Page 79 of Arrow

Atlas fixed me with a look of brotherly concern. “And you still think you can fix a broken thing by breaking it more?”

I smiled thinly. “It’s genetic.”

Orion poured himself another drink and sipped, slow and deliberate. “If she’s such a problem, why not kill her?”

The answer wasn’t as easy as I liked to pretend.

“If I have to be the last Romanov standing, I want a reason.”

Atlas hoisted his own in a mock salute. “To problems, then.”

I nodded, raised my glass to the fire, and in that quiet, the world became simple, stripped to its animal logic. Eat the pain, or be devoured by it.

“I never in a million years thought that Arrow Romanov would willingly tie himself to an enemy’s daughter to drag around.” Orion laughed. “One that hates you enough to draw blood in the night? Can’t she just poison your soup like a normal wife?”

A smile threatened to crack my composure, but even I had to appreciate the joke. “She’d probably try arsenic first. That’s the fun part.”

Orion finished his pour, studying the edge of the glass. “You’re going to regret this, Arrow. I know you like the pain, but this—this is just inviting a riot into your bed.”

“That’s the point.”

Atlas stared at me. “I hope she kills you.”

“Get in line.” Orion scoffed. “I hope she eats your fucking heart.”

Raising my glass in a small salute, I drank it down. “She’ll try. And I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

“If your plan fails, you’ll deserve whatever hell she brings to your doorstep.” Atlas laughed, taking another drink.

I didn’t answer, only watched the fire until it calcified every doubt in my bones.

Harlowe Virelli was the kind of problem you bought at auction, then spent the rest of your life racking up insurance for. I had every intention of keeping her alive. The city would throw a parade in my honor if I managed it.

When I left the study, Orion stayed behind, glass balanced on a kneecap. I considered going back to correct something—a detail, maybe, or just the rumor that I was in control—but let it rot.

A blast of cold bit into me as I stepped out onto the balcony. I took out my phone and dialed, one-handed.

The call connected.

“She’s gone,” said Natalya, not a trace of apology in her voice. “Slipped the wire sometime after midnight. Hell, I almost respect it.”

I exhaled, the smoke wreathing back into my face. “How long’s she been loose?”

“Two hours since I woke up, but probably four. You want her found alive, or should I make it easier on everyone?”

There was a time I’d have answered without hesitation. Now, the pause weighed on both ends of the line.

“I want you to do nothing.”

“What?”

“I’ll find her, Natalya.”

The line went dead with a dignified click.

Laughing came easy as I watched the camera footage from my house. The slick move of her hands as she stole some pills from my cousin’s pile in the foyer, crushing them in her fist while Natalya rambled. A quick flash, and they were dropped into the vodka bottle.

An hour later, Harlowe moved through the house, searching for a way out—I may have locked the house this time, just to see what she’d do—and my umnaya malen’kaya gadyuka found it.