Page 199 of Arrow

My heart stopped. “My father? Why would he⁠—”

“Luca was gaining support. Making allies your father didn’t approve of. Some said Giovanni feared his son was planning to take control.”

The car felt suddenly airless. I’d always known my father was ruthless, but this—setting up his own son—was beyond even what I’d imagined him capable of.

“Who killed him?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

“My uncle told me to slit his throat. He told me it was time to become a man.”

I stared at Arrow, my entire body numb with the revelation. I’d spent years imagining Luca’s death—constructed countless scenarios in my mind—but this was worse than anything I’d conjured.

“Did you do it?” I whispered, needing to know but terrified of the answer.

Arrow’s eyes held mine, unflinching. “No. I refused. My uncle called me weak, a disappointment to the Romanov name.” His jaw tightened. “He slit Luca’s throat himself while making me watch. Said if I couldn’t do it, I needed to learn what happened to men who hesitated.”

The car seemed to close in around me. I could barely breathe, my chest constricted with grief and rage so potent it felt like poison in my veins. Luca—my strong, beautiful brother who’d taught me to ride a bike, who’d checked my closet for monsters, who’d shown me how to throw a proper punch—had died like that. Tortured, pieces of him carved away, then his throat slit by a madman while Arrow watched.

“Your uncle,” I said, the words thick in my throat. “Is he still alive?”

“No.” Arrow’s voice was flat. “He died eight months later. Heart attack, officially.”

“And unofficially?”

Arrow’s eyes met mine in the darkness. “I made sure he never hurt anyone else again.”

I turned away, staring out the window as the city blurred past. For years, I’d blamed Arrow, blamed all the Romanovs for what happened to my brother. It had been easier that way—simpler to funnel all my rage toward a single target. But now the truth was splintering that certainty, revealing something far more complex and horrifying.

“Did my father know?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “About how Luca died?”

Arrow was quiet for a moment, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin. “The official story was that Luca was killed in a shootout. Clean, quick. Your father never asked for details beyond that.”

“He didn’t want to know,” I whispered, the realization settling in my stomach like a stone.

My father, who demanded to know every detail of every business transaction, who interrogated his men for hours after meetings, hadn’t asked how his only son died. Because he already knew. Because he’d orchestrated it.

“Or he already knew,” Arrow said, echoing my thoughts. “There were rumors that your father was losing control of certain territories. That Luca was gaining support among the younger capos.”

I closed my eyes, remembering the weeks before Luca’s death. The hushed arguments behind closed doors. The way my father would fall silent whenever Luca entered a room. I’d been too young, too sheltered to understand the tension then. But looking back, the signs were all there.

“He sacrificed his own son,” I whispered, the realization like acid in my veins. “He sacrificed Luca to maintain control.”

Arrow didn’t contradict me. His silence was confirmation enough.

* Little viper

42

FORTY-TWO

HARLOWE

The car slowed as we approached his building, the sleek glass tower reflecting the city lights like a dark mirror. I felt hollow, scraped raw from the inside out. Everything I thought I knew about my brother’s death—about my father—was collapsing around me, the foundations crumbling to reveal uglier truths beneath.

“Why let me go on hating you for it?” I asked as Frank pulled into the underground garage.

Arrow’s thumb traced the inside of my wrist one more time before he released my hand. “Because tomorrow you become my wife. And I want no lies between us, even the ones that might make you hate me less.”

The car stopped, and Frank appeared to open the door. Arrow stepped out first, then offered me his hand. I hesitated for a moment before taking it, allowing him to help me from the car. His touch felt different now—no less dangerous, but somehow more honest. We had both been pawns in a game our fathers started, pieces moved across a bloody chessboard for reasons that had nothing to do with us.