Page 183 of Arrow

The woman smirked, unperturbed. “Pity. She looks delicious.” She melted back into the crowd, already hunting for her next target.

“I could have handled that,” I muttered against his ear.

“I know,” he replied, his breath hot against my neck. “But then I’d have to kill her, and Atlas frowns on murder in his club. Bad for business.”

We passed a series of private alcoves where bodies intertwined in various states of undress, some watched by small audiences, others hidden behind the gauzy curtains that revealed only silhouettes. A man in a custom suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent caught my eye, his gaze lingering on my exposed skin before Arrow’s glare sent him looking elsewhere.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“The meeting room is this way,” Arrow said, guiding me toward a staircase at the back of the club.

“I thought we were here for me to explore,” I countered, deliberately slowing my pace to take in more of the club. “You can’t show me a candy store and expect me not to at least look at the merchandise.”

His fingers tightened on my hip, drawing me closer. “You can look all you want. From beside me.”

A woman’s scream pierced the air—pleasure, not pain—followed by applause from a gathered crowd. I turned to see a stunning redhead suspended from the ceiling in an intricate rope harness, her body contorted into an impossible arch as a masked figure worked her with a vibrating wand. The crowd watched, transfixed, some touching themselves, others whispering to companions.

“Shibari demonstration,” Orion explained, following my gaze. “They do them every hour. The woman’s a professional. Makes more in one night than most people do in a month.”

“Impressive,” I murmured, watching the way the ropes bit into her skin. “She’s beautiful,” I said, watching her face contort with pleasure.

I reluctantly tore my gaze from the suspended woman, allowing Arrow to guide me through the crowd. We climbed a spiral staircase to a mezzanine level that overlooked the main floor. Up here, the music was muted, the lighting less dramatic. He swiped a keycard, and the door slid open to reveal a space with half-moon alcoves of blood-red velvet seating and a series of private tables where men in expensive suits were already gathered. The air smelled of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and power.

This wasn’t just a meeting space; it was a throne room for men who considered themselves kings.

Five men occupied a large booth in the mezzanine’s corner. Their conversation halted as we entered. I recognized two of them immediately—Vasily Petrov, a Russian arms dealer whose name appeared in my father’s ledgers more often than his own children’s, and Marco Esposito, a Sicilian whose family had been feuding with mine since before I was born. The others were less familiar, but their eyes held the same calculating coldness I’d grown up seeing around. my father’s dinner table.

Each member had their own private security standing in the shadows, pretending not to pay attention to their bosses, but I knew their eyes and ears missed nothing.

“Gentlemen,” Arrow greeted.

The men raised their glasses in response, eyes lingering on me. Arrow’s hand remained at my waist, his thumb tracing small circles against my bare skin. I could practically feel the temperature in the room drop as they evaluated me—not just as a woman, but as a commodity, a chess piece in whatever game they were playing.

“I see you’ve brought a guest,” Vasily said, his Russian accent thick as molasses. His eyes tracked from my face down to my heels and back up again with the practiced assessment of a man who bought and sold people as casually as others traded stocks.

“This is Harlowe Virelli,” Arrow replied, the subtle emphasis on my last name sending ripples through the group. “My fiancée.”

I watched their reactions—the slight widening of eyes, the quick glances exchanged, the recalculation happening behind careful poker faces. Everyone knew about the Virelli-Romanov feud. Everyone knew what this marriage meant.

“Giovanni’s daughter,” Marco said, rolling the words around his mouth like he was tasting wine. “I haven’t seen you since you were a child. You’ve grown . . . formidable.”

I smiled, but not at all warmly. “That tends to happen when you’re raised by wolves.”

A laugh rumbled through the group—not genuine amusement but the obligatory acknowledgment of a dangerous woman’s wit. Arrow guided me to an empty seat, and I slid in beside him, acutely aware of how everyone’s eyes followed my movements.

Arrow’s hand came to rest on my knee, a silent warning. I ignored it, keeping my smile fixed on Marco, whose eyes kept drifting to the necklace at my throat—the red A that marked me as Arrow’s.

“The Albanians have been making moves. They think your wedding will provide opportunities,” a man I didn’t recognize said, his accent vaguely Eastern European.

“Opportunities for what?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“For a shift in power,” Vasily said bluntly. “Two families at war, suddenly united? It makes people nervous. Nervous people do stupid things.”

“Like, try to kill us at our own wedding?” I suggested.

Arrow’s fingers tightened on my knee. “The Albanians are just one concern,” he said. “We’ve identified at least three separate groups that might see the ceremony as a chance to eliminate two problems at once.”

“How romantic,” I drawled. “Nothing says ‘till death do us part’ like a shared hit list.”