Page 226 of Arrow

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?”