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A chill ran through me. “So you plan to keep your extracurricular activities after we’re married?”

“Would that bother you?” He studied me, those gray eyes dissecting my reaction.

“Not at all,” I lied.

He watched me for a long moment. “The truth, Harlowe. Not what you think I want to hear.”

I stabbed at a piece of asparagus. “The truth? Fine. I don’t care who you fuck. I just want to know what kind of humiliation I’m in for. Will you parade your whores in front of me? Bring them to family dinners? Or will you at least have the decency to be discreet?”

“I’ve never needed to pay for sex,” he said mildly, as if we were discussing the weather. “And I don’t plan to start after we’re married,” he continued, setting his fork down. “I’m not my father. Or yours.”

The implication hung in the air between us. I knew the rumors about Giovanni’s infidelities—the women who’d come and gone through our house like ghosts. My mother pretended not to notice, or perhaps she simply hadn’t cared anymore. Not after losing Luca.

“So, what was Katerina, then? A charity case?”

His lips twitched. “Katerina Volkov is the daughter of a business associate. Nothing more.”

“She seemed to think differently.”

“People often do.” He signaled for the check. “Finish your wine.”

I drained the glass, relishing the burn as it slid down my throat. The alcohol hadn’t touched the cold knot of dread in my stomach, but at least it dulled the edges.

“Tell me something,” I said, setting down the empty glass. “What happens if I run? If I disappear before the wedding?”

His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened. “Then I find you. And I bring you back.”

“And if I fight?”

“Then you lose.” He said it without malice, just stating a fact. “You’ll always lose when you fight me.”

Something about his certainty made my blood boil. “You’re so sure of yourself.”

“I am.” He passed his black card to the waiter without even glancing at the bill. “Because I understand something fundamental that you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” I asked, leaning forward.

“That you want to lose.” His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in their depths—not cruelty, but understanding. “You’ve spent years chasing oblivion in clubs and bedrooms. You let strangers hurt you, control you, mark you. Not because you enjoy pain, but because you crave the moment when someone else takes responsibility for your pleasure. For your existence.”

My cheeks burned with humiliation and rage. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than you know yourself.” He stood, buttoning his jacket. “And soon, you’ll know it too.”

I wanted to throw my wine in his face, to scream that he was wrong, that I wasn’t a broken doll seeking a master. But the words stuck in my throat because somewhere, buried beneath layers of denial and self-deception, was a sliver of truth I wasn’t ready to face.

8

EIGHT

ARROW

I’d never been the type to get caught up over any woman. I’d admit, being buried balls deep in pussy was my favorite activity, besides killing. Yet, there was something about Harlowe Virelli that had crawled under my skin and taken residence there.

Maybe it was the defiance in her eyes, the way she refused to break even when she was cornered. Or maybe it was the way her tight body melted into mine at the restaurant. I could feel the heat of her pussy against my thigh, and I knew she was just as affected as I was with our proximity. When she stood up, I had to shift my dick to hide how fucking hard I was.

“What’s gotten into you?” Orion asked as we rode the elevator up to meet Atlas to discuss how bold the Albanians were getting.

“Just a lot on my mind,” I answered.