Page 26 of Arrow

“A word,” he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “The Virelli girl. You sure this marriage is worth it?”

I considered his question. Worth wasn’t a metric I typically applied to necessities.

“It consolidates power. Neutralizes a threat. Gives us control of the Virelli territories without a war. Even if the Virelli family is crumbling, their name still holds some power. And the sharks are already circling for control of what territories and contacts they still control. The only way they can do that is by killing the most important Virelli left.”

“And that’s her,” Atlas finished my thought, his eyes narrowing. “She’s the last valuable Virelli, and every power player in the city knows it.”

I nodded, appreciating that Atlas understood the chessboard better than most. “Her father’s selling her to save himself. He knows once I own her, I own him.”

“And what happens when you no longer need him?” Atlas asked, his question hanging between us like smoke.

I met his gaze steadily. “What always happens to things that outlive their usefulness.”

Atlas clapped me on the shoulder. “Just make sure the girl doesn’t become a liability. I’ve heard stories about her activities. The club. The drugs. The men.” His voice lowered.

“I’m aware of her proclivities,” I said, my tone clipped enough to end that line of questioning.

The rain had stopped by the time I left the penthouse, but the city remained slick and gleaming, streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. The three of us and our men loaded into blacked-out Range Rovers, decked out in tactical gear. I checked my weapon one last time, the familiar weight of my Glock a comfort against my palm.

Tonight would be bloody, but necessary. A clear message that the Romanovs weren’t weakened by the upcoming nuptials. If anything, we were more dangerous.

“Five minutes,” Orion murmured, checking the coordinates on his phone. “Surveillance confirms minimal security at the east entrance.”

I nodded, my mind oddly split between the mission ahead and thoughts of Harlowe. The way she’d stood in that room full of sharks and never once flinched. How she controlled the space around her just by refusing to shrink. The small tells she didn’t think anyone noticed, and the slight tension in her jaw when someone spoke about the engagement. The way her hand would curl into a fist before she forced it open again. Her defiance radiated from her like heat. It was almost like she knew exactly how this ended and had decided to burn everything on the way down.

“Focus,” Atlas hissed, noticing my momentary distraction. “You can think about your bride after we’ve finished painting the walls red.”

I pushed thoughts of Harlowe aside, slipping into the cold, calculating headspace that had earned me my reputation. The one that made men cower and women pretend not to shiver. The one that had gotten me everything I’d ever wanted.

The facility loomed ahead—a nondescript warehouse with a rusted sign that read “Atlantic Shipping.” The Albanians weren’t known for subtlety, but they were efficient. This processing center handled millions in product each month, laundering it through a network of shell companies before distribution. Taking it out would cripple Besnik where it would hurt most—his wallet.

It would be our message to the rest of the city, that the Romanov name still commanded fear.

“Move,” Atlas ordered, and our team flowed from the vehicles, weapons ready, faces masked. I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, my senses sharpening as we approached the warehouse. This was the clarity I needed—the simplicity of violence, and the purity of purpose.

The first guard went down silently, Orion’s knife finding his throat before he could raise the alarm. The second reached for his weapon, and I put two bullets in his chest, the silencer muffling the shots to dull thuds. We moved through the warehouse, eliminating resistance without hesitation.

Deep inside, the processing operation was in full swing. Tables laden with product, workers packaging heroin for distribution. When they saw us, panic erupted. Some ran, others reached for weapons. It didn’t matter. None of them would leave this building alive.

I caught a flash of movement to my right and pivoted, my gun finding its target—a young Albanian with fear in his eyes and a knife in his hand.

“Please,” he begged, dropping the knife. “I have a family.”

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Harlowe’s face flashing unbidden in my mind. Her accusation echoed: Monster. The boy couldn’t have been more than nineteen, his eyes wide with terror.

I pulled the trigger twice. The boy crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him like spilled wine. His eyes stayed open, a question dying on his lips as the light faded from them. I felt nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction, just the clean efficiency of a job done right.

“We need to move,” Atlas said, appearing at my shoulder. “Orion found their stash. It’s bigger than we thought.”

Nodding, I stepped over the boy’s body without a second glance. This was business. This was message-sending. This was what I’d been trained to do since I could hold a gun. The warehouse erupted into a controlled chaos as we worked our way through, eliminating witnesses and collecting what would hurt Besnik most—his product and his pride.

In the center of the facility, Orion had already lined up three men on their knees—higher-ups, by their clothing and the fear they commanded in the others. One of them I recognized: Besnik’s lieutenant, Artan Hoxha, a man known for his creativity with a blade and his loyalty to his boss.

“Which one sends the clearest message?” Orion asked, pressing his gun against Artan’s temple.

“Him,” I said, nodding toward Artan. “Take his head, leave his hands. The Albanians are superstitious about dismemberment. They believe it prevents the soul from finding peace.”

Artan’s eyes widened, his composure finally cracking. “Please, I can get you money. Besnik will pay⁠—”