Page 5 of Arrow

Maybe that’s why I trusted him.

My father pretended not to notice my nocturnal habit. I suspect his coterie of capos knew and kept it from him, or perhaps they reported it, and he just didn’t care as long as it didn’t threaten his business. He brought home more corporate guests, who wore expensively cut boredom and got off on making me pour their whiskey at dinner. They liked the shape of my mouth, the way I said nothing. I let them stare—let them guess what hole my hunger might leave in a man.

Twelve years had passed since Luca’s murder. I grew sharper, colder, and angrier. Every night, it seemed, there was another scream silenced by a closed door, another body tipped into the East River, another dinner with forced politeness and the glint of silver knives making promises across white linen. I had memorized my father’s schedule, learned which capos he trusted and which ones would sell him out for the right price. I played the good girl, poised and patient, biding my time.

The summer I turned twenty-eight, my father stopped pretending, and called me to his office. Frank stood at the door, and gave me a nod as I passed him. The Virelli office was filled with dark wood and amber light, thick with the scent of old books and costlier scotch. My father sat behind his desk, gray suit so crisp you could cut yourself on the crease. He didn’t look up right away, just kept reading—a contract, an obituary, or the news. To him, they were interchangeable.

When he finally lifted his eyes, they were the eyes of a man who had outlived the things that made him human.

“Sit,” he said.

I did.

He leaned back, cradling his glass. “Do you know why families like ours survive?”

I didn’t answer; I waited. It was his favorite game.

“It’s not bullets,” he murmured, swirling the scotch. “It’s not money, women, or territory. It’s marriage, figlia.⁠* All empires are built on marriages.”

My stomach dropped, but I let my face be stone.

He laughed. “Don’t pretend you’re surprised. You, of all people.”

Taking a slow sip, he savored my discomfort before gesturing to the folder on the desk.

“Open it.”

Inside was a single page, centered with thick black ink, my name spelled out in bloodless serif:

HARLOWE EVANGELINA VIRELLI

And below, the intended, as if it were a grant of execution:

ARROW DANTE ROMANOV

Romanov.

The silence curdled.

“No.”

Giovanni Virelli smiled, the way parents smile when their child is clever enough to try a rebellion. “You know how this works.”

“He killed Luca! He killed my brother! You remember your son, right? They tortured and mutilated him and then left him on our doorstep!”

My father shrugged. “His uncle killed your brother. Arrow is a different generation. He was seventeen when it happened—barely a boy.”

“He’s a monster, and you know it. You’re signing my fucking death warrant.”

He frowned, a boredom that stung more than disgust, as if I was failing an exam he believed was beneath me.

“Arrow is the closest thing to a civilized animal that family has ever produced. He won’t hurt you unless you provoke him.”

I wanted to say, What the fuck do you think I’m going to do? Smile and spread my legs? I wanted to take the heavy glass paperweight from his desk and hurl it through the bay window, watching the evening light shatter and bleed down the study.

But all I did was look at my father, setting my hands in my lap, and felt my pulse ticking wildly against the inside of my wrists.

“Why him?” I asked. I didn’t mean for my voice to come out so small.