Page 184 of Arrow

The men laughed—genuinely this time—and I felt Arrow’s grip relax slightly. I was playing my part well: the dangerous, sharp-tongued bride with a taste of chaos. Arrow’s thumb traced circles on my thigh as the men discussed security arrangements, the movement of their men, and which territories would remain neutral during the ceremony.

“The Triad has agreed to stay out of it. For a price, of course.”

“Of course,” Arrow nodded. “And the Cartel?”

“Still negotiating,” Vasily replied. “They want assurances about the heroin routes through Queens.”

I watched the exchange with fascination. This was the world my father had kept me at the edges of the real business, the currency of power and blood. Arrow had brought me straight to the center of it, whether he intended to or not. I felt oddly at home here, among these dangerous men with their careful words and lethal intentions.

A woman in a leather corset appeared with a tray of drinks. She bent low as she placed a glass in front of me, her cleavage deliberately displayed. I caught the scent of jasmine and cigarettes as she lingered a moment too long. When she straightened, her eyes met mine with an unmistakable invitation before she moved on to serve the others.

“Your security team is in place?” Marco asked Arrow, dragging my attention back to the conversation.

“Twenty men inside the church, another thirty on the perimeter,” Arrow replied. “Plus whatever Harlowe’s father brings.”

“Which will be considerable,” I added. “Appearances are everything to him.”

“So tell me,” Marco leaned forward, fingers steepled, “how does it feel to be the sacrificial lamb? Giovanni must be desperate to offer his only daughter to the Romanovs.”

I kept my smile firmly in place. “Men like you always think women are pawns. That’s why you keep losing to queens.”

A muscle in Marco’s jaw twitched. I’d struck a nerve. Rumor had it his wife had cleaned him out last year and fled to Monaco with his personal trainer, who also happened to be her lover.

“My father didn’t offer me,” I said. “He sold me. There’s a difference.”

Marco’s laugh was genuine this time, a bark of surprise. “Sold to the highest bidder, eh? At least Arrow here has the resources to keep a woman of your appetites satisfied.”

“You have no idea,” I murmured, letting my hand slide onto Arrow’s thigh under the table, feeling the muscle tense beneath my touch. I was playing with fire, but fire had always been my favorite element.

Vasily raised his glass. “To unholy matrimony. May your enemies die screaming.”

39

THIRTY-NINE

HARLOWE

The meeting continued, voices dropping as they discussed territories, shipments, and other business matters that would normally have been kept far from my ears. I absorbed every word, filing away information that my father would kill to know. Arrow’s hand never left my body, his touch a constant reminder of ownership—and perhaps, though he’d never admit it, protection.

When the conversation shifted to a dispute over gambling territories in Brighton Beach, I excused myself to the restroom. Arrow’s hand clamped around my wrist before I could fully stand.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes deadly serious.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his ear. “Worried I might run off with a hot, less complicated, mafia boss?”

His jaw tightened. “Five minutes. Then I come looking.”

“Counting the seconds already?” I smirked, pulling my wrist free. I felt his eyes burning into my back as I walked away, hips swaying deliberately with each step.

The women’s restroom at Erebus was unlike any I’d ever seen—black marble, gold fixtures, and a lounge area with velvet chaises where women touched up makeup or did lines of cocaine off compact mirrors. The attendant, dressed in nothing but a corset and heels, offered me a warm towel with a smile that lingered too long on my lips.

I took my time, reapplying my lipstick in the mirror, watching the reflection of women behind me as they whispered and giggled, some disappearing into stalls together. The bathroom was its own ecosystem of secrets and desire.

As I turned to leave, the server from earlier—the one with the jasmine scent and knowing eyes—blocked my path.

“Romanov’s new toy,” she said, her Russian accent lilting and sharp. “You’re more dangerous than you look.”

My lips curled into a smile as I studied her—high cheekbones, dark eyes with a hint of something feral. “And you're more perceptive than most.”