Page 77 of Arrow

I floated to the window above the staircase—the one with the best view of the river and the enemy’s approach. The glass was immaculate, too thick to break, but along the baseboard, there was a tiny nest of wiring, barely visible unless you pressed your cheek to the wood.

Uncoiling the tubing, I fitted it over the wire, and bit down, hoping the latex would keep my teeth from leaving evidence. I sawed through it, inch by inch, panicking each time I heard the television in the living room go to a commercial about Clorox wipes.

My jaw ached, and my hands trembled with hunger and desperation, but after what felt like a year, the wire snapped with a soft, metallic tang. I nearly sobbed from the relief.

I straightened, hands clenched in the hair at my temples, not believing that the fix worked—until the night air seeped in through the now-unlatched panel at the base of the glass. Six inches was enough. I could squeeze. I pushed through the open gap of the window—shoulder first, scraping my ribs—before landing on the wet stone below.

It was a five-foot drop, just enough to tear the skin on my palms and send a jolt of pain up my kneecaps. I rolled, bit my tongue on a cry, and lay flat. I listened for guards and alarms, but when there were none, I ran.

The back lawn was a fractal of pebbles, cold grass, and the trees, slashing in the wind, made for a better disguise than I’d ever had in my own house; I crouched behind them, watching for the shimmer of anything human or alive, but there was nothing.

Mafia kings believed in their fortresses.

When I reached the stone wall at the property line, I scaled the stone fencing, leaving blood behind, and then I ran, in the way my brother used to run, knowing the world had already decided how the story ended, so I might as well enjoy the downhill sprint.

19

NINETEEN

ARROW

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting sharp shadows on the paneled walls. Atlas sat on the leather couch, Orion beside him. My elbows rested on the armrests like I was strapped to an electric chair.

Avoiding Harlowe for a couple of days had been necessary—staying out to handle business, making excuses to stay in my penthouse in the building Atlas owned.

For her sake, I’d told myself.

The truth was simpler.

Separation was required before I fucked her like the monster crawling inside my soul begged me to. And I couldn’t do that. Not yet.

My mind drifted back to when I told Atlas and Orion about my impending nuptials.

“I’m getting married,” I said, eyes trained on the flames.

Atlas scoffed, sharp and humorless. “To who? Another one of your obsessions with a pulse and a habit?”

I didn’t look at him. “To Harlowe Virelli.”

Silence.

Orion stiffened. “Harlowe Virelli, as in Giovanni Virelli’s daughter?”

I met his gaze. “The only one he’s got.”

A pause.

“The fuck do you mean, you’re marrying her?” Atlas leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “Since when does Arrow Romanov take a wife without a body count and at least four substitutions in the church program?”

Orion, who’d spent most of his life perfecting the illusion of being unaffected, dropped a fist against his knee. “You’re out of your mind. If you do this, there will be war. Giovanni doesn’t want peace, and you know it.”

“I’m not interested in peace,” I replied. “And Giovanni himself crawled on his knees to my father to sell his only daughter to me.”

Atlas burst out in a spasm of laughter so ugly it made the air vibrate. “Yeah, and you bought it? Jesus, Arrow. Even for you, that’s a level of self-delusion I didn’t expect.”

“It’s transactional. There’s no delusion. You think I don’t see the trap?”

“Do you really believe you can out-scheme Giovanni?” Atlas asked, his big hands clenching in the firelight. “All you’re doing is bringing the poison into your life.”