Page 228 of Arrow

“That’s better,” my father said with a satisfied nod. He turned back to Arrow, the pliers glinting in the dim light. “Now, where were we?”

“Giovanni,” Arrow said, his voice surprisingly calm despite his position. “You’ve made your point. Take me, do whatever you want to me. But let Harlowe go. She’s your daughter.”

My father’s face contorted with rage. “She stopped being my daughter when she chose you.” He moved closer to Arrow, leaning down to speak directly into his face. “But you’re right. This isn’t about her. This is about you and me. About a debt that’s been owed for a very long time.”

The pliers closed around Arrow’s finger with a sickening crunch. Arrow didn’t scream—he wouldn’t give my father that satisfaction—but I saw his body go rigid, heard the strangled sound that escaped his throat.

“No!” I screamed against the hand over my mouth, the sound muffled but no less desperate.

My father worked methodically, clinically, like a surgeon removing a tumor. He moved from finger to finger, each snap of bone making me flinch as if the pain were my own. Arrow’s face grew paler with each assault, sweat beading on his forehead, but his eyes never left mine.

“Your mother was beautiful when she died,” my father said conversationally as he moved to Arrow’s other hand. “Peaceful, almost. As if she’d found some solution to her problems.” Another finger. Another crack. “She didn’t realize that by removing herself from the equation, she was just creating new problems.”

I was sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, my body shaking with rage and horror. The man holding me shifted his weight, his grip loosening slightly as he grew uncomfortable with my father’s methods.

“I promised your mother I would protect Harlowe,” Arrow managed through gritted teeth. “And I have. I will.”

“Protect her?” My father laughed. “Look at her now. Look at what you’ve brought her to. On her knees, watching her husband die slowly. Is that your idea of protection?”

My father stood, setting the pliers aside for a moment. He straightened his jacket, composing himself as if preparing to deliver a business presentation rather than orchestrate torture.

“Do you know why the Virellis and Romanovs have been at war for three generations, Harlowe?” he asked, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I remembered from childhood. “It’s not just territory or business. It’s about honor. About blood debts that can never be repaid.”

He began to pace, his movements measured and deliberate. “Your great-grandfather, Salvatore Virelli, built an empire from nothing. He came to this country with empty pockets and an iron will. He carved out territory, established respect, created a legacy.” My father's eyes grew distant. “And the Romanovs—they were nothing. Remnants of a dead dynasty. Street thugs. Petty criminals who should have stayed in the gutter where they belonged.”

Arrow’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“But Vitoli Romanov—this one’s grandfather—was ambitious. Cunning. He saw what Salvatore had built and decided he wanted it for himself.” My father's voice hardened. “So he took it. Piece by piece. He stole our shipping routes, corrupted our politicians, and turned our allies against us. And when Salvatore confronted him and demanded satisfaction, Vitoli had him killed. Shot in the back like a dog in the street.”

I’d heard versions of this story before, but never with such venom.

“My father, your grandfather Antonio, spent his entire life trying to reclaim what was stolen from us. He fought the Romanovs at every turn, sacrificed everything to restore our family’s honor.” Giovanni’s hands clenched into fists. “And he died for it. Heart attack at fifty-two, worn down by the constant war, the endless betrayals.”

He turned to face me fully. “I inherited that war, Harlowe. I inherited the duty to protect our family, to avenge our blood, to never forget what the Romanovs took from us. And I raised you to understand that duty. To honor it.”

“You raised me to fear you,” I said quietly.

My father’s expression flickered. “I raised you to be strong. To survive in a world that would destroy weak women. Your mother—” His voice caught, genuine emotion breaking through his controlled facade. “Your mother was weak. Beautiful, yes. Gentle. But weak.”

“She was broken,” I corrected. “By you.”

“By this world!” he shouted, his composure finally cracking. “By the violence, the betrayals, the constant threat of death. She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t be what I needed her to be—a partner, a strength, a foundation for our family.”

He moved closer to me, his eyes searching my face. “And then she met him.” He gestured toward Arrow with disgust. “At that gala, drowning her sorrows in champagne, and this Romanov vulture circled her like prey. He filled her head with poison, convinced her that death was preferable to standing by her family.”

“He gave her compassion,” I said, my voice shaking. “Something you never did.”

“Compassion?” My father laughed bitterly. “He watched her die, Harlowe. He sat in the gardens, in the house I built for her, and watched her swallow poison. What kind of compassion is that?”

“The kind that respects her choice,” Arrow said, his voice rough but steady. “The kind that doesn’t force someone to live in hell just to serve your ego.”

My father’s hand shot out, backhanding Arrow across the face with enough force to split his lip further. Blood sprayed across the marble floor.

“Don't!” I screamed, struggling against the men holding me.

“You see?” My father turned back to me, breathing hard. “Look at you, screaming, crying, and begging for the life of the man whose family destroyed ours. The man who stole your mother from me, who watched her die, whose family butchered your brother and left him like roadkill at our door.”

“I choose him. I chose this marriage knowing exactly who he was and what it would cost.”