father glanced between us, seeing his plan unraveling. He was wounded. His men were falling. The evidence he’d planted would be discovered before it could be used against me.